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 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 CLASSIFIED 
 
 AS COMEDIES, Tragedies, Histories and sonnets 
 
 EACH PART ARRA.XGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, 
 
 )N'CI.IT]5IN(; ALSO A LIST OF 
 
 FAMILIAR SHAKESPEREAN QUOTATIO-NS 
 
 CHARLES A^]) MAIIY LAMB A^T) MARY SEYMOUR 
 
 J AND OTHERS. 
 
 ARRANGKO AX I) COMPILED ];\' C. A. GASKELL. 
 
 Cbicago: 
 
 in. S. ipublisbinc; UDOuse. 
 
 1889. 
 
COPYRIGHTEH 
 
 18S9. 
 
 DOXOHUE & HEXXEBERRY, 
 
 ikinters ann binoers, 
 
 Chicago. 
 
 
 r^ 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 P " 
 
 ^ I EXT to the Bible and Pilgrim's Progress, no Classic of English Litera- 
 ti ture is more reverently esteemed by Englisli-speaking people than the 
 ^ works of William Shakespeare, yet few have the time to read Shakespeare 
 I thoroughly. A general knowledge of this great author is an essential 
 I introduction to a knowledge of English Classics. It is with this end in 
 view that we have prepared the present volume. 
 
 The stor}^ of each drama has been given concisely, and is supplemented by 
 tlie most frequently quoted passages. So extensively have the characters of 
 Shakespeare been drawn upon by artists, poets and writers of fiction — so inter- 
 woven are these characters in the great body of English literature, that to be 
 io-norant of the plot of these dramas is often a cause for embarrassment and regret. 
 -Such of them as have been described by the genial Charles and Mar}^ Lamb are 
 made so interesting that we think no one will be contented to leave the subject 
 without reading the original. Scarcely inferior to these, however, are the outlines 
 given by Mary Seymour. 
 
 Another motive, no less important than the above, has suggested the prep- 
 aration of the present volume. Many of the passages of Skakespeare, as originally 
 written, are objectionable in a volume for family reading. To what degree this is 
 true will scarcely be realized by one whose knowledge of the author has been 
 gathered by attendance upon the theater. The objectionable passages have long 
 since been banished from the stage, yet the dramas are not onl}' unimpaired 
 thereby, but are rendered much ^nore popular and instructive. The passages 
 referred to are almost invariably so distinct from the general plan and text of the 
 original as to appear, for the most part, like interpolations, made by the author 
 to suit a taste as uncongenial to him as it appears to be out of harmony with the 
 beauty and grandeur of the author's productions. We are satisfied that these 
 objectional ]:)assages have had great influence in restraining many from that 
 familiarity with Shakespeare which we deem to be essential to English scholarship, 
 and in making the changes we have referred to, we have endeavored to perform 
 the same service to the reading public that dramatists have found it necessary to 
 perform for the exhibition of Shakespeare on the stage. 
 
 A man's moral stature is best measured when placed beside men of his own 
 age. Indeed, no other measurement is just. ISTo reader who is familiar with the 
 drama of Shakespeare's time could fail to have marked the contrast between this 
 great master and the indecencies of Beaumont, Fletcher, Dr^^den and Congreve. 
 
 We regard with a large degree of suspicion those theories which tend to 
 throw doubt upon the authorship of certain portions of the generally accepted 
 writings of Shakespeare. 'No doubt Timon of Athens and Pericles are dramas 
 that were formerly written by an unknown hand and recast and finished bv 
 Shakespeare. There is also some evidence of another hand in the preamble of 
 King Henry YIII. ; but we have no sympathy with the modern controvers}' 
 introduced by an ambitious Western author, whose pi'oductions upon this subject 
 we regard rather in the light of personal efforts to excite controvers}'^ than from 
 any fixed conviction. 
 
 We hope that this volume may prove a helpful stepping-stone to a more 
 general familiarity with this greatest of English Classics. 
 
 C. A. GASKELL. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Life of Shakespeare, 7 
 
 The Tempest — Story, 14 
 
 •The Tempest — Drama, 21 
 
 Familiar Quotations from The Tempest, 58 
 
 "\\'inter's Tale — Story, 59 
 
 'Winter's Tale — Drama, . 66 
 
 Merchant of Venice — Story, 119 
 
 ^Merchant of Venice — Drama, 137 
 
 Familiar Quotations from Merchant of Venice, 170 
 
 As You Like It — Story, . . 174 
 
 \As You Like It — Drama, -184 
 
 Familiar Quotations from As You Like It, 228 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream — Story, ....*... 230 
 
 ^Midsummer Night's Dream — Drama, 2"37 
 
 Familiar Quotations from Midsummer Night's Dream, .... 273 
 
 ^Ihe Comedy of Errors — Story, 274 
 
 ^The Comedy of Errors — Drama, . . 283 
 
 Familiar Quotations from Comedy of Errors, 314 
 
 •^ Much Ado About Nothing — Story, • . . 315 
 
 \Much Ado About Nothing — Drama, 323 
 
 Familiar Quotations from Much Ado About Nothing, .... 362 
 
 Twelfth Night; or, What You Will — Story, 363 
 
 '^Twelfth Night; or, What You Will — Drama, 371 
 
 Familiar Quotations from Twelfth Night, 411 
 
 '^ All's Well that Ends Well — Story, 414 
 
 "^ Julius Cesar — Drama, ■ . . 422 
 
 ^.^■^The Taming of the Shrew — Story, 467 
 
 Familiar Quotations from Taming of the Shrew, . ? . . -174 
 
 ^Hamlet, Prince of Denmark — Drama, 47.) 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor — Story, 543 
 
 nKing Lear — Drama, ........... 551 
 
 6 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER 
 
 OF- 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS 
 
 Comedies. 
 
 - Love's Labors Lost ..... (1588-1589) 
 
 The Comedy of Errors .... (1589) 
 
 Two Gentleme:?^ of Veroxa .... (1589-1590) 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream . . . (1592 and 1601) 
 
 The Merchant of Venice . . . . . (1594) 
 
 As You Like It .... . (1598-1599) 
 
 \ Much Ado about Nothing .... (1599) 
 
 ^ Twelfth Night ..... (1599-1600) 
 
 .. The Taming of the Shrew .... (1601-1604) 
 
 The Merry Wives of Windsor . . . (1603) 
 All's Well that Ends Well .... (1604) 
 
 Measure for Measure . . • ' . • . . (1604) 
 
 The Tempest ...... (1610-1611) 
 
 . The Winter's Tale ..... (1611) 
 
 Tragedies. 
 
 Titus Andronicus . . . . . . (1591) 
 
 EoMEO and Juliet . . . . . (1596) 
 
 Julius C^sar ..... (1600-1601) 
 
 Hamlet, Fringe of Denmark .... (1600-1601> 
 
 Othello, the Moor of A^enice . . . 1604-1611) 
 
 King Lear ...... (1605) 
 
 Macbeth ...... (1605-1609) 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra .... (1607) 
 
 TiMON OF Athens . . . . . (1608) 
 
 Troilus and Cressida .... (1608) 
 
 CoRioLANUS. ...... (1609-1610) 
 
 Pericles, Prince of Tyre . . . . ■ (1608-1609) 
 
 Cymbeline ...... (1609-1610) 
 
 Histories. 
 
 King Henry VI. Part I. . . . . (1590-1592) 
 
 King Henry VL Part II. ... . (1590-1592) 
 
 King Henry VI. Part III. . . . (1590-1592) 
 
 King Richard III. . . . . . _ (1594) 
 
 ^ King Richard IL . . . . . " (1594-1595) 
 
 King John. ..... (1596-1597) 
 
 King Henry IV. Part I. . . . (1596-1597) 
 
 King Henry IV. Part II. . . . . (1597) 
 
 King Henry V. ..... . (1599) 
 
 King Henry VIII. . , • . (1612-1613) 
 
Life of Shakespeare. 
 
 AFTER all the laborious research which has been expended on the subject of 
 Shakespeare's biography, few particulars are known on those points which 
 would be most gratifying to the curiosity of his rational admirers. We may trace his 
 ancestors to the Doomsday-Book, and his posterity till they dwindle into tongueless 
 obscurity; but of his own habits and domestic character we know comparatively 
 nothing. During his early days, his path of life was so humble that all our inquiries 
 necessarily terminate in disappointment; and of the more busy periods of his exist- 
 ence, when he wrote for the stage and was the public favorite, his remarkable humil- 
 ity of mind and manners induced him to avoid the eye of notoriety; and, unfortun- 
 ately, there was no Boswell or Medwin to make memoranda of his conversation or 
 transmit to our times a fac-simile of the great dramatist in the familiar moments of 
 relaxation and friendly intercourse. Such'hiatuses^in the life of Shakespeare can not 
 be now supplied; now about two hundred years have elapsed since his mortal remains 
 were left to moulder beneath a tomb over which Time has shaken the dust of his 
 wings too often to allow of our recovering details, local and fugitive, however inter- 
 esting. Rowe was the first whose researches elicited anything like a satisfactory 
 memoir of our great bard. Poets and critics have laboriously retrodden his step ; the 
 genius of Pope and the acumen of Johnson have been employed on the same subject, 
 but the sun of their adoration had gone down before their intellectual telescopes were 
 leveled to discover its perfections. Malone has done the most, and appears indeed to 
 have exhausted the subject, but, from inadvertency or carelessness, he has overlooked 
 many particulars which deserve preservation. Having turned over a variety of books, 
 and consulted every accessible authority, we shall attempt to condense, under one 
 head, such recollections of Shakespeare as are at present scattered over many vol- 
 umes, as well as the more obvious and familiar portions of his history. 
 
 It appears a family designated indifferently Shaxper, Shakespeare, Shakspere, 
 and Shakspeare, were well-known in Warwickshire during the sixteenth century. 
 Rowe says: " It seems by the register and other public writings of Stratford that the 
 poet's family were of good figure and fashion there, and are mentioned as gentlemen." 
 
 This account turns out to be very incorrect; for on reference to the authorities 
 cited, we find that the Shakespeares, though their property was respectable, never 
 rose above the rank of tradesmen or husbandmen. Nothing is known of the immedi- 
 ate ancestors of John Shakespeare, the poet's father, who was originally ?i glover, after- 
 ward a butcher, and in the last place, a tuool-stapler, in the town of Stratford. Being 
 very industrious, his wealth gave him importance among his neighbors, and having 
 served various offices in the borough with credit, he ultimately obtained its supreme 
 municipal honors, being elected high-bailiff, at Michaelmas, 15GS. His town-folks, 
 no doubt, considered this the summit of earthly felicity, but however reverend the 
 corporation of Stratford in its own estimation, we can not but smile at these erudite 
 sages, out of nineteen of whom, as we find from their signatures, attached to a public 
 document, 15(34, only seven were able to write their names. While chief magistrate 
 
 7 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEAEE. 
 
 of the borough, and on his marriage with Mary Arden^ he obtained a grant of arms 
 from the Herald's College, and -was allowed to impale his own achievement with that 
 of the ancient family of the Ardens. 
 
 In the deed respecting John Shakespeare, his property is declared to be worth 
 five hundred pounds, a sum by no means inconsiderable in those days, and, on the 
 whole, we have sufficient evidence of his worldly prosperity. From some unexplained 
 causes, however, his affairs began to alter for the worse about 1574, and after employ- 
 ing such expedients to relieve his growing necessities as in the end served only to ag- 
 gravate them, he at length fell into such extreme poverty that he was obliged to give 
 security for a debt of five pounds, and a distress issuing for the seizure of his goods, it 
 was returned: '''Joh'es Shakespeare nihil habet unde distr. potest levari." (John 
 Shakespeare has no effects on which a distraint can be levied.) During the last ten 
 years of his life we have no particular account of his circumstances ; but, as in 1597 
 he describes himself " as of v.ery small wealth and very few friends,"" we may Justly 
 suppose that he remained in great indigence. He seems, indeed, to have fallen 
 into decay with his native town, the trade of which was almost ruined, as we may 
 learn from the application of the burgesses in 1590. The town had then ''fallen 
 into much decay for want of such trade as heretofore they had by clothing, and 
 the making of yarn, employing and maintaining a ntimber of poor people by the 
 same, which now live in great penury and misery, by reason they are not set to work 
 as before they have been." 
 
 John Shakespeare died in 1601. His family consisted of eight children : Jane, 
 Margaret, AYilliam, Gilbert, Lorie, Anne, Richard, and Edmund. Lorie and Margaret 
 died when but a few months old. Of Gilbert nothing is known but the register of 
 his baptism. Jane married one Hart, a hatter of Stratford, and died in 1646, leaving 
 three sons. She is mentioned with much kindness in her illustrious brother's will; 
 and the descendants of her children were to be found in Stratford within these few 
 years. In 1749, a house of Shakespeare's, in Henly Street, belonged to Thomas Hart, 
 a butcher and the sixth in descent from Jane. Anne Shakespeare died an infant; 
 Eichard, according to the parish register, was buried in 1612. Edmund Shakespeare, 
 actuated probably by his brother's reputation at the theatre, became an actor; he per- 
 formed at the Globe, lived in St. Saviour's, Southwark, and was interred in the church- 
 yard of that parish, on the 31st of December, 1606. 
 
 William Shakesj^eare was born April 23d, 1564, at Stratford-upon-Avon. The 
 house in which tlie ])oet first saw the light was bought, in 1597, from a family of the 
 name of TJnderhill. It had been called the ^rea^ house, not because it is really large, but 
 on account of its having been at that time the best in the town. In its present dilapi- 
 dated state, the ablest artists have exerted their skill to preserve the oiitline of so 
 remarkable a building for the gratification of posterity, and the most minute parti- 
 culars concerning it have been collected with the utmost avidity. 
 
 The chamber in which our itnrivaled dramatist is said to have drawn his first 
 breath is penciled over with the names of innumerable visitors in every grade of life. 
 Royalty has been proud to pay this simple tribute to exalted intellect; and Genius has 
 paused in its triumphs to inscribe these hallowed walls with the brief sentences which 
 record its love and veneration for the wonderful man who once recognized this lowly 
 tenement as his home. 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEAKE. 
 
 This house, so venerable on account of its former inmate, is now divided, one 
 part being a butcher's shop and the other a public-house. 
 
 Of Shakespeare's infancy we know nothing, except that he narrowly escaped 
 falling a victim to the plague, which at that time almost depopulated his native 
 town. We next find him at the free grammar-school of Stratford, where we may 
 suppose he acquired the " small Latin and less Greek," for which Ben Jonson gives 
 him credit. But even this imperfect species of education was soon interrupted, the 
 poverty of his father presenting an insurmountable obstacle to his further progress. 
 He now for a considerable period remained at home, and attended to his father's occu- 
 pation, that of a butcher. Growing disgusted with this employment, he commenced 
 school-teaching. 
 
 Shakespeare's eighteenth year was scarcely passed when, relinquishing his school, 
 or his office, he ventured to contract that important engagement on which the happi- 
 ness or misery of life generally turns. He selected for bis wife Anne Hathaway, the 
 daughter of a reputable yeoman in the vicinity of Stratford. At her marriage, she 
 was eight years older than her husband, and Shakespeare's domestic felicity does not 
 appear to have been advanced by the connection. In the year following, 1583, his 
 daughter Susanna was born; and in eighteen months afterward his wife bore him 
 twins, a boy and a girl, baptized by the name of Hammet and Judith. This was the 
 wiiole of the poets family, from which we are perhaps justified in concluding, as there 
 are other circumstances to strengthen the opinion, that his connubial lot was not 
 enviable; indeed, his wife's years were so ill-assorted to his own, that little congeniality 
 of sentiment was to be expected. Hammet, Shakespeare's only son, died at the early 
 age of twelve years, an event long and deeply regretted. 
 
 The inhabitants of Shakespeare's native town were passionately fond of dramatic 
 entertainments. Traveling companies.of players appear to have visited Stratford on 
 more than twenty occasions between 1569 (when the poet was'under six years of age) 
 and 1587. Burbage and Green, two celebrated actors, were his townsmen, and even 
 from childhood his attention must have been attracted to the stage, by the powerful 
 influence of novelty, and in all probability, by his personal acquaintance with some 
 of the comedians. He followed the profession of an actor upward of seventeen 
 years, and till within thirteen years of his death, but we have good reason to suppose 
 that six shillings and eight j^encc aiueek was the highest reward of his dramatic 
 effort. Of his merit as a player, we have no positive data on which to found an esti- 
 mate, and accordingly there is great difference of opinion among the critics. Trage- 
 dians and dramatists were not then so jealously watched as at present; diurnal review- 
 ers were unknown; and an actor's fame depended entirely on the caprice of judges, 
 who were too frequently very incompetent to form a correct decision. From some 
 satirical passages in the writings of his contemporaries, we may fairly suppose that he 
 was not a favorite performer with the public. His instructions to the players in 
 Hamlet, however, bespeak such mastry in their art, and are in themselves so excellent, 
 that we are strongly inclined to believe that his unpopularity must be attributed more 
 to the bad taste of his auditors than to the deficiency of his own powers. 
 
 The only characters which we know with certainty to have been personated by 
 Shakespeare are the Ghost in Hamlet, and Adam in As You Like It: his name 
 appears in the list of players attached to Ben Jonson's Sejanns, and Everg Man in 
 His Humor, but it is sufficiently evident that he never sustained any very important 
 
 9 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 part, and, but for his genius as a poet, which neither indigence nor obscurity could 
 repress, that name, which we now repeat with reverence and love, would have been 
 lost in the darkness of oblivion. " It may, indeed, be considered," says Dr. Drake, 
 " as a most fortunate circumstance for the lovers of dramatic poetry, that our author, 
 in point of execution, did not attain to the loftiest summit of his profession. He 
 would in that case, it is very probable, have either sat down content with the high 
 reputation accruing to him from this source, or would have found little time for the 
 labors of composition, and Consequently we should have been in a great degree, if not 
 altogether, deprived of what now constitutes the noblest efforts ofhumaii genius. 
 
 No portion of Shakespeare's history is more obscure than the period at which he 
 tirst ventured to rely on the resources of his own mind, and produce an original 
 drama on the stage which he had so often trod unnoticed. Every attempt to select 
 from the long list of his wonderful productions the one which had paved the way for 
 his future eminence, his maiden effort in the arena of his coming glories, has ended 
 in uncertainty and disappointment. The Two Gentleman 0/ Fero?i« and the Comedy 
 of Errors have been pitched ujion, but almost any of his other plays might have been 
 chosen with an equal approximation to truth. Our bard, however, was well known 
 as a dramatic writer in 1592, and there is reason to suppose that all his compositions 
 for the stage were written between 1590 and 161.3, a period of about twenty-three 
 years. And when it is considered that we possess thirty of his plays which are indis- 
 putably genuine, besides several, the authenticity of which is doubtful, the marvel- 
 ous power and range of his intellect will be sufficiently evident. A Midsununer 
 Xight's Dream is, i\\e second inscription on the luminous column of his renown. 
 Othello, The Tetjipest, and. Twelfth Night, are engrayed in characters otlight on its 
 base. In combining author and actor iii his own person, the dramatist might in 
 some degree alleviate his pucinary difficulties, but it could scarcely have redeemed 
 him from the indigence under which his brother writers were suffering; yet his super- 
 lative merit as a poet soon advanced him in the regard of the great and the noble. 
 The players in his time were constantly denominated and treated as sei'vants, and 
 when the actor's duty made his presence necessary at his patron's mansion, the buttery 
 was the only place to which he expected admittance. On the contrary, the friend- 
 ship of the dramatist was frequently sought by the opulent — even noblemen made 
 him their companion, and chose him at once as the object of bounty and esteem. 
 Shakespeare's intimacy with the all-accomplished Lord Southampton commenced 
 when the latter was about twenty years of age, and from the dedications prefixed to 
 "Venus and Adonis," in 1593, and the "Rape of Lucrece," in 159-4, it is apjiarent 
 that their friendship was cemented by great liberality in the patron and lively grati- 
 tude in the poet. Rowe, on the authority of Davenant, relates, that in order to enable 
 Shakespeare to complete a purchase, Southampton at once presented him with a thou- 
 cand pounds, a gift truly princely. Of Shakespeare's comparative opulence there can be 
 nodoubt; in 1597, he purchased New Place, the most respectable mansion in his native 
 Stratford, and went to considerable expense in alterations and repairs. In the suc- 
 ceeding year, we find Richard Quyney, a townsman, applying to him as a person of 
 substance, for the loan of thirty pounds, and shortly after, we find him expressing 
 his readiness to lend, on proper security, a sum of money for the use of the town of 
 Stratford. Malone is of opinion that his annual income could not have been leas than 
 
 £200, which, at the age when he lived, was equal to £800 at present. 
 
 10 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Several of the nobility, particularly the Earls of Pembroke and Montgomery, 
 vied with Southampton in conferring benefits on Shakespeare, and he was distin- 
 guished iu a most flattering manner by the favor of two successive sovereigns. We 
 are told that the Merry Wives of Windsor (the first draught of .which was finished in 
 a fortnight) was written expressly at the command of the Virgin Queen, who being 
 highly delighted with Falstaff's humor in Henry IV., wished him to be exhibited 
 under the influence of love. 
 
 The author's reputation was no doubt increased by the approbation of his royal 
 mistress, Avhich in all likelihood was the only solid advantage he obtained from her 
 notice. Rowe celebrates the "many gracious marks of her favor" which Shake- 
 speare received; but no traces of any pecuniary reward from her munificence are to 
 be found, and the almost invariable parsimony of Elizabeth toward literary men may 
 fairly induce us to question whether her generosity was exhibited in anything more 
 substantial than praise, notwithstanding all the elegant flattery which the poet offered 
 on the shrine of her vanity. Elizabeth was certainly a very highly-gifted woman,, 
 but she was too selfish to pay for applause which she was sure of obtaining at an 
 easier rate. 
 
 Though Elizabeth and James were particularly fond of dramatic representations, 
 it does not appear that they ever visited the public theatres; they gratified their taste 
 by commanding the comedians to perform plays at court. These entertainments 
 were usually given at night, which arrangement suited the actors, as the theatres 
 were generally open in the morning. The ordinary fee for such a performance in 
 London was £6 13s. 4d., and an additional £3 6s. 8d. was sometimes bestowed by the 
 bounty of royalty. 
 
 Shakespeare soon became important in the management of the theater, and par- 
 ticipated in all the emoluments of the company. This worldly elevation induced 
 him to quit the drudgery of an actor, which employment he speaks of in his sonnets 
 with disgust, and thenceforth he seemed to have yielded all the powers of his com- 
 prehensive mind to the improvement of dramatic literature. The affectionate wish 
 which Shakespeare formed in early life, to return, after his brilliant career, to his 
 native Stratford, and die at home, induced him to purchase New Place, in 1597. In 
 the pleasure ground of that unassuming mansion he planted, with his own hand, a 
 mulberry tree, which flourished for many years, and was regarded with reverence. 
 To this favorite spot, in 1613 or 1614, he retired from the applause of his contempo- 
 raries and the bustle of the world to the genuine repose and unsophisticated pleasures 
 of a country life. Aubrey informs us, that it was our bard's custom to visit Strat- 
 ford yearly; but previous to 1596, the place of his residence in London has not been 
 discovered. He then lodged near the Bear Garden, in Southwark, and it is not 
 improbable that he remained there till his final retirement from the metropolis. 
 
 Much has been said of the rivalry and dissension between Ben Jonson and 
 Shakespeare. We shall give a few particulars, from which we think it will appear 
 that they both were entirely free from personal ill-will. Pope says, that Jonson 
 "loved Shakespeare as well as honored his memory, celebrates the honesty, openness and 
 frankness of his temper, and only distinguishes, as he reasonably ought, between the 
 real merit of the author and the silly and derogatory applause of the players." Rowe 
 gives us the subjoined anecdote, which has been thought worthy of credit: " i\rr. 
 Jonson, who was at that time altogether unknown to the world, had offered one of 
 
 11 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEAEE. 
 
 his plays to the players in order to have it acted; and the persons into Avhose hands it 
 was put, after having turned it carelessly and superciliously over, were just upon 
 returning it to him with an ill-natured answer that it would be of no service to their 
 company, when Shakespeare luckily cast his eye upon it, and found something so 
 well in it as to engage him first to read it through, and afterward to recommend 
 Mr. Jonson and his writings to the public." It is not a little remarkable that 
 J.onson seems to have held a higher place in public estimation than our poet for more 
 than a century after the death of the latter. Within that period Ben's work went 
 through numerous editions, and were read with eagerness, while Shakespeare's 
 remained in comparative neglect until the time of Rowe. 
 
 Fuller's comparative view of these illustrious writers is highly interesting: 
 "Shakespeare was an eminent instance of the truth of that rule, Poeta nonfit, sed 
 nascitur. Indeed, his learning was but very little; so that as Coriiish diamonds are 
 not polished by any lapidary, but are pointed and smoothed even as they are taken 
 out of the earth, so nature itself was all the art which was used upon him. Many 
 were the wit combats between 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 English man of xoar, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sai-ling, could turn with 
 all tides, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention." 
 Mr. Gifford has triumphantly proved that the once generally received opin- 
 ion of Jonson's malignant feelings toward his friend and benefactor is void of 
 ihe slightest foundation in fact; on the contrary, we are justified in believing that 
 the author of Sejanus was, on all occasions, ready to admit the wonderful merit of 
 his less learned, but more highly gifted contemporary. His lines under Shake- 
 speare's effigy breathe the warmest spirit of reverence and love: 
 
 " The figure that thou here seest put, 
 It was f©r gentle Shakespeare cut; 
 Wheiein the graver had a strife 
 "With nature to outdo the life. 
 could he but have drawne his wit 
 As well in brass as he hath hit 
 His face, the print would then surpass 
 All that was ever writ in brass; 
 But since he cannot, reader, looke 
 Not on his picture but his booke." 
 Queen Elizabeth used sometimes to sit behind the scenes, while her favorite plays 
 were performing. One evening, Shakespeare enacted the part of a monarch (proba- 
 bly, in Henry IV.). The audience knew that her majesty was present. She crossed 
 the stage while Shakespeare was acting, and being loudly greeted by the spectators, 
 courtesied politely to the poet, who took no notice of her condescension. When 
 behind the scenes, she caught his eye and moved again, but still he would not throw 
 off his character to pay her any attention. This made her majesty think of some 
 means to knoAv whether she could induce him to forget the dignity of his character 
 while on the stage. Accordingly, as he was about to make his exit, she stepped before 
 him, dropped her glove, and recrossed the stage, which Shakespeare noticing, took it 
 up with these words, so immediately after finishing his speech that they seemed to 
 belong to it: << j^j^^ though now bent on this high embassy. 
 
 Yet stoop we to take up our cousin's glove." 
 
 12 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEAKE. . 
 
 He then withdrew from the stage and presented the glove to the queen, who was 
 much pleased with his behavior, and complimented him on its propriety. 
 
 Eowe says: " The latter part of his life was spent, as all men of good sense would 
 wish theirs may be, in ease, retirement, and the conversation of his friends. His 
 pleasurable wit and good-nature engaged him in the acquaintance and entitled him 
 to the friendship of the gentlemen of the neighborhood," and in the words of Dr. 
 Drake, "he was high in reputation as a poet, favored by the great and accomplished, 
 and beloved by all who knew him." Nothing can be more delightful than to contem- 
 plate this wonderful man, in the vigor of his age, and in the full possession of his 
 amazing faculties, retiring from the scene of his well-earned triumphs, to find in the 
 comparative seclusion of his native town that repose and quietude, both in mind and 
 body, which is not to be looked for in the bustle of the world. 
 
 Shakespeare retired from the Metropolis at a period little past the prime of life. 
 We meet with no hint of any failure in his constitution, and the execution of his 
 will, in "perfect health and memory," on the 25th of March, 1616, warrants no 
 immediate expectation of his decease. The curtain was now to fall, however, on this 
 earthly stage of existence. He died on the 23d of April, the anniversary of his birth, 
 having completed exactly his fifty-second year. On the 25th, two days after his 
 death, his body was laid in his original dust, being buried under the north side of the 
 chancel of the great church of Stratford. A flat stone, protecting all that was 
 perishable of the remains of Shakespeare, bears this inscription: 
 
 " Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
 To digg the dust enclosed here : 
 Blessed be the man that spares these stones, 
 And curst be he that moves my bones." 
 
 The common opinion is that these lines were written by the poet himself, but 
 this notion has, perhaps, originated solely from the use of the word " my " in 
 the closing line. " The imprecation," says Malone, was probably suggested by an 
 apprehension " that our author's remains might share the same fate with those of the 
 rest of his countrymen, and be added to the immense pile of human bones deposited 
 in Stratford charnel-house." 
 
 A few additional facts respecting Shakespeare's family may be acceptable. His 
 wife survived him seven years, and was buried between his grave and the north wall 
 of the chancel, under a stone inlaid with brass, and inscribed thus : 
 
 " Heere lyeth interred the bodye of Anne, wife of Mr. William Shakespeare, 
 who departed this life the sixth day of August, 1623, being at the age of sixty-seven 
 yeares." 
 
 We have thus, as briefly as the importance of such a memoir would permit, gone 
 over the meager biographical remains of the noblest dramatic poet the world has 
 ever produced. Without attempting to draw the character of this matchless writer, 
 we have occasionally, in the course of our narrative, endeavored to mark the feeling 
 of respect and admiration by which we are influenced while contemplating the 
 mighty performances of a mind which, with little assistance from education, 
 surpassed all the efforts of ancient and modern genius. 
 
 13 
 
The Tempest. 
 
 THEEE was a certain island in the sea^ the only inhabitants of which were an old 
 man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful 
 young lady. She came to this island so young that she had no memory of having 
 scan any other human face than her father's. 
 
 They lived in a cave or cell, made out of rock ; it was divided into several apart- 
 ments, one of which Prospero called his study; there he kept his books, which chiefly 
 treated of magic, a study at that time much affected by all learned men; and the 
 knowledge of this art he found very useful to him; for being thrown by a strange 
 chance upon this island, which had been enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who 
 died there a short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released 
 many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large trees, because 
 they had refused to execute her wicked commands. These gentle spirits were ever 
 after obedient to the will of Prospero, Of these, Ariel was the chief. 
 
 The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his nature, except that 
 he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly monster called Caliban, for 
 he owed him a grudge because he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban 
 Prospero found in the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in form than 
 an ape; he took him home to his cell and taught him to speak, and Prospero would 
 have been very kind to him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from his 
 mother Sycorax would not let him learn anything good or useful; therefore he was 
 employed like a slave, to fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices; and Ariel had 
 the charge of compelling him to these services. 
 
 When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisible to all 
 eyes but Prospero's), would come slyly and pinch him, and sometimes tumble him 
 down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, would make mouths at 
 him. Then, swiftly changing his shajie, in the likeness of a hedge-hog, he would lie 
 tumbling in Caliban's way, who feared the hedge-hog's sharp quills would prick his 
 bare feet. With a variety of such-like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment 
 him whenever Caliban neglected the work which Prospero commanded him to do. 
 Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero could by their means 
 command the winds and the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised a violent 
 storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with the wild sea waves that every 
 moment threatened to swallow it up, he showed his daughter a fine large ship, which 
 he told her was full of living beings like themselves. "0 my dear father," said she, 
 "if by your art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. 
 See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they will all perish. If I had 
 power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather than the good ship should be 
 destroyed, with all the precious souls within her." 
 
 " Be not amazed, daughter Miranda," said Prospero; " there is no harm done. 
 I have so ordered it that no person in the ship shall receive any hurt. What I have 
 done has been in care of you, my dear child. You are ignorant who you are, or 
 
 u 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 where you came from, and you know no more of me but tliat I am your father, and 
 live in this poor cave. Can you remember a time before you came to this cell ? I 
 think you can not, for you were not then three years of age." 
 
 " Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. 
 
 "By what ? " asked Prospero; "by any other house or person ? Tell me what 
 Tou can remember, my child." 
 
 Miranda said, " It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. But had I not 
 once four or five women who attended upon me ? " 
 
 Prospero answered, " You had, and more. How is it that this still lives in your 
 mind ? " Do you remember how you came here ? " 
 
 "No, sir," said Miranda, " I remember nothing more." 
 
 " Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, " I was Duke of Milan, and 
 you were a princess and my only heir. I had a younger brother, whose name was 
 Antonio, to whom I trusted everything; and as I was fond of retirement and deep 
 study, I commonly left the management of my state affairs to your uncle, my false 
 brother (for so indeed he proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, buried in my 
 books, did dedicate my whole time to the bettering of my mind. My brother 
 Antonio, being thus in possession of my power, began to think himself the duke 
 indeed. The opportunity I gave him of making himself popular among my subjects 
 awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive me of my dukedom; this he 
 soon effected with the aid of the King of Naples, a powerful prince, who was my 
 enemy." 
 
 " Wherefore," said Miranda, " did they not that hour destroy us ?" 
 
 "My child," answered her father, "they durst not, so dear was the love that my 
 people bore me. Antonio carried us on board a shijJ, and when we were some leagues 
 out at sea, he forced us into a small boat, Avithout either tackle, sail or mast; there 
 he left -us as he thought to perish. But a kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, who 
 loved me, had privately placed in the boat water, provisions, ajiparel, and some books 
 which I prize above my dukedom." 
 
 "0 my father," said Miranda, "what a trouble I must have been to you then!" 
 
 "No, my love," said Prospero, "you were a little cherub that did preserve me. 
 Your innocent smiles made me to bear up against my misfortunes. Our food lasted 
 until we landed oa this desert island, since when my chief delight has been in teach- 
 ing you, Miranda, and well have you profited by my instructions." 
 
 "Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. "Now pray tell me, sir, 
 your reason for raising this sea-storm." 
 
 " Know then," said her father, "that by means of this storm my enemies, the 
 King of Naples and my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this island." 
 
 Having said so, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his magic wand, and 
 she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just then presented himself before his master 
 to give an account of the tempest, and how he had disposed of the ship's company; 
 and, though the spirits were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose she 
 should hear him holding converse (as would seem to her) with the empty air. 
 
 "Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, "how have you performed your 
 task?" 
 
 Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terror of the mariners; 
 and how the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first who leaped into the sea, and his 
 
 la 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 father thought he saw his dear son swallowed up by the waves and lost. " But he is 
 safe," said Ariel, "in a corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded sadly, lament- 
 ing the loss of the king his father, whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair of his 
 head is injured, and his princely garments, though drenched in the sea-waves, look 
 fresher than before." 
 
 "That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. "Bring him hither: my daughter 
 must see this young prince. Where is the king and my brother?" 
 
 " I left them," answered Ariel, "searching for Ferdinand, whom they have little 
 hopes of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of the ship's crew not one is miss- 
 ing; though each one thinks himself the only one saved: and the ship, though invisi- 
 ble to them, is safe in the harbor." 
 
 "Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully performed; but there is more 
 work yet." 
 
 "Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind you, master, you have 
 promised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I have done you worthy service, told you 
 no lies, made no mistakes, served you without grudge or grumbling." 
 
 " How now," said Prospero. " You do not recollect what a torment I freed you 
 from. Have you forgotten the wicked witch Sycorax, who with age and envy was 
 almost bent double ? Where was she born ? Speak : tell me." 
 
 " Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. 
 
 " Oh, was she so?" said Prospero. I must recount what you have been, which I 
 find you do not remember. This bad witch Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, too terrible 
 to enter human hearing, was banished from Algiers, and here left by the sailors ; and 
 because you were a spirit too delicate to execute her wicked commands, she shut you 
 up in a tree, where I found you howling. This torment, remember, I did free you 
 from." 
 
 "Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to seem ungrateful ; "I will 
 obey your commands." 
 
 "Do so," said Prospero, "and I will set 3'ou free." He then gave orders what 
 farther he would have him to do, and away went Ariel, first to where he had left 
 Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the same melancholy posture. 
 
 "0 my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, "I will soon move you. 
 You must be brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sight of your pretty 
 person. Come, sir, follew me." He then began singing, 
 
 " Full fathom five thy father lies; 
 
 Of his bones are coral made; 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes: 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade, 
 But doth suffer a sea-change 
 Into something rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 
 Hark, now I hear them, ding-dong bell." 
 
 This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince from the stupid fit 
 into which he had fallen. He followed in amazement the sound of Ariel's voice, till 
 it led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were seated under the shade of a large tree. 
 Now, Miranda had never seen a man before, except her own father. 
 
 " Miranda," said Prospero, "tell me what you are looking at yonder." 
 
 16 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 "0 father/"' said Miranda, in a strange surprise, "surely that is a spirit. LordI 
 how it looks about! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. Is it not a spirit?" 
 
 " No, girl," ans\yered her father; " it eats, and sleeps, and has senses such as we 
 have. This young man yon see was in the ship. He is somewhat altered by grief, 
 or you might call him a handsome person. He has lost his companions, and is 
 wandering about to find them. 
 
 Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and gray beards like her father' 
 was delighted with the ajipearance of this beautiful young prince; and Ferdinand, 
 seeing such a lovely lady in this desert j^lace, and from the strange sounds he 
 had heard, expecting nothing but wonders, thought he was i;pon an enchanted 
 island, and that Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as such he began to 
 address her. 
 
 She timidly answered, she was no goddess but a simple maid, and was going to 
 give an account of herself, when Prosper© interrupted her. He was well pleased to 
 find they admired each other, for he plainly perceived they had (as we say) fallen in 
 love at first sight: but to try Ferdinand's constancy he resolved to throw some diffi- 
 culties in their way : therefore, advancing forward, he addressed the prince with a stern 
 air, telling him he came to the island as a spy, to take it from him who M'as the lord 
 of it. "Follow me," said he, "I will tie you neck and feet together. You shall 
 drink sea- water: shell-fish, withered roots, and husks of acorns shall be your food." 
 "Xo,"said Ferdinand, " I will resist such entertainment till I see a more powerful 
 enemy," and drew his sword: but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed him to the 
 spot where he stood, so that he had no power to move. 
 
 Miranda hung upon her father, saying, "Why are you so ungentle? Have pity, 
 sir; I will be his surety. This is the second man I ever saw, and to me he seems a 
 true one." 
 
 " Silence," said her father, " one word more will make me chide j^ou, girl ! 
 AVhat ! an advocate for an impostor ! You think there are no more such fine men, 
 having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish girl, most men as far excel this 
 as he does Caliban." This he said to prove his daughter's constancy; and she 
 replied, "My affections are most humble. I have no wish to see a goodlier man." 
 
 " Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince, " you have no power to dis- 
 obey me." 
 
 " I have not indeed," answered Ferdinand; and not knowing it was by magic he 
 was deprived of all power of resistance, he was astonished to find he was so strangely 
 compelled to follow Prospero. Looking back on Miranda as long as he could see her, 
 he said, as he went after Prospero into the cave, "My spirits are all bound up as if I 
 were in a dream; but this man's threats and the weakness which I feel, would seem 
 light to me if from my prison I might once a day behold this fair maid." 
 
 Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell; he soon brought out 
 his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, taking care to let his daughter 
 inow the hard labor he had imposed on him, and then pretending to go into his study, 
 he secretly watched them both. 
 
 Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy logs of wood. Kings' 
 sons not being much used to laborious work, Miranda soon after found her lover 
 almost dying with fatigue. "Alas !" said she, " do not work so hard; my father is at 
 his studies ; he is safe for these three hours : pray rest yourself" 
 
THE TE^iLPEST. 
 
 " m}' dear lady/*' said Ferdinand, "I dare not. I must finish my task before I 
 take my rest." 
 
 " If you will sit down,"' said Miranda, " I will carry 3-our logs the while." But 
 this Ferdinand would by no means agree to do. Instead of a help Miranda became a 
 hindrance, for they began a long conversation, so that the business of log-carrying 
 went on very slowly. 
 
 Prosper©, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a trial of his love, was 
 not at his books as his daughter supposed, but was standing by them invisible, to over- 
 hear Avhat they said. 
 
 Ferdinand inquired Jier name, which she told him, saying it was against her father's 
 express command she did so. 
 
 Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter's disobedience, for having 
 by his magic art caused his daughter to fall in love so suddenly, he was not angry that 
 she showed her love by forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased 
 to a long speech of Ferdinand, in which he professed to love her above all the ladies lie 
 ever saw. 
 
 In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded all the women in the 
 world, she replied, " I do not remember the face of any woman, nor have I seen any 
 more men than you, my good friend, and my dear father. How features are abroad I 
 know not; but believe me, sir, I would not wish any companion in the world but you, 
 nor can my imagination form any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear 
 I talk to you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget." 
 
 At this point Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much as to sa}", " This goes 
 on exactly as I could wish; my girl will be Queen of Naples." 
 
 And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young princes speak in courtly 
 phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was heir to the crown of Naples, and that she 
 should be his queen. 
 
 "Ah! sir," said she, "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of. I will answer 
 you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife if you will marry me." 
 
 Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible before them. 
 
 "Fear nothing, my child," he said; " I have overheard, and approve of all you 
 have said. And Ferdinand, if I have too severely used you, I will make you rich 
 amends, by giving you my daughter. All your vexations were but my trials of your 
 love, and you have nobly stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love has 
 worthily purchased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is above all 
 praise." He then, telling them that he had business which required his presence, 
 desired they would sit down and talk together till he returned ; and this command 
 Miranda seemed not at all disj^osed to disobey. 
 
 When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly appeared before 
 him, eager to relate what he had done with Prospero's brother and the King of 
 Naples. Ariel said he had left them almost outof their senses with fear at the strange 
 things he had caused them to see and hear. "When fatigyed with wandering about, 
 and famished for want of food, he had suddenly set before them a delicious banquet, 
 and then, just as they were going to eat, he appeared visible before them in the 
 shape of a harpy, a voracious monster M'ith wings, and the feast vanished away. 
 Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding them 
 of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, and leaving him and his 
 
 18 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 infant daughter to perish in the sea ; saying that for this cause these terrors were 
 suffered to afliict them. 
 
 The King of Naples, and Antonio, the false brother, repented the injustice they 
 had done to Prospero: and Ariel told his master he was certain their penitence was 
 sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could not but pity them. 
 
 " Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero ; " if you, who are but a spirit, 
 feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human being like themselves, have com- 
 passion on them ? Bring them quickly, my dainty Ariel." 
 
 Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in their train, who 
 had followed him wondering at the wild music he played in the air to draw them on 
 to his master's presence. This Gonzalo was the same who had so kindly provided 
 Prosj)ero formerly with books and provisions, when his wicked brother left him, as 
 he thought, to perish in an open boat in the sea. 
 
 Grief and terror had so stupefied their senses that they did not know Prospero. 
 He first discovered himself to the good old Gonzalo, calling him the preserver of his 
 life; and then his brother and the king knew that he was the injured Prospero. 
 
 Antonio, with tears and sad words of sorrow and true repentance, implored his 
 brother's forgiveness ; and the king expressed his sincere remorse for having assisted 
 Antonio to depose his brother; and Prospero forgave them; and, upon their engaging to 
 restore his dukedom, he said to the King of Naples, " I have a gift in store for you^ 
 too;" and opening a door showed him his son Ferdinand playing at chess with Miranda. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at this unexpected meet- 
 ing, for they each thought the other drowned in the storm. 
 
 ''0 wonder !" said Miranda, " what noble creatures these are I It must surely 
 be a brave world that has such people in it." 
 
 The King of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty and excellent 
 graces of the young Miranda as his son had been. "Who is this maid ?" said he ; 
 she seems the goddess that has parted us, and brought us thus together." "No, sir," 
 answered Ferdinand, smiling to find his father had fallen into the same mistake that 
 he had done when he first saw Miranda, "she is a mortal, but by immortal Provi- 
 dence she is mine ; I chose her when I could not ask you, my father, for your con- 
 sent, not thinking you were alive. She is the daughter of this Prospero, who is the 
 famous Duke of Milan, of whose renown I have heard so much, but never saw him 
 till now; of him I have received a new life ; he has made himself to me a second 
 father, giving me this dear lady." 
 
 " Then I must be her father," said the king : " but oh 1 how oddly will it sound 
 that I must ask my child forgiveness." 
 
 " No more of that," said Prospero : "let us not remember our troubles past, 
 since they so happily have ended." And then Prospero embraced his brother, and 
 again assured him of his forgiveness ; and said that a wise, overruling Providence had 
 permitted that he should be driven from his poor dukedom of JMilan, that his 
 daughter might inherit the crown of Naples, for that by their meeting in this desert 
 island, it had happened that the king's son had loved Miranda. 
 
 These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort his brother, so filled 
 Antonio with shame and remorse, that he wept and was unable -to speak ; and the 
 kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on 
 the young couple. 
 
 19 
 
THE TEilPEST. 
 
 Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbor, and the sailors all 
 on board her, and that he and his danghter wonld accompany them home the next 
 morning. "In the meantime," said he, " partake of such refreshments as my poor 
 cave affords ; and for your evening^s entertainment I will relate the history of my life 
 from my first landing on this desert island." He than called for Caliban to prepare 
 some food and set the cave in order ; and the comjDany were astonished at the uncouth 
 foi'm and savage appearance of this ugly monster, who (Prospero said) was the only 
 attendant he had to wait upon him. 
 
 Before Prospero left the island, he dimissed Ariel from his service, to the great 
 joy of that lively little spirit, who though he had been a faithful servant to his mas- 
 ter, was always longing to enjoy his free liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, 
 like a wild bird, under green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling flowers. 
 "My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little sprite when he made him free, "I 
 shall miss you ; yet you shall have your freedom." "Thank you, my dear master," 
 said Ariel; "but give me leave to attend your ship home with prosperous gales, 
 "before you bid farewell to the assistance of your faithful spirit ; and then, master, 
 "when I am free, how merrily I shall live!" Here Ariel sang this pretty song: 
 
 " Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie : 
 There I couch when owls do cry. 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 After summer merrily. 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 
 
 Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books and wand, for he was 
 resolved never more to make use of the magic art. And having thus overcome his 
 enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and the King of Naples, nothing now 
 remained to complete his happiness, but to revisit his native land, to take possession 
 of his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his daughter Miranda and 
 Prince Ferdinand, which the king said should be instantly celebrated with great 
 splendor on their return to Naples. At which place, under the safe convoy of the 
 spirit Ariel, they after a pleasant voyage soon arrived. 
 
 20 
 
The Tempest. 
 
 Alo^stso, King of Naples. 
 Sebastiast, liislroilier. 
 PuosPERO, the right Duke of Milan. 
 AxTOXio, Ms Irother, the iisur2)ing Duke 
 
 of Milan. 
 FerdinaisD, S071 to the King of Naples. 
 GoxzALO, an honest old Counsellor. 
 Adrian, ) 
 Frakcisco, [ ^''■^•^- 
 Caliban, a savage and deformed Slave. 
 Tkinculo, a Jester. 
 Stephano, a drunken Butler. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Master of a Ship. 
 
 Boatswain. 
 
 Mariners. 
 
 Miranda, daughter to Prospero. 
 
 Ariel, an airy Spirit. 
 
 Iris, 
 
 Ceres, 
 
 Juno, 
 
 Nymphs, 
 
 Reapers, 
 
 Other Spirits attending on Prospero. 
 
 presented by Spirits. 
 
 SCENE — A Ship at Sea: An Island. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. On a ship at sea ; a tempes- 
 tuous noise of thunder and lightning 
 heard. 
 
 Enter a Ship-Master and a Boatswain. 
 
 Mast. Boatswain ! 
 
 Boats. Here, master: what cheer? 
 
 Mast. Good, speak to the mariners: 
 fall to't, yarely, or we run ourselves 
 aground: bestir, bestir. \^E7:it. 
 
 E-nter Mariners. 
 
 Boats. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, 
 cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in 
 the top-sail. Tend to the master's whis- 
 tle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if 
 room enough! 
 
 Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, 
 Ferdinand, Gonzalo, and others. 
 
 Alon. Good boatswain, have care. 
 Where's the master? Play the men. 
 Boats. I pray now, keep below. 
 Ant. Where is the master, boatswain? 
 Boats. Do you not hear him? Yoii 
 
 mar our labor: keep your cabins: you do 
 assist the storm. 
 
 Gon. Nay, good, be patient. 
 
 Boats. When the sea is. Hence! 
 W hat cares these roarers for the name of 
 king? To cabin: silence! trouble us not. 
 
 Gon. Good, yet remember who thou 
 hast aboard. 
 
 Boats. None than I more love than^ 
 myself. You are a counsellor; if you can 
 command these elements to silence, and 
 work the peace of the present, we will not 
 hand a rope more; use your authority: 
 if you cannot, give thanks you have 
 lived so long, and make yourself ready in 
 your cabin for the mischance 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: methinks he hath no drowning 
 mark upon him; his complexion is per- 
 fect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to 
 his hanging: make the rope of his destiny 
 
 21 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEIN-E II. 
 
 our cable, for our own dotli little advan- 
 tage. If lie be not born to be hanged, our 
 case is miserable. \^Exeunt. 
 
 Be-enter Boatswain. 
 
 Boats. Down with the top mast! j-are! 
 lower, lower! Bring her to try with main 
 course. \^A cry tvithin.'] A plague upon 
 this howling! they are louder than the 
 weather or our office. 
 
 Be-enter Sebastiajst, As'tois'io, andGo's- 
 
 ZALO. 
 
 Yet again! what do you here? Shall we 
 give o'er and drown? Have you a mind 
 to sink? 
 
 Set}. A pox o' your throat, you bawl- 
 ing, blasphemous, incharitable dog! 
 
 Boats. Work you then. 
 
 Ant. Hang, cur! hang you whoreson, 
 insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid 
 to be drowned than thou art. 
 
 Gon. I'll'warrant him from drowning, 
 though the ship were no stronger than a 
 nutshell and as leaky as an unstanched 
 wench. 
 
 Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her 
 two courses off to sea again; lay her off. 
 
 Enter Mariners luet. 
 
 Mariners. All lost! to prayers, to 
 prayers! all lost! 
 
 Boats. What, must our mouths be 
 
 cold? 
 Gon. The king and prince at prayers! 
 let's assist them. 
 For our case is as theirs. 
 
 Set. I'm out of patience. 
 
 Ant. We are merely cheated of our 
 lives by drunkards. 
 This wide-cliapp'd rascal — would thou 
 
 mightst lie drowning. 
 The washing of ten tides! 
 
 Gon. He'll be hang'd yet. 
 
 Though every drop of water swear against 
 
 it 
 And gape at widest to. glut him. 
 [^ confused noise tvifJiin: 'Mercy on us! — 
 
 'We split! we split!' — 'Farewell, my wife 
 
 and children!' — 
 'Farewell, brother!' — 'We split, we split, 
 we split!'] 
 A}it. Let's all sink with the king. 
 Sei. Let's take leave of him. 
 
 \_Exeiint A?it. and Seb. 
 Gon. Now would I give a thousand 
 furlongs of sea for an acre of barren 
 ground, long heath, brown furze, any 
 thing. ^ The wills above be done! but I 
 would fain die a dry death. [Exeu?it. 
 
 Scene II. The island. Before Prospe- 
 ro's cell. 
 
 Enter Peospero and Mikakda. 
 Mir. If by your art, my dearest father 
 
 you have 
 Put the wild waters in this roar, allay 
 
 them. 
 The sky, it seems, would pour down 
 
 stinking jiitch, 
 But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's 
 
 cheek. 
 Dashes the fire out. 0, I have suffered 
 With those that I saw suffer: a brave ves- 
 sel. 
 Who had, no doubt, some noble creature 
 
 in her, 
 Dash'd all to pieces. 0, the cry did knock 
 Against my very heart. Poor souls, they 
 
 perish'd. 
 Had I been any god of power, I would 
 Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere 
 It should the good ship so have swallow'd 
 
 and 
 The fraughting souls within her. 
 
 Bros. Be collected: 
 
 Xo more amazement: tell your piteous 
 
 heart 
 There's no harm done. 
 
 Mir. 0, woe the day! 
 
 Bros. No harm. 
 
 I have done nothing but in care of thee. 
 Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, 
 
 who 
 
 23 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Art ignorant of what thou art, nought 
 
 knowing 
 Of whence I am, nor that I am more 
 
 better 
 Than Prospero, master of a full poor 
 
 cell, 
 And thy no greater father. 
 
 Mir. More to know 
 
 Did never meddle with my thoughts. 
 
 Pros. ^Tis time 
 
 I should inform thee farther. Lend thy 
 
 hand. 
 And pluck my magic garment from me. 
 
 So: 
 
 [Lays down his viantle. 
 
 Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes ; 
 
 have comfort. 
 The direful spectacle of the wreck, which 
 
 touch'd 
 The very virtue of compassion in thee, 
 I have Avith such provision in mine art 
 So safely ordered that there is no soul — 
 No, not so much perdition as an hair 
 Betid to any creature in the vessel 
 Which thou heard'st cry, which thou 
 
 saw'st sink. Sit down ; 
 For thou must now know 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. Cans't thou re- 
 member 
 A time before we came unto this cell ? 
 I do not think thou cans't, for then thou 
 
 wast not 
 Out three years old. 
 
 Mir. Certainly, sir, I can. 
 
 Pros. By whac ? By any other house 
 or person ? 
 Of any thing the image tell me that 
 Hath kept with thy remembrance. 
 
 Mir. 'Tis far off 
 
 And rather like a dream than an assurance 
 
 That my remembrance warrants. Had I 
 
 not 
 Four or five women once that tended me ? 
 Pros. Thou hads't, and more, Miranda. 
 
 But how is it 
 That this lives in thy mind ? What seest 
 
 thou else 
 In the dark backward and abysm of 
 
 time ? 
 If thou remember'st aught ere thou camest 
 
 here, 
 IIow thou camest here thou mayest. 
 Mir. Bat that I do not. 
 
 Pros. Twelve year since, Miranda, 
 
 twelve year since. 
 Thy father was the Duke of Milan and 
 X prince of joower. 
 
 Mir. Sir, are not you my father ? 
 
 Pros. Thy mother was a piece of vir- 
 tue, and 
 She said thou wast my daughter ; and thy 
 
 father 
 Was Duke of Milan ; and thou his only heir 
 And princess no worse issued. 
 
 Mir. the heavens ! 
 
 What foul play had we, tliat we came 
 
 from thence ? 
 Or blessed was't we did? 
 
 Pros. Both, both, my girl: 
 
 By foul play, as thou say'st, were we 
 
 heaved thence. 
 But blessedly holp hither. 
 
 Mir. 0, my heart bleeds 
 
 To think o' the teen that I have turn'd 
 
 you to 
 Wliich is from my I'emembrance! Please 
 
 you, farther. 
 Pros. My brother and thy uncle call'd 
 
 Antonio — 
 I pray thee, mark me — that a brother 
 
 should 
 Be so perfidious! — he whom next thyself 
 Of all the world I loved and to him put 
 The manage of my state; as at that time 
 Through all the signories it was the first 
 And Prospero the prime duke, being so 
 
 reputed 
 
xicT I. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 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 them, who to advance and 
 
 who 
 To trash for over-topping, new created 
 The creatures that were mine, I say, or 
 
 changed 'em, 
 Or else new form'd 'em; having both the 
 
 key 
 Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the 
 
 state 
 To what tune pleased his ear; that now 
 
 he was 
 The ivy which had hid my princely trunk. 
 And suck'd my verdure out on't. Thou 
 
 attend'st not. 
 Mir. 0, good sir, I do. 
 Pros. I pray thee, mark me. 
 
 I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedi- 
 cated 
 To closeness and the bettering of my 
 
 mind 
 With that which, but by being so retired 
 O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false 
 
 brother 
 Awaked an evil nature; and my trust 
 Like a good parent, did beget of him 
 A falsehood in its contrary as great 
 As my trust was; which had indeed no 
 
 limit, 
 A confidence sans bound. He being thus 
 
 lorded. 
 Not only with what my revenue yielded. 
 But what my power might else exact, like 
 
 one 
 Who having into truth, by telling of it, 
 Made such a sinner of his memory. 
 
 To credit his own lie, he did believe 
 
 He was indeed the duke; out o' the sub- 
 stitution. 
 
 And executing the outward face of ro}'- 
 alty 
 
 With all prerogative: hence his ambition 
 growing — 
 
 Dost thou hear? 
 
 Mir. Your tale, sir, would cure deaf- 
 ness. 
 Pros. To have no screen between this 
 part he play'd 
 
 And him he play'd it for, he needs will be 
 
 Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my 
 library 
 
 Was dukedom large enough: of temporal 
 royalties 
 
 He thinks me now incapable; confeder- 
 ates — 
 
 So dry he was for sway — wi' the King "of 
 Naples 
 
 To give him annual tribute, do him hom- 
 age. 
 
 Subject his coronet to his crown and bend 
 
 The dukedom yet unbow'd — alas, poor 
 Milan!— 
 
 To most ignoble stooping. 
 
 Mir. the heavens! 
 
 Pros. Mark his condition and the 
 event; Then tell me 
 
 If this might be a brother. 
 
 Mir. I should sin 
 
 To think but nobly of my grandmother: 
 
 Good wombs have borne bad sons. 
 Pros. Now the condition. 
 
 The King of Naples, being an enemy 
 
 To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's 
 suit: 
 
 Which was, that he, in lieu o' the jirem- 
 ises 
 
 Of homage and I know not how much 
 tribute. 
 
 Should presently extirpate me and mine 
 
 Out of the dukedom and confer fair Milan 
 
 With all the honors on my brother: 
 whereon, 
 
 A treacherous army levied, one midnight 
 
 24 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open 
 The gates of Milan; and i' tlie dead of 
 
 darkness. 
 The ministers for the purpose hurried 
 
 thence 
 Me, and thy crying self. 
 
 Mir a. Alack, for pity! 
 
 I, not rememb'ring how I cried out then^ 
 Will cry it o'er again, it is a hint. 
 That wrings mine eyes. 
 
 Pro. Hear a little further, 
 
 And then I'll bring thee to the present 
 
 business 
 Which now's upon us; without the which, 
 
 this story 
 Were most impertinent. 
 
 Mira. Wherefore did they not 
 
 That hour destroy us? 
 
 Pro. Well demanded, wench; 
 
 My tale provokes that question. Dear, 
 
 they durst not; 
 (So dear the love my people bore me) nor 
 
 set 
 A mark so bloody on the business; but 
 With colours fairer painted their foul ends. 
 In few, they hurried us aboard a bark; 
 Bore us some leagues to sea; where they 
 
 prepar'd 
 A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd, 
 Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats 
 Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist 
 
 us. 
 To cry to the sea that roar'd to us; to sigh 
 To the winds, whose pity, sighing back 
 
 again. 
 Did us but loving wrong, 
 
 Mira. Alack! what trouble 
 
 Was I then to you! 
 
 Pro. ! a cherubim 
 
 Thou wast, that did jireserve me! Thou 
 
 didst smile. 
 Infused with a fortitude from heaven, 
 When I have deck'd the sea with drops 
 
 full salt; 
 Under my burden groau'd; which rais'd 
 
 in me 
 An undergoing stomach, to bear up 
 
 Against what should ensue. 
 
 Mira. How came we ashore? 
 
 Pro. By Providence divine. 
 
 Some food we had, and some fresh water, 
 that 
 
 A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, 
 
 Out of his charity (who being then ap- 
 pointed 
 
 Master of this design), did give us; Avith 
 
 Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and neces- 
 saries. 
 
 Which since have steaded much; so, of 
 his gentleness. 
 
 Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd 
 me. 
 
 From my own library, with volumes that 
 
 I prize above my dukedom. 
 
 Mira. 'Would I might 
 
 But ever see that man I 
 
 Pro. Now I arise: — 
 
 Sit still, and hear the last of our sea- 
 sorrow. 
 
 Here in this island we arriv'd; and hero 
 
 Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more 
 profit 
 
 Than other princess can, that have more 
 time 
 
 For vainer hours, and tutors not so care- 
 ful. 
 Mira. Heavens thank you for't! And 
 now I pray you, sir, 
 
 (For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your 
 reason 
 
 For raising this sea-storm? 
 
 Pro. Know thus far forth. — 
 
 By accident most strange, bountiful for- 
 tune. 
 
 Now my dear lad}-, hath mine enemies 
 
 Brought to this shore; and by my pre- 
 science 
 
 I find my zenith doth depend upon 
 
 A most auspicious star; whose influence 
 
 If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes 
 
 Will ever after droop. — Here cease more 
 questions; 
 
 Thou art inclin'd to sleep; 'tis a good dull- 
 ness. 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 And give it way; — I know thou canst not 
 
 choose. — 
 
 [MiRA.K'DA sleeps. 
 Come away, servant, come ; I am ready 
 
 now: 
 Approach, my Ariel ; come. 
 
 Enter Ariel. 
 
 Ari. All hail, great master! grave sir, 
 hail! I come 
 To answer thy best pleasure, be't to fly. 
 To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
 On the cnrl'd clouds ; to thy strong bid- 
 ding, task 
 Ariel, and all his quality. 
 
 Pro. Hast thou, spirit, 
 
 Performed to point the tempest that I 
 
 bade thee? 
 Ari. To every article. 
 I boarded the king's ship ; now on the 
 
 beak, 
 l^owin the waist, the deck, in every cabin, 
 I flamed amazement : Sometimes, I'd 
 
 divide. 
 And burn in many places ; on the top- 
 mast. 
 The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame 
 
 distinctly. 
 Then meet, and join : Jove's lightnings, 
 
 the precursors 
 0' the dreadful thunder-claps, more 
 
 momentary 
 And sight-outrunning were not : The fire, 
 
 and cracks 
 Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty 
 
 Neptune 
 Seem'd to besiege, and make his bold 
 
 waves tremble. 
 Yea, his dread trident shake. 
 
 Pro. My brave spirit! 
 
 Who was so firm, so constant, that this 
 
 coil 
 "Would not infect his reason? 
 
 Ari. Not a soul 
 
 But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd 
 Some tricks of desperation : All, but 
 
 mariners. 
 
 Plung'd in the foaming brine, and quit 
 
 the vessel. 
 Then all a-fire with me : the king's son, 
 
 Ferdinand, 
 "With hair up-staring, (then like reeds, 
 
 not hair, ) 
 Was the first man that leap'd. 
 
 Pro. Why, that's my spirit! 
 
 But was not this nigh shore? 
 
 Ari. Close by, my master. 
 
 Pro. But are they, Ariel, safe? 
 Ari. Not a hair perish'd ; 
 
 On their sustaining garments not a blem- 
 ish. 
 But fresher than before; and, as thou 
 
 bad'st me. 
 In troops I have dispers'd them 'bout the 
 
 isle : 
 The king's son have I landed by himself ; 
 Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs. 
 In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting. 
 His arms in this sad knot. 
 
 Pro. Of the king's ship, 
 
 The mariners, say, how thou hast dis- 
 
 l">os'd. 
 And all the rest o' the fleet? 
 
 Ari. Safely in harbour 
 
 Is the king's ship ; in the deep nook, 
 
 where once 
 Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch 
 
 dew 
 From the still-vex'd Bermoothes, there 
 
 she's hid : 
 The mariners all under hatches stow'd ; 
 Whom, with a charm join'd to their 
 
 suffer'd labour, 
 I have left asleep : and for the rest o' the 
 
 fleet. 
 Which I dispers'd, they all have met again; 
 And are upon the Mediterranean flote. 
 Bound sadly home for Naples ; 
 Supposing that they saw the king's ship 
 
 wreck'd. 
 And his great person perish. 
 
 Pro. Ariel, tliy charge 
 
 Exactly is perform'd ; but there's more 
 
 work : 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 What is the time o' the day? 
 Jri. Past the mid season. 
 
 Fro. At least two glasses: The time 
 'twixt six and now. 
 Must by us both be spent most j^reciously. 
 A7-i. Is there more toil? Since thou 
 dost give me pains. 
 Let me remember thee what thou hast 
 
 promis'd. 
 Which is not yet perform'd me. 
 
 P7'0. How now? moody? 
 
 What is't thou canst demand? 
 Ari. My liberty. 
 
 Pro. Before the time be out? no more. 
 Ari. I pray thee 
 
 Kemember, I have done thee worthy ser- 
 vice ; 
 Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, 
 
 serv'd 
 Without or grudge or grumblings: thou 
 
 didst promise 
 To bate me a full year. 
 
 Pro. Dost thou forget 
 
 From what a torment I did free thee? 
 Ari. No. 
 
 Pro. Thou dost ; and think'st 
 It much, to tread the ooze of the salt 
 
 deep ; 
 To run upon the sharp wind of the north ; 
 To do me business in the veins o' the earth, 
 When it is bak'd with frost. 
 
 Ari. I do not, sir. 
 
 Pro. Thou liest, maglignant thing! 
 Hast thou forgot 
 The foul witch Sycorax, who, with age 
 
 and envy. 
 Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot 
 her? 
 Ari. No, sir. 
 
 Pro. Thou hast : where was she born? 
 
 speak ; tell me. 
 A7-i. Sir, in Argier. 
 
 Pro. 0, was she so? I must, 
 
 Once in a month, recount what thou hast 
 
 been. 
 Which thou forget'st. This vile witch, 
 Sycorax, 
 
 For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries 
 
 terrible 
 To enter human hearing, from Argiei, 
 Thou know'st, was banish'd ; for one 
 
 thing she did, 
 They would not take her life : Is not this 
 
 true? 
 Ari. Ay, sir. 
 
 Pro. This blue-ey'd hag was hither 
 
 brought with child. 
 And here was left by the sailors : Thou, 
 
 my slave. 
 As thou report'st thyself, wast then her 
 
 servant : 
 And, for thou was a spirit too delicate 
 To act her earthly and abhorrd com- 
 mands. 
 Refusing her grand bests, she did confine 
 
 thee. 
 By help of her more potent ministers, 
 And in her most unmitigable rage, 
 Into a cloven pine ; within which rift 
 Imprisoned, thou di/i'st painfully remain 
 A dozen years ; within which space she 
 
 died. 
 And left thee there; where thou didst 
 
 vent thy groans, 
 As fast as mill-wheels strike : Then was 
 
 this island 
 (Save for the son that she did litter here, 
 A freckled whelp, hag-born,) not honour'd 
 
 with 
 A human shape. 
 
 Ari. Yes; Caliban her son. 
 
 Pro. Dull thing, I say so; he, that 
 
 Caliban, 
 Whom now I keep iu service. Thou best 
 
 know'st 
 AVhat torment I did find thee in: thy 
 
 groans 
 Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the 
 
 breasts 
 Of ever-angry bears. This Sycorax 
 Could not again undo; it M'as mine art. 
 When I arriv'd, and heard thee, that made 
 
 gape 
 The pine, and let thee out. 
 
Act L 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEiJ'E II. 
 
 Ari. I thank thee, master. 
 
 Fi'O. If thou more murmur'st, I Avill 
 rend an oak. 
 And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till 
 Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters. 
 
 Ari. Pardon, master: 
 
 I will be correspondent to command. 
 And do my spriting gently. 
 
 Pro. Do so; and after two days 
 
 I will discharge thee. 
 
 Ari. That's my noble master! 
 
 What shall I do? say what? what shall 
 I do? 
 Pro. Go make thyself like to a nymph 
 o' the sea; 
 Be subject to no sight but mine; invisible 
 To every eye-ball else. Go take this shape. 
 And hither come in't: hence, with dili- 
 gence. 
 
 [Exit Ariel. 
 Awake, dear heart, awake ! thou hast slept 
 
 well; 
 Awake ! 
 
 Mira. The strangeness of your story put 
 Heaviness in me. 
 
 Pro. Shake it off : Come on. 
 
 We'll visit Caliban, my slave, who never 
 Yields us kind answer. 
 
 Mira. 'Tis a villain, sir, 
 
 I do not love to look on. 
 
 Pro. But, as 'tis. 
 
 We cannot miss him : he does make our 
 
 fire. 
 Fetch in our wood ; and serves in offices 
 That profit us. What ho ! slave! Caliban, 
 Thou earth, thou ! speak. 
 
 Cal. [Within.'] There's wood enough 
 
 within. 
 Pro. Come forth, I say : there's other 
 business for thee : 
 Come forth, thou tortoise ! when ? 
 
 Re-enter Ariel like a tvater ni/7npJt. 
 
 Fine apparition ! My quaint Ariel, 
 Hark in thine ear. 
 
 Ari. My lord, it shall be done. [Exit. 
 
 Pro. Thou poisonous slave, come forth! 
 
 Enter Calibax. 
 
 Cal. As wicked dew as e'er my mother 
 brush'd 
 With raven's feather from unwholesome 
 
 fen. 
 Drop on you both ! a south-west blow 
 
 on ye. 
 And blister you all o'er ! 
 
 Pro. For this, be sure, to-night thou 
 shalt have cramps. 
 Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up ; 
 
 urchins 
 Shall, for that vast of night that they may 
 
 workj 
 All exercise on thee : thou shalt be pinch'd 
 As thick as honey-combs, each pinch more 
 
 stinging 
 Than bees that made them. 
 
 Cal. I must eat my dinner. 
 
 This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, 
 Which thou tak'st from me. When thou 
 
 camest first. 
 Thou strok'dst me, and mad'st much of 
 
 me ; would'st give me 
 Water with berries in't; and teach me 
 
 how 
 To name the bigger light, and how the 
 
 less. 
 That burn by day and night : and then I 
 
 lov'd thee. 
 And show'd thee all the qualities o' the 
 
 isle. 
 The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place, 
 
 and fertile ; 
 Cursed be I that I did so ! — All the charms 
 Of S3'corax, toads, beetles, bats, light on 
 
 you! 
 For I am all the subjects that you have. 
 Which first was mine own king : and here 
 
 you sty me 
 In this hard rock, whiles you do keep 
 
 from me 
 The rest of the island. 
 
 Pro. Thou most lying slave, 
 
 Whom stripes may move, not kindness ! I 
 
 have us'd thee. 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene IL 
 
 Filtli as thou art, Avith liiiman uare ; and 
 
 lodg'd thee 
 In mine own cell, till thou did'st seek to 
 
 violate 
 The honour of my child. Abhorred slave ; 
 "Which any print of goodness will not take. 
 Being capable of all ill ! I pitied thee, 
 Took pains to make thee sj^eak, taught 
 
 thee each hour 
 One thing or other : when thou didst not, 
 
 savage. 
 Know thine own meaning, but would'st 
 
 gabble like 
 A. thing most brutish, I endow'd thy pur- 
 poses 
 "With words that made them known : But 
 
 thy vile race. 
 Though thou didst learn, had that in't 
 
 which gootl natures 
 Could not abide to be with ; therefore 
 
 wast thou 
 Deservedly confin'd into this rock, 
 Who hadst deserv'd more than a prison. 
 Cal. You taught me language ; and 
 my profit on't 
 Is, I know how to curse : the red plague 
 
 rid you. 
 For learning me your language ! 
 
 Pi-o. Hag-seed, hence I 
 
 Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou wert 
 
 best. 
 To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, 
 
 malice ? 
 If tiiou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly 
 What I command, I'll rack thee with old 
 
 cramps ; 
 Fill all thy bones with aches ; make thee 
 
 roar. 
 That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 
 Cal. No, 'pray thee ! — 
 
 [Aside. 
 I must obey : his art is of such power. 
 It would control my dam's god, Setebos, 
 And make a vassal of him. 
 
 Pro. So, slave; hence! 
 
 [Exit Caliban. 
 
 Re-enler Akiel invisihle, playincj and 
 singing, Ferdi:sa2!;d following Mm. 
 
 Ariel's Song. 
 
 Come unto these yelloxo sands 
 
 And then take hands: 
 Court' siedwJien you have, andkiss'd 
 
 {T7ie ivild waves whist) 
 Foot it featly here and there; 
 And, sweet sprites, the burden hear. 
 
 Hark, hark! 
 Bur. Bowgh, wowgh. [dispersedly. 
 
 The ivatch-dogs hark: 
 Bur. Bowgh, wowgh. [disj^ersedhj. 
 
 Hark, hark! I hear 
 Tlie strain of strxitting chanficlere 
 Cry, cock-a-doodle-doo. 
 
 Fer. Where should this music be ? i' 
 the air, or the earth ? 
 It sounds no more: — and sure, it waits 
 
 upon 
 Some god of the island. Sittingonabank, 
 Weeping again the king my father's wreck. 
 This music crept by me upon the waters ; 
 Allaying both their fury, and my passion. 
 With its sweet air; thence I have fol- 
 
 low'd it. 
 Or it hath drawn me rather: — But 'tis 
 
 gone. 
 No, it begins again. 
 
 Ariel sings. 
 Full fathom five thy fathar lies; 
 
 Of his hones are coral made; 
 Tliose are i^earls, that were his eyes: 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade. 
 But dotli suffer a sea change 
 Into someiliing rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
 Hark! now I hear them, — ding- 
 dong, hell. 
 
 [Burden, ding-dong. 
 
 Fer. The ditty does remember my 
 
 drown'd father : — 
 
 This is no mortal business, nor no sound 
 
 That the earth owes: — I hear it now 
 
 above me. 
 
 29 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Pro. The fringed curtains of thine eye 
 advance 
 And say, what thou seest yond'. 
 
 Mira. "What is't ? a spirit ? 
 
 See how it looks about ! Believe me, sir. 
 
 It carries a brave form : — But "tis a spirit. 
 
 Pro. No, wench ; it eats and sleeps, 
 
 and hath such senses 
 
 As we have, such : This gallant which 
 
 thou seest. 
 Was in the wreck ; and but he's some- 
 thing stain'd 
 With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou 
 
 might'st call him 
 A goodly person : he hath lost his fellows. 
 And strays about to find them. 
 
 Mira. I might call him 
 
 A thing divine; for nothing natural 
 I ever saw so noble. 
 
 Pro. It goes on, [Aside. 
 
 As my soul prompts it: — Spirit, fine 
 
 spirit ! I'll free thee 
 Within two days for this. 
 
 Per. Most sure the goddess 
 
 On whom these airs attend I — Vouchsafe 
 
 my prayer 
 May know, if you remain upon this island ; 
 And that you will some good instruction 
 
 give. 
 How I may bear me here : My prime re- 
 quest. 
 Which I do last pronounce, is, you 
 
 wonder ! 
 If you be maid, or no ? 
 
 Mira. Xo wonder, sir; 
 
 Bat, certainly a maid. 
 
 Per. My language; heavens I — 
 
 I am the best of them that sjjeak this 
 
 speech. 
 Were I but where 'tis spoken. 
 
 Pro. How ! the best ? 
 
 What wert thou, if the king of Naples 
 
 heard thee? [wonders 
 
 Per. A single thing, as I am now, that 
 
 To hear thee speak of Naples: He does 
 
 hear me ; [Naples ; 
 
 And, that he does, I weep: Myself am 
 
 Who with mine eyes, ne'er since at ebb, 
 
 beheld 
 The king my father wreck'd. 
 
 Mira. Alack, for mercy ! 
 
 Per. Yes, faith, and all his lords; the 
 duke of Milan, 
 And his brave son being twain. 
 
 Pro. The duke of Milan, 
 
 And his more braver daughter, could con- 
 trol thee. 
 If now 'twere fit to do't: — At the first 
 sight. [Aside. 
 
 They have chang'd eyes : — Delicate Ariel, 
 I'll set thee free for this ! — A word, good 
 
 sir; 
 I fear, you have done yourself some wrong : 
 a word. 
 Mira. Why speaks my father so ungen- 
 tly ? This 
 Is the third man, that e'er I saw ; the first 
 That e'er I sigh'd for : pity move my father 
 To be inclin'd my way ! 
 
 Per. 0, if a virgin, 
 
 And your affection not gone forth, I"ll 
 
 make you 
 The queen of Naples ! 
 
 Pro. Soft, sir; one word more. — 
 
 They are both in cither's j^owers; but this 
 
 swift business 
 I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 
 
 [Aside. 
 Make the prize light. — One word more ; I 
 
 charge thee. 
 That thou attend me : Thou dost here 
 
 usurp 
 The name thou ow'st not ; and hast put 
 
 thyself 
 Upon this island, as a spy to win it 
 From me, the lord on't. 
 Per. No, as I am a man. 
 
 Mira. There's nothing ill can dwell 
 in such a temple : 
 If the ill spirit have so fair an house. 
 Good things will strive to dwell with't. 
 
 Pro. Follow me. — [To Feed. 
 
 Speak not you for him; he's a traitor. — 
 Come. 
 
 30 
 
Act 1. 
 
 THE te:\[pest. 
 
 SCEKE 11. 
 
 I'll manacle th}- neck and feet together : 
 Sea-water shalt thou drink, thy food shall 
 
 he 
 The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots 
 
 and husks 
 Wherein the acorn cradled : Follow. 
 
 Fer. . No ; 
 
 I will resist such entertainment, till 
 Mine enemy has more power. [He draws. 
 Mira. dear father. 
 
 Make not too rash a trial of him, for 
 He's gentle and not fearful. 
 
 Pro. What, I say. 
 
 My foot my tutor I — Put thy sword up, 
 
 traitor ; 
 Who mak'st a show, but dar'st not strike, 
 
 thy conscience 
 Is so possess'd with guilt : come from thy 
 
 ward ; 
 For I can here disarm thee with this stick. 
 And make thy weapon drop. 
 
 Mira. Beseech you father ! 
 
 Pro. Hence; hang not on my gar- 
 ments. 
 Mira. Sir, have pity; 
 
 I'll be his surety. 
 
 Pro. Silence : one word more 
 
 Shall make me chide thee, if not hate 
 
 thee. What ! 
 An advocate for an impostor ? hush ! 
 Tliou think'st there are no more such 
 
 shapes as he, 
 Having seen but him and Caliban : Fool- 
 ish Avench ! 
 To the most of men this is a Caliban, 
 And they to him are angels. 
 
 Mira. My affections 
 
 Are then most humble ; I have no ambi- 
 tion 
 To see a goodlier man. 
 
 Pro. Come on ; obey: [ Jb Feed. 
 
 Thy nerves are in their infancy again. 
 And have no vigour in them. 
 
 Fer. So they are : 
 
 My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. 
 My father's loss, the weakness which I feel. 
 The wreck of all my friends, or this man's 
 
 threats, 
 To whom I am subdued, are but light 
 
 to me. 
 Might I but through my prison once a day 
 Behold this maid : all corners else o' the 
 
 earth 
 Let liberty make use of ; si^ace enough 
 Have I in such a prison. 
 
 Pro. It Avorks : — Come on. — 
 
 Thou hast done Avell, fine Ariel ! — Follow 
 me. — [To Feed, and Mir, 
 
 Hark, what thou else shalt do me. 
 
 [To Ariel. 
 Mira. Be of comfort ; 
 
 My father's of a better nature, sir. 
 Than he appears by speech ; this is un- 
 wonted. 
 Which now came from him. 
 
 Pro. Thou shalt be as free 
 
 As mountain winds : but then exactly do 
 All points of my command. 
 
 Ari. To the syllable. 
 
 Pro. Come, follow : speak not for 
 
 him. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. Another part of the island. 
 
 Enter Aloxso, Sebastian, Antonio, 
 
 GoNZALO, Aduian, Francisco, 
 
 and others. 
 
 Gon. 'Beseech you, sir, be merry: 
 you have cause 
 (So have we all) of joy ; for our escape 
 Is much beyond our loss : our hint of woe 
 
 Is common ; every day some sailor's wife, 
 The masters of some merchant, and the 
 
 merchant, 
 Have just our theme of woe : but for the 
 
 miracle, 
 
 I mean our preservation, few in millions 
 Can speak like us : then wisely, good sir, 
 
 weigh 
 Our sorrow with our comfort. 
 
 31 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE te:\ipest. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Alo7i. Pr'ytliee, peace I 
 
 Seb. Of that there's none, or little. 
 
 Sei. He receives comfort like cold 
 
 Gon. How lush and lusty the grass 
 
 porridge. 
 Ant. The visitor -n-ill not give him o'er 
 
 so. 
 Seb. Look, he's winding up the watch 
 
 of his wit ; 
 
 looks 1 how green I 
 A}it. The ground, indeed, is tawny. 
 Seb. With an eye of gi-eeu in't. 
 A?it. He misses not mtich. 
 Seb. Xo : he doth but mistake the 
 
 By and by it will strike. 
 
 truth totally. 
 
 Gon. Sir, 
 
 Gon. But the rarity of it is (which is 
 
 Seb. One : Tell. 
 
 indeed almost beyond credit) — 
 
 Go7i. When every grief is entertain'd. 
 
 Seb. As many vouch'd rarities are. 
 
 that's offer'd. 
 
 Gon. That our garments, being, as 
 
 Comes to the entertainer — 
 
 they were, drenched in the sea. 
 
 Seh. A dollar. 
 
 hold, notwithstanding, their fresh- 
 
 Go7i. Dolour comes to him, indeed; 
 
 ness and glosses : being rather new 
 
 you have spoken truer than you 
 purposed. 
 jSeb. You have taken it wiselier than I 
 
 dy'd, than stain'd with salt water. 
 Aiif. If but one of his pockets could 
 speak, would it not say, he lies ? 
 
 meant you should. 
 Go}i. Therefore, my lord, — 
 Ajit. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of 
 
 his tongue I 
 
 Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his 
 
 report. 
 Go7i. Methinks, our garments are now 
 
 as fresh as when we put them on first 
 
 Alon. 1 pr'ythee, spare. 
 
 Gon. Well, I have done : hut yet — 
 
 Seb. lie will be talking. 
 
 Ant. Which of them, he or Adrian, 
 
 for a good wager, first begins to 
 
 crow ? 
 
 in Afric, at the marriage of the 
 
 king's fair daughter Claribel to the 
 
 king of Tunis. 
 Seb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we 
 
 prosper well in our return. 
 Adr. Tunis was never graced before 
 
 Seb. The old cock. 
 A7it. The cockrel. 
 Seb. Done : the wager ? 
 A7it. A laughter. 
 Seb. A match. 
 
 with such a paragon to their queen. 
 
 Gon. Xot since widow Dido's time. 
 
 Ant. How came that widow in ? Wid- 
 ow Dido I 
 
 Seb. What if he had said widower 
 
 Adr. Though this island seem to be 
 
 ^Eneas, too ? Good lord, how you 
 
 desert, — 
 Sei. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 take it ! 
 Adr. Widow Dido, said you ? you 
 
 Ant. So you've paid ? 
 Adr. Uninhabitable, and almost inac- 
 cessible, — 
 Seb. Yet. 
 
 make me study of that : she was of 
 
 Carthage, not of Tunis. 
 Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. 
 Adr. Carthage ? 
 
 Adr. Yet— 
 
 Ant. He could not miss it. 
 
 Gon. I as'sure you, Carthage. 
 
 A7it. His word is more than the mirac- 
 
 Adr. The air breathes upon us here 
 most sweetly. 
 
 ulous harp. 
 Seb. He hath rais'd the wall, and 
 
 Gon. Here is everything advantageous 
 to life. 
 
 houses, too. 
 A7it. What impossible matter will he 
 
 A7it. True ; save means to live. 
 
 make easy next ? 
 
 33 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCE2S-E I. 
 
 Sei. I tliiuk 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, bring forth more islands. 
 Gon. Ay? 
 
 Ant. Why, in good time. 
 Gon. Sir, we were talking that our 
 garments seem now as fresh as 
 when we were at Tunis at the mar- 
 riage of your daughter, who is now 
 queen. 
 Ant. And the rarest that e'er came 
 
 there. 
 Seb. "Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. 
 Ant. 0, widow Dido ; ay, widow Dido. 
 Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh 
 as the first day I wore it ? I mean, 
 in a sort. 
 Ant. That sort was well fish'd for. 
 Gon. When I wore it at your daugh- 
 ter's marriage ? 
 Alon. You cram these words into my 
 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. thou mine 
 
 heir 
 Of Naples and of Milan, what strange 
 
 fish 
 Hath made his meal on thee ! 
 
 Fran. Sir, he may live; 
 
 I saw him beat the surges under him. 
 And ride upon their backs ; he trod the 
 
 water. 
 Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 The surge most swol'n 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. 
 
 Sei. Sir, you may thank yourself for 
 this great loss ; 
 That would not bless our Europe with 
 
 your daughter. 
 But rather lose her to an African ; 
 Where she, at least, is banished from your 
 
 eye. 
 Who hath cause to wet the grief on't. 
 Alon. Pr'ythee, peace. 
 Seb. You were kneel'd to, and impor- 
 tun'd otherwise 
 By all of us ; and the fair soul herself 
 Weigh'd, between lothness and obedience, 
 
 at 
 Which end o' the beam she'd bow. We 
 
 have lost your son, 
 I fear, for ever : Milan and Naples have 
 More widows in them of this business' 
 
 making. 
 Than we bring men to comfort them : 
 The fault's your own. 
 Alon. So is the dearest of the loss. 
 
 Gon. My lord Sebastian, 
 
 The truth you speak doth lack some gen- 
 tleness. 
 And time to speak it in : you rub the sore, 
 When you should bring the plaster. 
 Seb. Yery well. 
 
 Ant. And most chirargeonly. 
 Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good 
 sir, 
 When you are cloudy. 
 
 Seb. Foul weather ? 
 
 Ant. Yery foul. 
 
 Gon. Had I a plantation of this isle, 
 
 my lord, — 
 Ant. He'd sow it with nettle-seed. 
 
 Seb. Or docks, or mallows. 
 
 Gon. And were the king of it, what 
 
 would I do ? 
 Seb. 'Scape being druu]: for want of 
 wine. 
 
 33 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCElfE I. 
 
 Oo7i. r the commonwealth I would 
 
 by contraries 
 
 Execute all things : for no kind of traffic 
 
 Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; 
 
 Letters should not be known ; no use of 
 
 service. 
 Of riches or of poverty ; no contracts. 
 Succession ; bound of land, tilth, vine- 
 yard, none : 
 No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil : 
 No occupation ; all men idle, all ; 
 And women, too, but innocent and pure ; 
 No sovereignty : — 
 
 Seh. And yet he would be king on't. 
 Ajit. The latter end of his common- 
 wealth forgets the beginning. 
 Gon. All things in common natuKe 
 should produce. 
 Without sweat or endeavor : treason, fel- 
 ony. 
 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 abund- 
 ance. 
 To feed my innocent people. 
 I would with such perfection govern, sir. 
 To excel the golden age. 
 
 Sei. 'Save his majesty : 
 
 Ant. Long live Gonzalo ! 
 Gon. And do you mark me, sir ? — 
 Ah7i. Pr'ythee no more : thou dost 
 
 talk nothing to me. 
 Go7i. 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 noth- 
 ing. 
 Ant. 'Twas you we laugh'd at. 
 Gon. Who, in this kind of merry fool- 
 ing, am nothing to you ; so you 
 may continue, and laugh at noth- 
 ing still. 
 Ant. What a blow was there given ! 
 ■Seb. An it had not fallen flat-long. 
 
 Gon. You are gentlem^en of brave 
 metal : You would lift the moon 
 out of her sphere, if she would 
 continue in it five weeks without 
 changing. 
 
 Enter Ariel, invisihle, playing solemn 
 music. 
 
 Set. We would so, and then go a bat- 
 fowling. 
 A nt. 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 I am 
 very heavy ? 
 Ant. Go sleep, and hear us. 
 
 \_ATl sleep but 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 inclin'd 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. What a strange drowsiness pos- 
 sesses them ! 
 A7it. It is the quality o' the climate. 
 Seb. Why 
 
 Doth it not then our eyelids sink ? I find 
 
 not 
 Myself dispos'd to sleep. 
 
 Ant. Nor I ; my spirits are nimble. 
 They fell together all, as by consent ; 
 They dropp'd as by a thunder-stroke. 
 
 What might. 
 Worthy Sebastian ? — 0, what might ? — 
 
 No more : — 
 And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face, 
 What thou should'st be : the occasion 
 speaks tliee ; and 
 
 u 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 My stroug 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 thouspeak'st 
 
 Out of thy sleep : What is it thou didst 
 
 say? 
 This is a strange rejoose, to be asleep 
 With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, 
 
 moving, 
 And yet so fast asleep. 
 
 Ant. Noble Sebastian, 
 
 Thou let'st thy fortune sleep — die rather ; 
 
 wink'st 
 Whilst thou art waking. 
 
 Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly; 
 
 There's meaning in thy snores. 
 
 Ant. I am more serious than my cus- 
 tom : you 
 Must be so too, if heed me ; which to do. 
 Trebles thee o'er. 
 
 Seb. AYell ; I am standing water. 
 
 Ant. I'll teach you how to flow. 
 Seb. Do so ; to ebb. 
 
 Hereditary sloth instructs me. 
 
 Ant. 0, 
 
 If you but knew, how you the purpose 
 
 cherish. 
 Whiles thus you mock it! how, in Grip- 
 ping it. 
 You more invest it ! Ebbing men, in- 
 deed. 
 Most often do so near the bottom run, 
 By their own fear, or sloth. 
 
 Seb. Pr'ythee, say on: 
 
 The setting of thine eye, and cheek, pro- 
 claim 
 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), 
 
 The king his son's alive: ^tis as impos- 
 sible 
 That he's undrown'd as he that sleeps 
 
 here, swims. 
 Seb. I have no hojie 
 That he's undrown'd. 
 
 A7it. 0, out of that no hope. 
 
 What great hope have you ! no hope, that 
 
 Avay, is 
 Another way so high an hope, that even 
 Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, 
 But doubts 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. Ciaribel. 
 
 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, from whom 
 We were all sea-swallow'd, though some 
 
 cast again ; 
 And, by that, destin'd to perform an act, 
 Whereof what's past is prologue ; what to 
 
 come. 
 In yours and my discharge. 
 
 Seb. What stuff is this ? — How say you ? 
 'Tis true, my brother 's daughter's queen 
 
 of Tunis ; 
 So is she heir of Naples ; 'twixt which 
 
 regions 
 There is some space. 
 
 Ant. A space whose every cubit 
 
 Seems to cry out, Hoiu shall that Ciaribel 
 Measure ns back to Naples? — Keep in 
 
 Tunis, 
 And let Sebastian wake ! — Say, this were 
 
 death 
 That now hath seiz'd them ; why, they 
 
 were no worse 
 
 35 
 
Alt II. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEiiTE I. 
 
 Than now they are : there be, that can rule 
 
 Naples 
 As well as he that sleeps ; lords, that can 
 
 prate 
 As ampl}', and unnecessarily, 
 As this Gonzalo ; I myself could make 
 A chough of as deep chat. 0, that you 
 
 bore 
 The mind that I do I what a sleep were 
 
 this 
 For your advancement I Do you under- 
 stand me ? 
 Sel). Methinks I do. 
 Ant. And how does your content 
 
 Tender your own good fortune ? 
 
 Seb. I remember. 
 
 You did supplant your brother Prospero. 
 
 Ant. True : 
 
 And, look, how well my garments sit upon 
 
 me; 
 Much feater than before : My brother's 
 
 servants 
 Were then my fellows, now they are my 
 
 men. 
 Seb. But, for your conscience — 
 Ant. Ay, sir; where lies that? if it 
 
 were a kybe, 
 'Twould put me to my slijiper; but I feel 
 
 not 
 This deity in my bosom : twenty consci- 
 ences, 
 That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied 
 
 be they. 
 And melt, ere they molest ! Here lies 
 
 your brother, 
 Xo better than the earth he lies upon. 
 If he were that which now he's like ; whom 
 
 I, 
 
 With this obedient steel, three inches of 
 
 it, 
 Can lay to bed for ever : whiles you, doing 
 
 thus. 
 To the perpetual wink for aye might put 
 This ancient morsel, this sir Prudence, 
 
 ■who 
 Should not upbraid our course. For all 
 
 the rest. 
 
 They'll take suggestion, as a cat laps 
 
 milk ; 
 They'll tell the clock to any business that 
 We say befits the hour. 
 
 Seb. Thy case, thy friend. 
 
 Shall be my precedent ; as thou got'st 
 
 Milan, 
 I'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: 
 
 one stroke 
 Shall free thee from the tribute Avhich thou 
 
 pay'st ; 
 An'd I the king shall love thee. 
 
 Ant. Draw together : 
 
 And when I rear my hand, do you the like. 
 To fall it on Gonzalo. 
 
 Seb. 0, but one word. 
 
 [ They converse apart. 
 
 Music. Re-enter Aeiel, invisible. 
 
 Ari. My master through his art fore- 
 sees the danger 
 That these, his friends, are in ; and sends 
 
 me forth, 
 (For else his project dies,) to keep them 
 living. 
 
 [Sirigs in Goxzalo's car. 
 While you here do snoring lie, 
 Open-ey'd consjnracy 
 
 His time doth take : 
 . If of life you Tceep a care, 
 Shake off slumber, ajid bexoare : 
 Aioake! aioakc! 
 
 Ant. Then let us both be sudden. 
 
 Gon. Now, good angels, preserve the 
 
 king! 
 
 [Tliey wake. 
 
 Alon. Why, how now, ho I awake I 
 Why are 3'ou drawn ? 
 Wherefore this ghastly looking ? 
 
 Gon. What's the matter? 
 
 Seb. Whiles we stood here securing 
 your repose. 
 Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bel- 
 lowing 
 Like bulls, or rather lions ; did it not wake 
 
 you ? 
 It struck mine ear most terribly. 
 
 36 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Alon. I heard nothing-. 
 
 Ant. 0, 'twas a din to fright a mon- 
 ster's ear ; 
 To malve an earthquake ! sure it was the 
 
 roar 
 Of a whole herd of lions. 
 Alon. Heard you this,Gronzalo ? 
 
 Gon. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard 
 a humming, 
 And that a strange one too, which did 
 
 awake me : 
 I shak'd yon, sir, and cry'd : :is mine eyes 
 
 open'd, 
 I saw their weapons drawn : — there vv-as a 
 
 noise. 
 That's verity : ' 'Best stand upon our 
 
 guard, 
 Or that we quit this place : let's draw our 
 weapons. 
 Alon. Lead off this ground ; and let's 
 make further search 
 For my poor son. 
 
 Gon. Heavens keep him from these 
 beasts ! 
 For he is, sure, i' the island. 
 
 Alon. Lead away. 
 
 Ari. Prospero my lord shall know what 
 I have done: \_Aside. 
 
 So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ScEXE II. Another Part of the Island. 
 
 Enter Caliban, ivith a burden of wood. 
 A noise of thunder heard. 
 
 Col. All the infections that the sun 
 
 sucks up 
 From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall 
 
 and make him 
 By inch-meal a disease I His spirits hear 
 
 me, 
 And )'et I needs must curse. But they'll 
 
 nor pinch, 
 Fright me witli urchin shows, pitch me i' 
 
 the mire, 
 Nor lead me, like a fire-brand, in the dark 
 Out of my way, unless he bid them ; but 
 
 For every trifle are they set upon me : 
 Sometime like a23es, that moe and chatter 
 
 at me. 
 And after, bite me ; then like hedge-hogs, 
 
 which 
 Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way, and 
 
 mount 
 Their bristles at my foot-fall ; sometime 
 
 am I 
 All M'ound with adders, who, with cloven 
 
 tongues, 
 Do hiss me into madness : — Lo ! now ! lo ! 
 
 Enter Trik-culo. 
 
 Here comes a spirit of his ; and to torment 
 
 me. 
 For bringing wood in slowly : I'll fall 
 
 flat; 
 Perchance, he will not mind me. 
 
 Trin. Here's neither bush nor shrub, to 
 bear off any weather at all, and another 
 storm brewing; I hear it sing i' the wind : 
 yond' same black cloud, yond' huge one, 
 looks like a foul bum bard that would 
 shed his liquor. If it should thunder, as 
 it did before, I know not where to hide my 
 head : yond' same cloud cannot choose but 
 fall by pailf uls. What have we hei-e ? a 
 man or a fish ? dead or live ? A fish : he 
 smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish- 
 like smell ; a kind of, not of the newest, 
 Poor-John. A strange fish ! Were I in 
 England now (as once I was), and had but 
 this fish painted, not a holiday-fool there 
 but would give a piece of silver : there 
 would this monster make a man ; any 
 strange beast there makes a man : when 
 they will not give a doit to relieve a lame 
 beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead 
 Indian. Legg'd like a man ! and his fins 
 like arms ! Warm, o' my troth ! I do 
 now let loose my opinion, hold it no long- 
 er ; this is no fish, but an islander, that 
 hath lately suffered by a thunderbolt. 
 [ Thunder.'] Alas ! the storm is come again : 
 my best way is to creep under his gaber- 
 dine ; there is no other shelter hereabout : 
 
 37 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEJ^E II. 
 
 Misery acquaints a man with strange bed- 
 fellows. I will here shroud, till the dregs 
 of the storm be past. 
 
 Enter Stephaxo, singing ; a 'bottle in Ms 
 hand. 
 
 Ste. / shall no moi-e to sea, to sea, 
 Here shall I die a-shore; — 
 This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a 
 
 man's funeral : 
 Well, here's my comfort. [Drinlcs. 
 
 The master, the sioaiber, the loatswin, 
 and I, 
 
 The gunner, and his mate, 
 Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and 
 Margery, 
 But none of us car' d for Kate: 
 For she had a tongue with a tang. 
 Would cry to a sailor, Go hang : 
 Tlien to sea, hoys, and let her go hang. 
 This is a scurrey tune too : But here's 
 my comfort. \_DrinJcs. 
 
 Cal. Do not torment me : ! 
 Ste. What's the matter ? Have we 
 devils here ? Do 3-ou put tricks upon us 
 with savages, and men of Inde ? Ha ! I have 
 not scap'd drowning, to be afeard now of 
 your four legs ; for it hath been said. As 
 proper a man as ever went on four legs, 
 cannot make him give ground : and it 
 shall be said so again, while Stephano 
 breathes at nostrils. 
 
 Cal. The spirit torments me : ! 
 Ste. This is some monster of the isle, 
 with four legs ; who hath got, as I take it, 
 an ague : Where the devil should he learn 
 our language ? I will give him some 
 relief, if it be but for that : If I can re- 
 cover him, andkeej) him tame, and get to 
 Naples with him, he's a ^jresent for any 
 emperor that ever trod on neat's leather. 
 
 Cal. Do not torment me, pr'}i:hee ; 
 I'll bring my wood home faster. 
 
 Ste. He's in his fit now ; and does not 
 talk after the wisest. He shall taste of 
 my bottle : if he have never drunk wine 
 afore, it will go near to remove his fit : if 
 
 I can recover him and keep him tame, I 
 ■ will not take too much for him : he shall 
 pay for him that hath him, and that 
 soundly. 
 
 Cal. Thou dost me get but little hurt ; 
 thou wilt 
 Anon, I know it by thy trembling : 
 Now Prosper works upon thee. 
 
 Ste. Come on your ways; open your 
 mouth ; here is that which will give lan- 
 guage to you, cat; open your mouth: this 
 will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and 
 that soundly : you cannot tell who's A^our 
 friend : open your chaps again. 
 
 Trin. I should know that voice: It 
 should be — But he is drowned ; and these 
 are devils : ! defend me ! — 
 
 Ste. Four legs, and two voices; a most 
 delicate monster ! If all the wine in my 
 bottle will recover him, I will help his 
 ague : Come, I will pour some in thy 
 other mouth. 
 
 Trin. Stephano! — 
 
 Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me ? 
 Mercy ! mercy ! This is a devil, and no 
 monster ! I will leave him ; I have no 
 long spoon. 
 
 Trin. Stephano ! — if thou beest Ste- 
 phano, touch me, and speak to me ; for 
 I am Trinculo ; — be not afeard, — thy 
 good friend Trinculo. 
 
 Ste. If thou beest Trinculo, come 
 forth ; I'll pull thee by the lesser legs : if 
 any be Trinculo's legs, these are they. 
 Thou art very Trinculo, indeed ! How 
 cam'st thou to be the siege of this moon- 
 calf ? 
 
 Trin. I took him to be killed with a 
 thunder-stroke : — But art thou not 
 drowned, Stephano ? I hope now, thoit 
 art not drowned. Is the storm overblown? 
 I hid me under the dead moon-calf's gaber- 
 dine, for fear of the storm : And art thoii 
 living, Stephano ? Stephano, two Xe- 
 apolitans 'scap'd ! 
 
 Ste. Pr'ythee, do not turn me about ; 
 my stomach is not constant. 
 
 38 
 
Act 11. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Cal. These be fine things, an if they 
 be not sprites. 
 Tliat's a brave god, and bears celestial 
 
 liquor : 
 I will kneel to him. 
 
 Ste. How did'st thou scape ? How 
 cam'st thou hither ? swear by this bottle, 
 how thou cam'st hither. I escaped upon 
 a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved 
 overhead, by this bottle ! which I made of 
 the bark of a tree, with mine own hands, 
 since I was cast ashore. 
 
 Cal. I'll swear upon that bottle, to be 
 thy 
 True subject ; for the liquor is not 
 earthly. 
 
 Ste. Here ; swear then how thou 
 escap'dst. 
 
 Trin. Swam a-shore, man, like a duck ; 
 I can swim like a duck, I'll be sworn. 
 
 Ste. Here, kiss the book : Though 
 thou canst swim like a duck, thou art 
 made like a goose. 
 
 Trin. Stephano, hast any more of 
 this? 
 
 Ste. The whole butt, man ; my cellar 
 is in a rock by the sea-side, where my 
 wine is hid. How now, moon-calf ? how 
 does thine ague ? 
 
 Cal. Hast thou not dropped from 
 heaven ? 
 
 Ste. Out o' the moon, I do assure thee : 
 I was the man in the moon, when time was. 
 
 Cal. I have seen thee in her, and I do 
 adore thee ; My mistress showed me thee, 
 thy dog and bush. 
 
 Ste. Come, swear to that ; kiss the 
 book : I will furnish it anon with new 
 contents : swear. 
 
 TVm. By this good light, this is a 
 very shallow monster : — I afeard of him ? 
 
 — a very weak monster : — The man i' the 
 moon ? — a most poor credulous monster : 
 
 — Well drawn, monster, in good sooth. 
 Cal. I'll show thee every fertile inch o' 
 
 the island : I'll kiss thy foot : I'll swear 
 myself thy subject. 
 
 Ste. Come on, then ; down and swear. 
 
 Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at 
 
 this puppy-headed monster : A most scurvy 
 
 monster ! I could find in my heart to beat 
 
 him, — 
 
 Ste. Come, kiss. 
 
 Trin. — but that the poor monster's in 
 drink. 
 An abominable monster ! 
 
 Cal. I'll show thee the best springs ; 
 I'll pluck thee berries ; 
 I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. 
 A plague upon the tyrant that I serve ! 
 I'll bear him no more sticks, but follow 
 
 thee. 
 Thou wondrous man. 
 
 Trin. A most ridiculous monster ! to 
 
 make a wonder of a poor drunkard. 
 
 Cal. I pr'ythee, let me bring thee 
 
 where crabs grow ; 
 
 And I with my long nails will dig thee 
 
 pig-nuts ; 
 Shew thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee 
 
 how 
 To snare the nimble marmozet ; I'll bring 
 
 thee 
 To clust'ring filberds, and sometimes I'll 
 
 get thee 
 Young sea-mells from the rock : Wilt 
 thou go with me ? 
 Ste. I pr'jrthee now lead the way, with- 
 out any more talking. — Trinculo, the 
 king and all our company else being 
 drowned, we will inherit here. — Here; 
 bear my bottle. Fellow Trinculo, we'll 
 fill him by and by again. 
 
 Cal. Fareivell, master; farewell, fare- 
 well. 
 
 [Sings drunkenly. 
 Trin. A howling monster ; a drunken 
 
 monster. 
 Cal. No more dams FU make for fish; 
 Nor fetch in firing 
 At requiring, 
 Nor scrape trenchering , nor ivash 
 
 dish ; 
 'Ban — 'Ban, Ca — Caliban 
 
 39 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Has a neio master — Get a new 
 man. 
 Freedom, hey-day I hey-day, freedom ! 
 
 freedom, hey-day, freedom ! 
 Ste. brave monster ! lead the way. 
 
 ]_Exeicnt. 
 
 ACT 
 
 ScEKE I. Before Prospero's Cell. 
 Enter Ferdhstaxd, hearing a log. 
 Fer. There be some sports are painful ; 
 
 but their labour 
 Delight in them sets off: some kinds of 
 
 baseness 
 Are nobly undergone ; and most poor 
 
 matters 
 Point to rich ends. This my mean task 
 
 would be 
 As heavy to me, as 'tis odious ; but 
 The mistress, which I serve, quickens 
 
 what's dead, 
 And makes my labours pleasures : she is 
 Ten times more gentle than her father's 
 
 crabbed ; 
 And he's composed of harshness. I must 
 
 remove 
 Some thousands of these logs, and pile 
 
 them up. 
 Upon a sore injunction : My sweet mis- 
 tress 
 Weeps when she sees me work ; and says, 
 
 such baseness 
 Had ne'er like executor. I forgei : 
 But these sweet thoughts do even refresh 
 
 my labours ; 
 Most bus3'-less, when I do it. 
 Enter Miranda ; and Prospeeo at a 
 distance. 
 Mira. Alas, now I pray you 
 
 Work not so hard : I would the lightning 
 
 had 
 Burnt up those logs, that you are enjoin'd 
 
 to pile! 
 Pray set it down, and rest you : when tliis 
 
 burns, 
 'Twill weep for having wearied you : My 
 
 father 
 Is hard at study ; pray now rest yourself ; 
 He's safe for these three hours. 
 
 III. 
 
 Fer. most dear mistress. 
 
 The sun will set, before I shall discharge 
 What I must strive to do. 
 
 Mira. If you'll sit down, 
 
 I'll bear your logs the while : Pray, give 
 
 me that ; 
 I'll carry it to the pile. 
 
 Fer. ISTo, precious creature : 
 
 I had rather crack my sinews, break my 
 
 back, 
 Than you should such dishonour undergo, 
 While I sit lazy by. 
 
 Mira. It would become me 
 
 As well as it does you : and I should do it 
 With much more ease ; for my good will 
 
 is to it, 
 And yours against. 
 
 Pro. Poor worm ! thou art infected ; 
 This visitation shows it. 
 Mira. You look wearily. 
 
 Fer. No, noble mistress ; 'tis fresh 
 morning with me. 
 When you are by at night. I do beseech 
 
 you, 
 (Chiefly, that I might set it in my prayers,) 
 What is your name ? 
 
 Mira. Miranda : — my father, 
 
 I have broke your hest to say so ! 
 
 Fer. Admir'd Miranda ! 
 
 Indeed, the top of admiration ; worth 
 What's dearest to the world ! Full many 
 
 a lady 
 I have ey'd with best regard ; and many a 
 
 time 
 The harmony of their tongues hath iuto 
 
 bondage 
 Brought my too diligent ear: for several 
 
 virtues 
 Have I lik'd several women ; never any 
 With so full soul, but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she 
 ow'd. 
 
 40 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 And put it to the foil : But you, j'ou, 
 So perfect, and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best. 
 
 Mir a. I do not know 
 
 One of my sex; no woman's face remember. 
 Save from my glass, mine own ; nor have 
 
 I seen 
 More that I may' call men, than you, 
 
 good friend, 
 And my dear father : how features are 
 
 abroad, 
 I am skill-less of; but, by my modesty, 
 (The jewel in my dower,) I would not wish 
 Any companion in the world but you ; 
 Nor can imagination form a shape. 
 Besides yourself, to like of : but I prattle 
 Something too wildly, and my father's 
 
 precepts 
 Therein forget. 
 
 Fer. I am, in my condition, 
 
 A prince, Miranda ; I do not think, a king ; 
 (I would, not so!) and would no more 
 
 endure 
 This wooden slavery, than I would suffer 
 The flesh-fly blow my mouth. — Hear my 
 
 soul speak; — 
 The very instant that I saw you, did 
 My heart fly to your service ; there resiaes. 
 To make me slave to it ; and, for your sake. 
 Am I this patient log-man. 
 3fira. Do you love me ! 
 
 Fer. heaven, earth, bear witness 
 
 to this sound. 
 And crown what I profess with kind event 
 If I speak true ! if hollowly, invert 
 What best is boded me, to mischief ! I, 
 Beyond all limit of what else i' the world. 
 Do love, prize, honour jon. 
 
 Mira. I am a fool, 
 
 To weep at what I am glad of. 
 
 Pro. Fair encounter 
 
 Of two most rare affections ! Heavens 
 
 rain grace 
 On that which breeds between them ! 
 Fer. Wherefore weep you ? 
 
 3Iira. At mine unworthiness, that dare 
 
 not offer 
 
 What I desire to give ; and much less take. 
 What I shall die to want: but this is 
 
 trifling ; 
 And all the more it seeks to hide itself. 
 The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bash- 
 ful cunning ! 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 If not, I'll die your maid : to be your fellow 
 You may deny me; but I'll be your ser- 
 vant. 
 Whether you will or no. 
 
 Fer. My mistress, dearest. 
 
 And I thus humble ever. 
 Mira. My husband then ? 
 
 Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing 
 As bondage e'er of freedom : here's my 
 hand. 
 Mira. And mine, with my heart in't : 
 And now farewell, 
 Till half an hour hence. 
 
 Fer. A thousand I thousand ! 
 
 \_Exeiinf Fer. and Mir. 
 Pro. So glad of this as they, I cannot 
 be, 
 Who are surpris'd with all ; but my rejoic- 
 ing 
 At nothing can be more. I'll to my book ; 
 For yet, ere supper-time, must I j^erform 
 Much business appertaining. [Fxit. 
 
 Scene II. Another part of the island. 
 
 Filter Stephano and Trixculo ; 
 QiA.'Li'Bk'is folio wiiuj ivith a boHle. 
 
 Ste. Tell not me; — when the butt is 
 out, we will drink water; not a drop be- 
 fore : therefore bear up and board 'em : 
 Servant-monster, drink to me. 
 
 Trin. Servant-monster ? the folly of 
 this island ! They say, there's but five 
 upon this isle : we are three of them ; if 
 the other two be brained like us, the state 
 totters. 
 
 Sle. Drink, servant-monster, when I 
 bid thee ; thy eyes are almost set in thy 
 head. 
 
Act III. 
 
 'LHE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEXE 11. 
 
 Trin. Where should they be set else ? 
 
 Ste. My man-monster hath drowned 
 his tongue in sack : for my part, the sea 
 cannot drown me : I swam, ere I could 
 recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues, 
 off and on, by this light. — Thou shalt be 
 my lieutenant, monster, or my standard. 
 
 Trin. Your lieutentant, if you list ; 
 he's no standard. 
 
 Ste. We'll not run, monsieur monster. 
 
 Trin. JSTor go neither : but you'll lie, 
 like dogs ; and yet say nothing neither. 
 
 Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, 
 if thou beest a good moon-calf. 
 
 Cal. How does thy honour ? Let me 
 lick thy shoe : I'll not serve him, — he is 
 not valiant. 
 
 Tri7i. Thou liest, most ignorant mon- 
 ster ; I am in case to justle a constable : 
 Was there ever man a coward, that hath 
 drunk so much sack as I to-day ? Wilt 
 thou tell a monstrous life, being but half 
 a fish, and half a monster ? 
 
 Oal. Lo, how he mocks me ! wilt thou 
 let him, my lord ? 
 
 Trin. Lord, quoth he ! — that a mons- 
 ter should be such a natural ! 
 
 Cal. Lo, lo, again ! bite him to death, 
 I pr'ythee. 
 
 Ste. Trinculo, keej) a good tongue in 
 your head ; if you prove a mutineer, the 
 next tree — The poor monster's my sub- 
 ject, and he shall not suffer indignity. 
 
 Cal. I thank you my noble lord. Wilt 
 thou be pleas'd 
 To hearken once again thesuit I made thee ? 
 
 Ste. Marry will I: kneel, and repeat it ; 
 I will stand, and so shall Trinculo. 
 
 Enter Ariel, invisible. 
 
 Cal. As I told thee 
 Before, I am subject to a tyrant ; 
 A sorcerer, that by his cunning hath 
 Cheated me of this island. 
 
 Ari. Thou liest. 
 
 Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, 
 thou : 
 
 I would my valiant master would destroy 
 
 thee : 
 I do not lie. 
 
 Ste. Trinculo, if you trouble him any 
 more in his tale, by this hand, I will sup- 
 liant some of your teeth. 
 
 Trin. Why, I said nothing. 
 Ste. Mum then, and no more. — [To 
 Caliban.] Proceed. 
 
 Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle; 
 Prom me he got it. If thy greatness will 
 Revenge it on him — for, I know, thou 
 
 dar'st ; 
 But this thing dare not. 
 Ste. That's most certain. 
 Cal. Thou shalt be lord of it, and I'll 
 serve thee. 
 
 Ste. How now shall this be compassed? 
 Canst thou bring me to the party? 
 Cal. Yea, yea, my lord : I'll yield him 
 thee asleep. 
 Where thou may'st knock a nail into his 
 head. 
 Ari. Thou liest, thou canst not. 
 Cal. What a pied ninny's this I Thou 
 scurvy patch ! — 
 I do beseech thy greatness, give him 
 
 blows. 
 And take his bottle from him : when 
 
 that's gone, 
 He shall drink naught but brine; for I'll 
 
 not show him 
 Where the quick freshes are. 
 
 Ste. Trinculo, run into no further 
 danger : interrupt the monster one word 
 further, and, by this hand, I'll turn my 
 mercy out of doors, and make a stock-fish 
 of thee. 
 
 Trin. Why, what did I ? I did noth- 
 ing ; I'll go further off. 
 
 Ste. Didst thou not say, he lied ? 
 Ari. Thou liest. 
 
 Ste. Do I so? take thou that. [Strikes 
 him.'\ As you like this, give me the lie 
 another time. 
 
 Trin. I did not give the lie : — Out o' 
 your wits, and hearing too ? — Tliis can 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 sack and drinking do. — A murrain on 
 your monster, and the devil take your 
 fingers! 
 
 Cal. Ha," ha, ha ! 
 
 Sle. Now, forward with your tale. 
 Pr'ythee stand further off. 
 
 Cal. Beat him enough : after a little 
 
 time, I'll beat him too. 
 
 Ste. Stand further. — Come, proceed. 
 
 Cal. Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom 
 
 with him 
 
 I' the afternoon to sleep : there thou 
 
 may'st brain him, 
 Having first seiz'd his books; or with a log 
 Batter his skull, or paunch him with a 
 
 stake. 
 Or cut his wezand with thy knife : Re- 
 member, 
 First to possess his books ; for without 
 
 them 
 He's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not 
 One spirit to command : They all do hate 
 
 him, 
 As rootedly as I : Burn but his books , 
 He has brave utensils, (for so he calls 
 
 them,) 
 Which, when he has a house, he'll deck 
 
 withal. 
 And that most deeply to consider, is 
 The beauty of his daughter ; he himself 
 Calls her a nonjDareil : I ne'er saw woman. 
 But only Sycorax my dam and she; 
 But she as far surpasseth Sycorax, 
 As greatest does least. 
 
 Ste. Is it so brave a lass ? 
 
 Cal. Ay, my lord ; she will become thy 
 bed, I warrant. 
 And bring thee forth brave brood. 
 
 Ste. Monster, I will kill this man .• his 
 daughter and I will be king and queen ; 
 (save our graces !) and Trinculo and thy- 
 self shall be viceroys: — Dost thou like 
 the plot, Trinculo ? 
 Trin. Excellent. 
 
 Ste. Give me thy hand ; I am sorry I 
 beat thee : but, while thou livest, keep a 
 good tongue in thy head. 
 
 Cal. Within this half hour will he be 
 asleep ; 
 Wilt thou destroy him then ? 
 
 Ste. Ay, on mine honour. 
 
 Ari. This will I tell my master. 
 Cal. Thou mak'st me merry : I am full 
 of pleasure ; 
 Let us be jocund : Will you troll the 
 
 catch 
 You taught me but while-ere ? 
 
 Ste. At thy request, monster, I will 
 do reason, any reason : Come on, Trin- 
 culo, let us sing. {Sings. 
 Flout'em, and shout 'em; and skout'em> 
 
 and flout 'em; 
 Thought is free. 
 Cal. That's not the tune. 
 
 [Ariel jofe?/5 the tune on a tabor 
 and pipe. 
 Ste. AYhat is this same ? 
 Trin. This is the tune of our catch, 
 played by the picture of No-body. 
 
 Ste. If thou beest a man, show thy- 
 self in thy likeness : if thou beest a devil, 
 tak't as thou list. 
 
 Trin. 0, forgive me my sins ! 
 Ste. Mercy upon us ! 
 Cal. Art thou afeard ? 
 Ste.' No, monster, not I. 
 Cal. Be not afeard ; the isle is full of 
 noises. 
 Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, 
 
 and hurt not. 
 Sometimes a thousand twangling instru- 
 ments 
 Will hum about mine ears ; and some- 
 times voices, 
 That, if I then had waic'd after long sleep, 
 Will make me sleep again: and then, in 
 
 dreaming. 
 The clouds, methought, would open, and 
 
 show riches 
 Ready to drop upon me; that, when I 
 
 wak'd, 
 T cry'd to dream again. 
 
 Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom 
 
 4"5 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ScE^-i: III. 
 
 to me, where I sliall have my musick for 
 nothing. 
 
 Cal. When Prospero is destroyed. 
 
 Ste. That shall be by and by : I re- 
 member the story. 
 
 Trin. The sound is going away ; let's 
 follow it, and after do our work, 
 
 Ste. Lead, monster ; we'll follow. — I 
 would I could see this taborer : he lays 
 it on. 
 
 Trin. Wilt come? I'll follow, Ste- 
 phauo. \Exuent. 
 
 ScEXE III. Another piart of the island. 
 
 Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antoxio, 
 
 Go^*zALO, Adrian, Francisco, 
 
 and others. 
 
 Gon. By'r lakin, I can go no fur ther 
 
 sir; 
 My old bones ache : here's a maze trod, 
 
 indeed. 
 Through f orth-rights, and meanders ! by 
 
 your patience, 
 I needs must rest me. 
 
 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 oS my hopg, and 
 
 keep it 
 No longer for my flatterer : he is drown'd. 
 Whom thus we stray to find ; and the sea 
 
 mocks 
 Our frustrate search on land : well, let 
 
 him go. 
 Ant. I am right glad that he's so out 
 
 of hope. 
 
 [Aside to Sebastian. 
 
 Do not, for one rei^ulse, forego the jiur- 
 
 pose 
 That you resolv'd to effect. 
 
 Sel. The next advantage 
 
 Will we take thoroughly. 
 
 A7it. Let it be to-night; 
 
 For, now they are oppress'd with travel, 
 they 
 
 u 
 
 Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance. 
 
 As when they are fresh. 
 
 Seb. I say, to-night : no more. 
 
 Solemn and strange musick ; and Pros- 
 pero above, invisible. Enter several 
 strange Sliapes, bringing in a Banquet ; 
 they dance about it ivith gentle actions of 
 salutation ; and, inviting the King, 
 &c., to eat, they depart. 
 
 Alon. What harmony is this? my 
 
 good friends, hark ! 
 Gon. Marvellous sweet musick ! 
 Alon. Give us kind keepers, heaveus ! 
 
 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'll believe both ; 
 
 And what does else want credit, come to 
 
 me. 
 And I'll be sworn 'tis true: Travellers 
 
 ne'er did lie, 
 Though fools at home condemn them. 
 
 Gon. If ill ]S'aples 
 
 I should report this now, would they be- 
 lieve me ? 
 If I should say I saw such islanders, 
 (For, certes, these are people of the 
 
 island,) 
 Who, though they are of monstrous shape, 
 
 yet, note. 
 Their manners are more gentle-kind, 
 
 than of 
 Oar human generation you shall find 
 Many, nay, almost any. 
 
 Pro. Honest lord. 
 
 Thou hast said well; for some of you 
 
 thera present 
 Are worse than devils. [Aside. 
 
 Alon. I cannot too much muse. 
 
 Such shapes, such gesture, and such 
 sound, expressing 
 
Act Hi. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 (Although they want the use of tongue) 
 
 a kind 
 Of excellent dumb discourse. 
 
 Pro. Praise in departing, 
 
 \_A.side 
 Fran. They vanish'd strangely. 
 Sei. No matter^ since 
 
 They have left their viands behind ; for 
 
 we have stomachs. ■ — 
 Will't please you taste of what is here ? 
 Alon. jSTot I. 
 
 Gon. Faith, sir, you need not fear ; 
 "When Ave were boys. 
 Who would belie re that there were mount- 
 aineers, 
 Eew-lapped like bulls, whose throats had 
 
 hanging at them 
 Wallets of flesh ? or that there were such 
 
 men. 
 Whose heads stood in their breasts ? which 
 
 now we find. 
 Each putter-out on five for one, will bring 
 
 us 
 Good warrant of. 
 
 Alon. I will stand to, and feed, 
 
 Although my last: no matter, since I 
 
 feel 
 The best is passed: — Brother, my lord 
 
 the duke. 
 Stand to, and do as we. 
 Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel 
 UJce a liarpy ; claps his wings upon the 
 table, and, with a quaint device, the 
 banquet vanishes. 
 
 Ariel. You are three men of sin, Avhom 
 destiny 
 (That hath to instrument this lower world, 
 And what is in in't.) the never-surfeited 
 
 sea 
 Hath caused to throw up ; and on this 
 
 island 
 Where man doth not inhabit ; you 'mongst 
 
 men 
 Being most unfit to live. I have made 
 you mad ; 
 
 [Seeing Alon., Seb., etc., draw 
 their swords. 
 
 And even with such like valor, men hang 
 
 and drown 
 Their proper selves. You fools ! I and 
 
 my fellows 
 Are ministers of fate ; the elements 
 Of whom your swords are temper'd, may 
 
 as well 
 Wound the loud winds, or with be- 
 
 mock'd-at stabs 
 Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish 
 One dowle that's in my plume; my fel- 
 low-ministers 
 Are like invulnerable : if you could hurt. 
 Your swords are now too massy for your 
 
 strengths 
 And will not be uplifted : But remember, 
 (For that's my business to you,) that you 
 
 three 
 From Milan did supplant good Prospero ; 
 Expos'd unto the sea, which hath requit 
 
 it, _ 
 
 Him, and his innocent child ; for which 
 
 foul deed 
 The powcs, delaying, not forgetting, 
 
 have 
 Incens'd the seas and shores, yea, all the 
 
 creatures 
 Against your peace : Thee of thy son, 
 
 Alonzo, 
 They have bereft ! and do pronounce by 
 
 me. 
 Lingering perdition (worse than any death 
 Can be at once) shall step by step attend 
 You, and your ways; whose wraths to 
 
 guard you from 
 (Which here, in this most desolate isle ; 
 
 else falls 
 Upon your heads,) is nothing, but heart's 
 
 sorrow. 
 And a clear life ensuing. 
 
 Ife vanishes in thunder : then, to soft 
 music, enter the Shapes again, and 
 dance loith mops and moxves, and carry 
 out the table. 
 
 Pro. [Aside.'l Bravely the figure of 
 this harpy hast thou 
 
 45 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Perform'd, my Ariel ; a grace it had, de- The winds did sing it to me ; and the 
 
 vouring : thunder. 
 
 Of my instruction hast thou nothing ' That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pro- 
 
 'bated, | nounc'd 
 
 In what thou had'st to say : so, with good The name of Prosper; it did bass my 
 
 life. 
 
 And observation strange, my meaner min- 
 isters 
 
 Their several kinds have done : my high 
 charms work. 
 
 trespass. 
 Therefore my son i'the ooze is bedded; and 
 I'll seek him deeper than e'er j^lummet 
 
 sounded. 
 And with him there lie mudded. [^Ezit. 
 And these, mine enemies, are all knit up Seh. But one fiend at a time. 
 
 In their distractions : they now are in ' PH fight their legions o'er. 
 
 Ant. I'll be thv second. 
 
 my power ; 
 And in these fits I leave them, whilst I 
 
 visit 
 Young Ferdinand, (whom they suppose 
 
 is drown'd,) 
 And his and mv loved darlinsf. 
 
 \_Exii Ppospero /?-oy/; above. 
 
 Gon. V the name of something holy, 
 sir, why stand you 
 In this strange stare ? 
 
 AJon. 0, it is monstrous ! monstrous ! May now provoke them to. 
 3Iethought the billows spoke, and told me Adr. Follow, I pray you. 
 
 of it; ' [F.reiDit. 
 
 \_Exeunt Seh. and Ant. 
 Gon. All three of them are desperate; 
 their great guilt. 
 Like poison given to work a great time 
 after, 
 
 Xow 'gins to bite the spirits:- 1 do 
 
 beseech vou 
 
 That are of stippler joints, follow them 
 
 swiftly. 
 And hinder them from what this ecstacy 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. Before Prospero's Cell. 
 Enter Prospeho, Ferdixaxd and 
 
 MiRAXDA. 
 
 Pro. If I have too austerely punish'd 
 
 you, 
 Tour compensation makes amends; for I 
 Have given you here a thread of mine own 
 
 life, . 
 Or that for which I live ; whom once again 
 I tender to thy hand : all thy vexations 
 Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
 Hast strangely stood the test : here, afore 
 
 Heaven, 
 J ratify this my rich gift. Ferdinand, 
 Do not smile at me, that I boast her off, 
 For thou shalt find she will outstrip all 
 
 praise, 
 And make it halt behind her. 
 
 I do believe it. 
 
 Fer. 
 Against an oracle. 
 
 Pro. Then, as my gift, and thine own 
 acquisition 
 "Worthily purchas'd, take my child, but not 
 Till sanctimonious ceremonies may 
 With ftill and holy rites be minister'd. 
 Then Hymen's lamps shall light you. 
 
 Fer. As I hope 
 
 For qtiiet days, fair issue, and long life. 
 With such love as 'tis now ; the strong'st 
 
 suggestion 
 Our worser Genius can, shall never taint 
 My honor. 
 
 Pro. Fairly spoken : 
 
 Sit then, and talk with her, she is thine 
 
 own. — 
 "What, Ariel ; my indttstrious servant 
 Ariel ! 
 
 46 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Enter Ariel. 
 
 Ari. What would my potent master ? 
 here I am. 
 
 Pro. Thou and thy meaner fellows 
 
 your last service 
 
 Did worthily perform ; and I must use you 
 
 In such another trick ; go, bring the rabble. 
 
 O'er whom I give the power, here to this 
 
 j^lace : 
 Incite them to quick motion ; for I must 
 Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 
 Some vanity of mine art; it is my promise, 
 And they expect it from me. 
 
 Ari. Presently ? 
 
 Pro. Ay, with a twink. 
 
 Ari. Before you can say. Come, and go, 
 And breathe twice ; and cry, so, so; 
 Each one, tripping on his toe. 
 Will be here with mop and mowe : 
 Do you love me, master ? no. 
 
 Pro. Dearly, my delicate Ariel : Do 
 not approach. 
 Till thou dost hear me call. 
 
 Ari. Well I conceive. [Bxii. 
 
 Pro. Look, thou be true. 
 
 Per. I warrant you, sir. 
 
 Pro. Well. — 
 
 l^ow come, my Ariel ; bring a corollary, 
 Eather than want a spirit ; appear, and 
 
 pertly. — 
 'No tongue ; all eyes ; be silent. 
 
 [Sof( music. 
 
 A Masque. Enter Iris. 
 
 Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy 
 
 rich leas 
 Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and 
 
 peas ; 
 Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling 
 
 sheep, 
 And flat meads thatch'd with stover, them 
 
 to keep. 
 Thy banks with peonied and lilied brims, 
 Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, 
 To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and 
 
 thy broom groves. 
 
 Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor 
 
 loves, 
 Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-clipt vineyard ; 
 And thy sea-marge, steril, and rocky-hard. 
 Where thou thyself dost air : The queen 
 
 o' the sky, 
 Whose wat'ry arch, and messenger, am I, 
 Bids thee leave these ; and with her sover- 
 eign grace, 
 Here, on this grass-plot, in this very place, 
 To come and sport : her jDeacocks fly 
 
 amain ; 
 Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. 
 
 Enter Ceres. 
 
 Cer. Hail, many-colour'd messenger, 
 
 that ne'er 
 Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ; 
 Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my 
 
 flowers 
 Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers ; 
 And with each end of thy blue bow dost 
 
 crown 
 My bosky acres, and my unshrubb'd down, 
 Rich scarf to my j^roud earth; Why hath 
 
 thy queen 
 Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd 
 
 green ? 
 Iris. A contract of true love to cele- 
 brate ; 
 And some donation freely to estate 
 On the bless'd lovers. 
 
 Cer. Tell me, heavenly bow, 
 
 If V^enus, or her son, as thou dost know. 
 Do now attend the queen ? since they did 
 
 plot 
 The means, that dusky Dis my daughter 
 
 got 
 Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company 
 I have forsworn. 
 
 Iris. Of her society 
 
 Be not afraid : I met her diety 
 Cutting the clouds towards Pa2)hos ; and 
 
 her son 
 Dove-drawn with her. 
 
 Cer. Highest queen of state. 
 
 Great Juno conies : I know her by her gait. 
 
 47 
 
Act IY. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Enter Juxo. 
 
 Juno. How does my bounteous sister ? 
 Go with me. 
 
 To bless this twain, that they may pros- 
 perous be, 
 And honour'd in their issue. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Juno. Honor, riches, marriage-llessing. 
 Long continuance, and increasing , 
 Hourly joys le still upon you! 
 Juno sings her blessings on you. 
 
 Cer. Earth's increase, and foison plenty; 
 Barns, and garners never empty; 
 Vines 2vith dust' ring bunches grow- 
 ing ; 
 Plants, ivith goodly burden bowing ; 
 
 Spring come to you, at the farthest. 
 In the very end of harvest! 
 Scarcity and want shall shu?i you; 
 Ceres' blessing so is on you. 
 
 Fer. This is a most magic vision, and 
 Harmonious charmingly : May I be bold 
 To think these spirits ? 
 
 Pro. Spirits, which by mine art 
 
 I have from their confines call'd to enact 
 My present fancies. 
 
 Fer. Let me live here ever ; 
 
 So rare a wonder'd father, and a wife, 
 Make this place paradise. 
 
 [JcjNO and Ceres whisper, and send 
 Iris on employment. 
 
 Pro. Sweet, now silence : 
 
 Juno and Ceres whisper seriously ; 
 
 There's something else to do : hush, and 
 be mute, 
 
 Or else our spell is marr'd. 
 
 Iris. You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of 
 the wand'ring brooks, 
 
 With your sedg'd crowns, and ever harm- 
 less looks. 
 
 Leave your crisp channels, and on this 
 green land 
 
 Answer your summons 
 mand : 
 
 Juno does com- 
 
 Come, temperate nymphs, and help to 
 
 celebrate 
 A contract of true love ; be not too late. 
 
 Enter certain Nymphs. 
 You sunburn'd sicklemen, of August 
 
 weary, 
 Come hither from the furrow, and be 
 
 merry ; 
 Make holy-day : your rye-straw hats put 
 
 on. 
 And these fresh nymphs encounter every 
 
 one 
 In country footing. 
 
 Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: 
 they join with the Nymphs in a graceful 
 dance; towards the end whereof Pros- 
 PERO starts suddenly, and speaTcs; after 
 u'liich, to a strange, hollozv, and con- 
 fused noise, they heavily vanish. 
 
 Pro. \_Aside.'\ I had forgot that foul 
 
 conspiracy 
 Of the beast Caliban, and his confederates. 
 Against my life ; the minute of their plot 
 Is almost come. — \_To the spirits.] Well 
 
 done; — avoid; — no more. 
 Fer. This is most strange : your 
 
 father's in some passion 
 That works him strongly. 
 
 Mira. Never till this day. 
 
 Saw I him touch'd with anger so distem- 
 
 per'd. 
 Pro. You do look, my son, in a mov'd 
 
 sort, 
 As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, sir : 
 Our revels now are ended : these our actors. 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 Are melted into air, into thin air : 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this 
 
 vision. 
 The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the georgeous 
 
 palaces. 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve : 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 Leave not a rack behind : We are such 
 
 stuff 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 Is rouuded with a sleep. — Sir, I am vex'd; 
 Bear with my weakness : my old brain is 
 
 troubled. 
 Be not disturb'd with my infirmity : 
 If you be pleas'd, retire into my cell, 
 And there repose ; a turn or two I'll walk, 
 To still my beating mind. 
 
 ly. ■ [• We wish your peace. 
 
 [^Exetmt. 
 Pro. Come with a thought : — I thank 
 you : — Ariel, come. 
 
 Enter Ariel. 
 
 Ari. Thy thoughts I cleave to: What's 
 
 thy pleasure ? 
 Pro. Spirit, 
 
 We must prepare to meet with Caliban. 
 Ari. Ay, my commander : when I pre- 
 sented Ceres, 
 I thought to have told thee of it ; but I 
 
 fear'd. 
 Lest I might anger thee. 
 
 Pro. Say again, where didst thou leave 
 
 these varlets ? 
 Ari. I told you, sir, they were red-hot 
 
 with drinking ; 
 So full of valor, that they smote the air 
 For breathing in their faces; beat the 
 
 ground 
 For kissing of their feet ; yet always bend- 
 ing 
 Towards their project : Then I beat my 
 
 tabor. 
 At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd 
 
 their ears, 
 Advanc'd their eyelids, lifted up their 
 
 noses. 
 As they smelt music ; so I charm'd their 
 
 ears. 
 That, calf-like, they my lowing follow'd, 
 
 through 
 Tooth'd briers,sharp furzes, pricking goss, 
 
 and thorns, 
 IVhich enter'd their frail shins; at last I 
 
 left them 
 
 I' the filthy mantled pool beyond your cell. 
 Up to the chins. 
 
 Pro. This was well done, my bird. 
 
 Thy shape invisible retain thou still : 
 The trumpery in my house, go, bring it 
 
 hither. 
 For stale to catch these thieves. 
 
 Ari. I go, I go. [Exit. 
 
 Pro. A devil, a born devil, on whose 
 
 nature 
 Nature can never stick ; on whom my 
 
 pains. 
 Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost ; 
 And as, with age, his body uglier grows. 
 So his mind cankers : I will plague them 
 
 all. 
 
 Re-enter Ariel, luaden with cjlisteri'ng 
 apjMrel, etc. 
 
 Even to roaring : — Come, hang them on 
 
 this line. 
 Prospero and Ariel remain invisible. 
 Enter Caliban, Steppiano, and Trin- 
 culo, all wet. 
 
 Cat. Pray you, tread softly, that the 
 
 blind mole may not 
 
 Hear a foot fall : we now are near his cell. 
 
 Ste. Monster, your fairy, which, you 
 
 say, is a harmless fairy, has done little 
 
 better than played the Jack with us. 
 
 Trin. Monster, my nose is in great 
 
 indignation. 
 Ste. So is mine. Do you hear, mon- 
 ster ? If I should take a displeasure 
 against you ; look you, — 
 
 Trin. Thou wert but a lost monster. 
 Cal. Good my Lord, give me thy 
 favor still : 
 Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to 
 Shall hood-wink this mischance : there- 
 fore, speak softly. 
 All's hush'd as midnight yet. 
 
 Trin. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the 
 
 pool, — 
 Ste. There's not only disgrace and dis- 
 honor in that, monster,- but an inlinite 
 loss. 
 
 49 
 
Act IV 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Trin. That^s more to me than my wet- 
 ting : yetthis is your harmless fairy, mon- 
 ster. 
 
 Ste. I will fetch off my bottle, though 
 
 I be o'er ears for my labor. 
 Cal. Pr'ythee, my king, be quiet: Seest 
 thou here. 
 This is the mouth of the cell: no noise, 
 
 and enter: 
 Do that good mischief, which may make 
 
 this island 
 Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, 
 For aye thy foot-lickcr. 
 
 Ste. Give me thy hand: I do begin to 
 
 have bloody thoughts. 
 Trin. king Stephano! peer I 
 worthy Stephano! look, what a wardrobe 
 here is for thee ! 
 
 Cal. Let it alone, thou fool; it is but 
 
 trash. 
 Trin. 0, ho, monster; we know what 
 belongs to a frippery: — king Stephano ! 
 Ste. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by 
 
 this hand, I'll have that gown. 
 Trin. Thy grace shall have it. 
 Cal. The dropsy drown thisfool! what 
 do yon mean. 
 To doat thus on such luggage? Let's 
 
 along. 
 And do the murder first; if he awake. 
 From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with 
 
 pinches; 
 Make us strange stuff. 
 
 Ste. Be you quiet, monster. — Mistress 
 line, is not this my jerkin? Now^ is the 
 Jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you 
 are like to lose your hair, and prove a 
 bald jerkin. 
 
 Trin. Do, do: We steal by line and 
 
 level, a'nt like your grace. 
 Ste. I thank thee for that jest; here's 
 
 a garment for't: wit shall not go unre- 
 warded, while I am king of this country: 
 Siealby liyie and level, is an excellent pass 
 of pate; there's another garment for't. 
 
 Tri7i. Monster, come, put some lime 
 upon your fingers, and away with the 
 rest. 
 
 Cal. I will have none on't: we shall 
 lose our time. 
 And all be turn'd to barnacles, or to apes 
 With foreheads villainous low. 
 
 Ste. Monster, lay-to your fingers; help 
 to bear this away, where my hogshead of 
 wine is, or I'll turn you out of my king- 
 dom; go to, carry this. 
 
 Trin. And this. 
 
 Ste. Ay, and this. 
 A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers 
 
 Sjjirits, in shape of hounds, and hunt 
 
 them about; Prospero and Ariel set- 
 ting them on. 
 
 Pro. Hey, Mountain, hey! 
 
 Ari. Silver! there it goes, Silver! 
 
 Pro. Fury, Fury! there. Tyrant, there! 
 hark, hark! 
 [Cal., Ste. and Triis^. are driven Oid. 
 Go, charge my goblins that they grind 
 
 their joints 
 With dry convulsions; shorten up their 
 
 sinews 
 With aged cramps; and more pinch-spot- 
 ted make them, 
 Than pard, or cat o' mountain. 
 
 Ari. Hark, they roar. 
 
 Pro. Let them be hunted soundly: At 
 this hour 
 Lie at my mercy all mine enemies: 
 Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou 
 Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little. 
 Follow, and do me service. {^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT \ 
 ScEXE I. Before the Cell of Prospero. 
 Eriter Prospero in his magic robes, and 
 
 Ariel. 
 
 Pro. Now does my project gather to a 
 head : 
 My charms crack not; my spirits obey; 
 and time 
 
 50 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Goes upright with his carriage. How's 
 
 the day? 
 Ari. On the sixth hour; at which time, 
 
 my lord, 
 You said our work should cease. 
 
 Fro. 1 did say so, 
 
 When first I rais'd the tempest. Say, my 
 
 spirit. 
 How fares the king and his? 
 
 Ari. Confin'd together 
 
 In the same fashion as you gave in charge ; 
 Just as you left them, sir ; all prisoners 
 In the lime-grove which weather-fends 
 
 your cell; 
 They cannot budge, till you release. The 
 
 king, 
 His brother, and yours, abide all three 
 
 distracted ; 
 And the remainder mourning over them. 
 Brim-full of sorrow and dismay ; but 
 
 chiefly 
 Him you term'd, sir, T7ie good old lord, 
 
 Gonzalo ; 
 His tears run down his beard, like winter's 
 
 drops 
 From eves of reeds : your charm so strongly 
 
 works them, 
 That if you now beheld them, your affec- 
 tions 
 Would become tender. 
 
 Pro. Dost thou think so, spirit? 
 
 Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human. 
 Pro And mine shall. 
 
 Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a 
 
 feeling 
 Of their afflictions ? and shall not my- 
 self. 
 One of their kind, that relish all as sharply 
 Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd than 
 
 thou art ? 
 Though with their high wrongs I am struck 
 
 to the quick. 
 Yet, with my nobler reason, 'gainst my 
 
 fury 
 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'll break, their senses I'll 
 
 restore. 
 And they shall be themselves. 
 
 Ari. I'll fetch them, sir. 
 
 Pro. Ye elves of hills, brooks, stand- 
 ing lakes, and groves ; 
 
 And ye, that n the sands Avith printless 
 foot 
 
 Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly 
 him. 
 
 When he comes back ; you demy-puppets, 
 that 
 
 By moon-shine do the green-sour ringlets 
 make, 
 
 AVhereof 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 you be) I have be- 
 dimm'd 
 
 The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the muti- 
 nous winds, 
 
 And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd 
 vault 
 
 Set roaring war : to the dread rattling 
 thunder 
 
 Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout 
 oak 
 
 With his own bolt : the strong-bas'd prom- 
 ontory 
 
 Havel made shake; and by the sjiurs 
 pluck 'd up 
 
 The pine, and cedar : graves, at my com- 
 mand, 
 
 Have wak'd their sleepers; oped, and led 
 them forth 
 
 By my so potent art : But this rough 
 magic 
 
 I hear abjure : and, when I have requir'd 
 
 Some heavenly music, (which even now 
 I do,) 
 
 To work mine end upon their senses, 
 that 
 
 61 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, 
 JBury it certain fathoms in. the earth. 
 And deeper than did ever plummet sound, 
 I'll drown my book. \^Solemn Music. 
 
 Re-enter Ariel : after Mm K'lo'szo tvith a 
 - frantic gesture, attended iy Goxzalo ; 
 SEBASTiAiSr and A.'iSTO'sio in like manner 
 attended hy Adria:n' and Fkaxcisco : 
 They all enter the circle which Prospeeo 
 had made, and there stand charmed ; 
 tohich Prospero observing, speaks. 
 
 A solem air, and the best comforter 
 To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains, 
 -Now uselesSjboil'd within thy skull ! There 
 
 stand, 
 
 Tor you are spell-stopped. 
 
 Holy Gonzalo, honorable man, 
 
 J\Iine eyes, even sociable to the shew of 
 
 thine. 
 Fall fellowly drops. — The charm dissolves 
 
 apace; 
 And as the morning steals upon the night, 
 Melting the darkness, so their rising 
 
 senses 
 Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that 
 
 mantle 
 Their clearer reason. — my good Gon- 
 zalo, 
 My true preserver, and a loyal sir 
 To him thou follow'st ; I will pay thy 
 
 graces 
 Home both in word and deed. — Most 
 
 cruelly 
 Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my 
 
 daughter : 
 Thy brother was a furtherer in the act ; — 
 Thou'rt pinch'd for't now, Sebastian. — 
 
 Flesh aud blood, 
 You brother mine, that entertain'd ambi- 
 tion, 
 Expell'd remorse and nature ; who, with 
 
 Sebastian, 
 • (Whose inward pinches therefore are most 
 
 strong,) 
 "Would here have kill'd your king; I do 
 
 forgive thee. 
 
 Unnatural though thou art! — Their un- 
 derstanding 
 
 Begins to swell ; and the approaching 
 tide 
 
 Will shortly fill the reasonable shores. 
 
 That now lie foul and muddy. Not one 
 of them, 
 
 That yet looks on me, or would know 
 me: — Ariel, 
 
 Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell ; 
 
 [Exit Ariel. 
 
 I will dis-case me, and my self present, 
 
 As I was sometime Milan : — quickly, 
 spirit: 
 
 Thou shalt ere long be free. 
 
 Ariel re-enters, singing, and helps to 
 attire Prospero. 
 Ari. Where the bee sucks, there stick I; 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie : 
 TJiere I couch 7ohen 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. 
 
 Pro. Why that's my dainty Ariel ; I 
 shall miss thee ; 
 But yet thou shalt have freedom ; so, so, 
 
 so. — 
 To the king's ship, invisible as thou art ; 
 There shalt thou find the mariners asleep 
 Under the hatches ; the master and the 
 
 boatswain. 
 Being awake, enforce them to this place ; 
 And presently, I pr'ythee. 
 
 Ai'i. I drink the air before me, and 
 return 
 Or e'er your pulse twice beat. 
 
 [Exit Ariel. 
 Gon. All torment, trouble, wonder, and 
 amazement 
 Inhabits here : Some heavenly power guide 
 
 us 
 Out of this fearful country ! 
 
 Pro. Behold, sir king. 
 
 The MTonged Duke of Milan, Prospero : 
 
 52 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCE^-E I. 
 
 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. "Whe'r thou beest he, or no. 
 
 Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me. 
 As late I have been, I not know : thy 
 
 pulse 
 Beats, as of flesh and blood ; and since I 
 
 saw thee. 
 The affliction of my mind amends, witli 
 
 which, 
 I fear, a madness held me : this must 
 
 crave 
 (And if this be at all) a most strange 
 
 story. 
 Thy dukedom I resign ; and do entreat 
 Thou pardon me my wrongs : — But how 
 
 should Prospero 
 Be living and be here ? 
 
 Pro. First, noble friend. 
 
 Let me embrace thine age ; whose honor 
 
 cannot 
 Be measur'd, or confined. 
 
 Gon. Whether this be. 
 
 Or be not, I'll not swear. 
 
 Pro. You do yet taste 
 
 Some, subtilties o' the isle, that will not 
 
 let you 
 Believe things certain: — Welcome, my 
 
 friends all : — 
 But you, my brace of lords, were I so 
 
 minded, 
 
 [Aside to Seb. and Ant. 
 I here could pluck his highness' frown 
 
 upon you. 
 And Justify you traitors: at this time 
 ril tell no tales. 
 
 Seb. The devil speaks in him. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Pro. No: — 
 
 For you, most wicked sir, whom to call 
 
 brother 
 Would even infect my mouth, I do for- 
 give 
 
 Thy rankest fault; all of them : and 
 
 require 
 My dukedom of thee, which, perforce, I 
 
 know. 
 Thou must restore. 
 
 Alon. If thou beest Prospero, 
 
 Give us particulars of thy preservation : 
 How thou hast met us here, who three 
 
 hours since 
 Were Avreck'd upon this shore ; where I 
 
 have lost. 
 How sharp the point of this remembrance 
 
 is I 
 My dear son Ferdinand. 
 
 P)'0. I am woe for't, sir. 
 
 Alon. Irreparable is the loss ; and 
 Patience 
 Says,'it is past her cure. 
 
 P)-o. I rather think. 
 
 You have not sought her help; of whose 
 
 soft grace, 
 For the like loss, I have her sovereign 
 
 aid. 
 And rest myself content. 
 
 AIo7i. You the like loss ? 
 
 Pro. As great to me, as late ; and, 
 
 portable 
 To make the deal' loss, have I means much 
 
 weaker 
 Than you may call to comfort you : for I 
 Have lost my daughter. 
 
 AIo7i. A daughter ? 
 
 heavens ! that they Avere living both in 
 
 Naples, 
 The king and queen there ! that they were, 
 
 I wish 
 Myself were mudded in that oozy bed 
 Where my son lies. When did you lose 
 
 your daughter ? 
 Pro. lu this last tempest. I perceive, 
 
 these lords 
 At this encounter do so much admire. 
 That they devour their reason ; and scarce 
 
 think 
 Their eyes do offices of truth, their words 
 Ai'c natural breath : but hoM'soe'er you 
 
 have 
 
 53 
 
Act V, 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCESE. I 
 
 Been justled from your senses, know for 
 
 certaia, 
 That I am Prospero, and that very duke 
 Which was thrust forth of Milan ; who 
 
 most strangely 
 Upon this shore, where you were wrecked, 
 
 was landed. 
 To be the lord on't. 'No more yet of this; 
 For ^tis a chronicle of day by day, 
 I^ot a relation for a breakfast, nor 
 Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, 
 
 sir ; 
 This sell's my court : here have I few 
 
 attendants. 
 And subjects none abroad : pray you look 
 
 in. 
 My dukedom since you have given me 
 
 again, 
 I will requite you with as good a thing; 
 At least, bring forth a wonder, to con- 
 tent ye 
 As much as me mj' dukedom. 
 
 The entrance of the cell opens, and dis- 
 covers Ferdixand and Miranda 
 playing at chess. 
 
 Mira. Sweet lord, you play me false. 
 
 Fe)'. No, my dearest love, 
 
 I would not for the world. 
 
 Mira. Yes, for a score of kingdoms 
 you should wrangle, 
 And I would call it fair play. 
 
 Alon. If this prove 
 
 A vision of the island, one dear son 
 Shall I twice lose. 
 
 Seh. A most high miracle ! 
 
 Fer. Tho" the seas threaten, they are 
 merciful ; 
 I have curs'd them without cause. 
 
 [Ferd. ]c7ieels to Alon. 
 
 Alon. Now all the blessings 
 
 Of a glad father compass thee about ! 
 Arise, and say how thou cam.'st here. 
 
 Mira. ! wonder ! 
 
 How may goodly creatures are there here ! 
 How beauteous mankind is ! brave new 
 world. 
 
 That has such people in't ! 
 
 Pro. 'Tis new to thee. 
 
 Alon. What is this maid, with whom 
 
 thou wast at play ? 
 Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three 
 
 hours : 
 Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us. 
 And brought us thus together ? 
 
 Fer. Sir, she's mortal ; 
 
 But, by immortal Providence, she's mine; 
 I chose her, when I could not ask my 
 
 father 
 For his advice ; nor thought I had one : 
 
 she 
 Is daughter to this famous duke of Milan, 
 Of whom so often I have heard renown. 
 But never saw before; of whom I have 
 Eeceived a second life, and second father 
 This lady makes him to me. 
 
 Alon. I am hers: 
 
 But 0, how oddly will it sound, that I 
 Must ask my child forgiveness ! 
 
 Pro. There, sir, stop : 
 
 Let us not burden our remembrances 
 With a heaviness that's gone. 
 
 Gon. I have inly wept. 
 
 Or should have sjioken ere this. Look 
 
 down, you gods. 
 And on this couple drop a blessed crown ; 
 For it is you, that have chalk'd forth the 
 
 way 
 Which brought us hither ! 
 
 Alon. ■ I say. Amen, Gonzalc ! 
 
 Gon, Was Milan thrust from Milan, 
 
 that his issue 
 Should become kings of Naples ? 0, 
 
 rejoice • 
 Beyond a common joy; and set it down 
 With gold on lasting pillars : In one 
 
 voyage 
 Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis; 
 And Ferdinand, her brother, found a 
 
 wife. 
 Where he himself was lost; Prospero his 
 
 dukedom. 
 In a poor isle ; and all of us, ourselves. 
 When no man was his own. 
 
 54 
 
Act V 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCKXE I. 
 
 Alo7i. Give me your hands: 
 
 [To Fee. aiid Mir. 
 
 Let grief and sorrow still embrace his 
 
 heart, 
 That doth not wish j'ou joy ! 
 
 Gon. Be't so ! Amen ! 
 
 Re-enter Ariel, luith the Master and 
 Boatswain amazedly following. 
 
 look, sir, look, sir ; here are more of us ! 
 
 1 prophesied, if a gallows were on land. 
 This fellow could not drown : — Now, 
 
 blasphemy. 
 That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath 
 
 on shore ? 
 Hast thou no mouth by land ? What is 
 
 the news ? 
 Boats. The best new is, that we have 
 
 safely found 
 Our king, and company : the next our 
 
 ship, — 
 Which, but three glasses since, we gave 
 
 out split. 
 Is tight and yare, and bravely rigg'd, as 
 
 when 
 We first put out to sea. 
 
 Ari. Sir, all this service 1 
 
 Have I done since I went. I Aside. 
 
 Pro. My tricksy spirit I j 
 
 Alon. These are not natural events; 
 
 they strengthen 
 From strange to stranger : — Say, how 
 
 came you hither ? 
 Boats. If I did think, sir, I were well 
 
 awake, 
 I'd strive to tell you. AVe were dead of 
 
 sleep. 
 And (how, we know not,) all clapp'd 
 
 under hatches. 
 Were, but even now, with strange and 
 
 several noises 
 Of roaring, shrieking, howling, gingling 
 
 chains. 
 And more diversity of sounds, all lior- 
 
 rible. 
 We are awak'd ; strait way, at liberty : 
 Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld 
 
 55 
 
 Our royal, good, and gallant ship ; our 
 
 master 
 Cap'ring to eye her : On a trice, so j^lease 
 
 you. 
 Even in a dream, were we divided from 
 
 them. 
 And were brought moping hither. 
 Ari. Was't well done ? 1 
 
 Pro. Bravely, my diligence. )- Aside. 
 
 Thou shalt be free. j 
 
 Alon. This is as strange a maze as e'er 
 
 men trod 
 And there is in this business more than 
 
 nature 
 Was ever conduct of : some oracle 
 Must rectify our knowledge. 
 
 Pro. Sir, my liege. 
 
 Do not infest your mind with beating on 
 The strangeness of this business; atpick'd 
 
 leisure. 
 Which shall be shortly, single I'll resolve 
 
 you 
 (Which to you shall seem jn-obable) of 
 
 every 
 These happen'd accidents : till when, be 
 
 cheerful. 
 And think of each thing well. — Come 
 
 hither, spirit ; [Aside. 
 
 Set Caliban and his companions free : 
 Untie the spell. [Exit Ariel.] How 
 
 fares my gracious sir ? 
 There are yet missing of your company 
 Some few odd lads, that you remember 
 
 not. 
 
 Re-enter Ariel, driving in Calibax, 
 Stephano, and Trinculo, in their 
 stolen ajijyarel. 
 
 Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, 
 and let no man take care for himself ; for 
 all is but fortune : — Coragio, bully-mon- 
 ster, Coragio ! 
 
 Trin. If these be true spies which I 
 wear in my head, here's a goodly sight. 
 
 Cal. Setebos, these be brave spirits, 
 indeed I 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ScExt; I. 
 
 How fine my master is ! I am afraid 
 He will chastise me. 
 
 Seh. Ha, ha ; 
 
 What things are these, my lord Antonio? 
 Will money buy them? 
 
 A7it, Very like, one of them 
 
 Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. 
 Pro. Mark but the badges of these 
 men, my lords. 
 Then say, if they be true: — This mis- 
 shapen knave, 
 His mother was a witch; and one so strong 
 That could control the moon, make flows 
 
 and ebbs. 
 And deal in her command, without her 
 
 power: 
 These three have robb'd me; and this 
 
 demi-devil 
 (For he's a bastard one) had plotted with 
 
 them 
 To take my life: two of these fellows you 
 Must know, and own; this thing of dark- 
 ness I 
 Acknowledge mine. 
 
 Cal. I shall be pinch'd to death. 
 
 Alon. Is notthis Stephano, mydrunken 
 
 butler? 
 Seb. He is drunk now: Where had he 
 
 wine? 
 Alon. And Trinculo is reeling ripe: 
 Where should they 
 Find this grand liquor that hath gilded 
 
 them? — 
 How cam'st though in this pickle ? 
 
 Trin. I have been in such a pickle, 
 since I saw you last, that, I fear me, will 
 never out of my bones: I shall not fear 
 fly-blowing. 
 
 Seb. Why, how now, Stephano? 
 Ste. 0, touch me not; I am not Ste- 
 phano, but a cramjj. 
 Pro. You'd be king of the isle, sirrah? 
 Ste. I should have been a sore one then. 
 AJon. This is as strange a thing as e'er 
 I look'd on. [Pointing to Caliban. 
 Pro. lie is as disproportion'd in his 
 manners. 
 
 56 
 
 As in his shape: — Go, sirrah, to my cell; 
 Take with you your companions; as you 
 
 look 
 To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. 
 Cal. Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise 
 hereafter. 
 And seek for grace: What a thrice-double 
 
 ass 
 Was I to take this drunkard for a god, 
 And worshi]! this dull fool? 
 
 Pro. Go to; away! 
 
 Alon. Hence, and bestow your luggage 
 
 where you found it. 
 Seb. Or stole it, jather. 
 
 [Fxeiait Cal, Ste. and Trin. 
 Pro. Sir, I invite your highness, and 
 train, 
 To my poor cell: where you shall take 
 
 your rest 
 For this one night; which (part of it) I'll 
 
 waste 
 With such discourse, as, I not doubt, shall 
 
 make it 
 Go quick away: the story of my life, 
 And the particular accidents gone by. 
 Since I came to this isle: And in the 
 
 morn, 
 I'll bring you to your ship, and so to 
 
 Naples, 
 Where I have hope to see the nuptial 
 Of these our dear-beloved solemjiiz'd; 
 And thence retire me to my ililan, where 
 Every third thought shall be my grave. 
 
 Alon. I long 
 
 To hear the story of your life, which 
 
 must 
 Take the ear strangely. 
 
 Pro. ril deliver all; 
 
 And promise you calm seas, auspicious 
 
 gales, 
 And sail so expeditious, tliat shall catch 
 Your royal fleet far off. — My Ariel; — 
 
 chick. 
 That is thy charge; then to the elements 
 Be free, and fare thou well ! — \_Aside.'\ 
 Please you draw near. [Exeunt. 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 EPILOGUE.—, 
 
 Notu my charms are all o'erthroion, 
 And what strength I have's mine otvti; 
 Which is most faint: now, 'tis true, 
 I must he here confined by you, 
 Or sent to Naples: Let me not, 
 Since I have my dukedom got. 
 And pardon' d tlie deceiver, dwell 
 In this hare island, hy your spell; 
 But release me from my hands. 
 With the help of your good hands. 
 
 Spoken hy Prospero. 
 
 Gentle breath of yours my sails 
 Must fill, or else my project fails, 
 Which was to pilease: Noto I want 
 Sjnrits to etiforce, art to encliant ; 
 And my ending is despair, 
 Unless I be reliev'd by prayer; 
 Which pierces so, that it assaults 
 Mercy itself, and frees all faxilts. 
 
 As you from crimes would pardon' d be. 
 Let your indulgence set me free. 
 
 m 
 
Familiar Quotations froim Shakespeare. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Go>*ZALO. 
 
 His complexion is perfect gallows. 
 
 Act 1, Se. 1, I. 31. 
 
 Artel. 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade, 
 But doth suffer a sea change 
 Into something rich and strange. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 2, I. 400. 
 
 Miranda. 
 
 There nothing ill can dwell in such a 
 
 temple 
 If the ill spirit have so fair a house. 
 Good things will strive to dwell with 't. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 2, I. 458. 
 
 Sebastian. 
 
 Look ; he's winding up the watch of 
 his wit ; by and by it will strike. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 1, I. 13. 
 
 GONZALO. 
 
 When every grief is entertain'd, that's 
 
 offer'd. 
 Comes to the entertainer. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 1, I. 16. 
 
 Trixculo. 
 
 A very ancient and lish-like smell; a 
 kind not of the newest. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 2, I. 26. 
 
 Trixculo. 
 
 Misery acquaints a man with strange bed- 
 fellows. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 1,1. 40. 
 
 Prospeko. 
 
 For thou shalt find she Avill outstrij^ all 
 
 praise 
 And make it halt behind her. 
 
 Act^, Sc. 1, I. 10. 
 
 Prospero. 
 
 The strongest oaths are straw to the 
 fire'i th' blood. 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, I. 52. 
 
 Juno. 
 
 Honor, riches, marriage blessing, 
 Long continuance, and increasing. 
 Hourly joys be still upon you ! 
 Juno sings her blessings on you. 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, I. 106. 
 
 Prospero. 
 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision. 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous 
 
 palaces. 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself. 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve. 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant 
 
 faded. 
 Leave not a rack behind. We are such 
 
 stuff 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep. 
 
 Act 4:, Sc. 1, I. 151. 
 
 Prospero. 
 
 Though with their high wrongs I am 
 
 struck to the quick. 
 Yet with my noble reason, 'gainst my 
 
 fury 
 Do I take part: the rarer action is in 
 
 virtue than in vengence. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 25. 
 
 Prospero. 
 
 There, sir, stop: 
 Let us not burthen our remembrances with 
 A heaviness that's gone. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 198. 
 
 58 
 
The Winter's Tale. 
 
 LEONTES, King of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and virtuous Hermione, 
 once lived in the greatest harmony together. So happy was Leontes in the 
 love of this excellent lady that he had no wish ungratified, except that he sometimes 
 desired to see again, and to present to his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, 
 Polixenes, King of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were brought up together from 
 their infancy, but being, by the death of their fathers, called to reign over their respect- 
 ive kingdoms, they had not met for many years, though they frequently interchanged 
 gifts, letters and loving embassies. 
 
 At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came from Bohemia to the Sicilian 
 court, to make his friend Leontes a visit. 
 
 At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leontes. He recommended the 
 friend of his youth to the queen's j»articular attention, and seemed in the presence of 
 his dear friend and old companion to have his felicity quite completed. They talked 
 over old times: their school-days and their youthful pranks were remembered, and 
 recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful part in these conversations. 
 
 When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing to depart, Hermione, at the 
 desire of her husband, joined her entreaties to his that Polixenes would prolong his 
 visit. 
 
 And now began this good queen's sorrow; fov Polixenes, refusing to stay at the 
 request of Leontes, was won over by Hermione's gentle and persuasive words to put 
 off his departure for some weeks longer. Upon this, although Leontes had so long 
 known the integrity and honorable principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as the 
 excellent disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungovernable jeal- 
 ousy. Every attention Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by her husband's par- 
 ticular desire, and merely to please him, increased the unfortunate king's jealousy; 
 and from being a loving and true friend, and the best and fondest of husbands, 
 Leontes became suddenly a savage and inhuman monster. Sending for Camillo, one 
 of the lords of his court, and telling him of the suspicion he entertained, he com- 
 manded him to poison Polixenes. 
 
 Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that the jealousy of Leontes had 
 not the slightest foundation in trutl), instead of poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him 
 with the king his master's orders, and agreed to escape with him out of the Sicilian 
 dominions; and Polixenes, with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own 
 kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that time in the king's court, and 
 became the chief friend and favorite of Polixenes. 
 
 The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes still more; he went to the 
 queen's apartment, where the good lady was sitting with her little son Mamillus, who 
 was just beginning to tell one of his best stories to amuse his mother, when the king 
 entered, and taking the child away, sent Hermione to prison. 
 
 Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his motlier tenderly; and when 
 he saw her so dishonored, and found she was taken from him to be jiut into a prison, 
 
 59 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pined away by slow degrees, losing his 
 appetite and his sleep, till it was thought his grief would kill him. 
 
 The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, commanded Cleomenes and 
 Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there to inquire of the oracle at the temple 
 of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful to him. 
 
 When Hermione had heen a short time in prison, she was brought to bed of a 
 daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort from the sight of her pretty baby, 
 and she said to it, "My poor little prisoner, I am as innocent as you are." 
 
 Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited Paulina, who was the wife of 
 Antigonus, a Sicilian lord; and when the Lady Paulina heard her royal mistress was 
 brought to bed, she went to the prison where Hermione was confined; and she said to 
 Emilia, a lady who attended upon Hermione, "I pray you, Emilia, tell the good 
 queen, if her majesty dare trust me with her little babe, I will carry it to the king, its 
 father; we do not know how he may soften at the sight of his innocent child." "Most 
 worthy madam," replied Emilia, " I will acquaint the queen with your noble offer; 
 she was wishing to-day that she had anyfriend who would venture to present the child 
 to the king." "And tell her," said Paulina, " that I will speak boldly to Leontes in 
 her defense." "May you be forever blessed," said Emilia, " for your kindness to our 
 gracious queen!" Emilia then went to Hermione, who joyfully gave up her baby to 
 the care of Paulina, for she had feared that no one wovild dare venture to present the 
 child to its father. 
 
 Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the king's presence, 
 notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's anger, endeavored to prevent her, 
 she laid the babe at its father's feet, and Paulina made a noble speech to the king in 
 defense of Hermione, and she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, and 
 implored him to have mercy on his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's spirited 
 remonstrances only aggravated Leontes' displeasure, and he ordered her husband, 
 Antigonus, to take her from his presence. 
 
 When Paulina went away she left the little baby at its father's feet, thinking, 
 when he was alone Avith it, he would look upon it and have pity on its helpless inno- 
 cence. 
 
 The good Paulina was mistaken; for no sooner was she gone than the merciless 
 father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take the child and carry it out to 
 sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to perish. 
 
 Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed the orders of Leontes, for 
 he immediately carried the child on ship-board and put out to sea, intending to leave 
 it on the first desert coast he could find. 
 
 So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Hermione that he would not wait 
 for the return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had sent to consult the oracle of 
 Apollo at Delphos; but before the queen was recovered from her lying-in, and from 
 her grief for the loss of her precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial before 
 all the lords and nobles of his court. And when all the great lords, the judges, and 
 all the nobility of the land were assembled together to try Hermione, and that unhappy 
 queen was standing as a prisoner before her subjects to receive their judgment, Cle- 
 omenes and Dion entered the assembly and presented to the king the answer of the 
 oracle, sealed up; and Leontes commanded the seal to be broken and the words of the 
 oracle to be read aloud, and these were the words: "Hermione is innoce^it, PoUxeues 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Uameless, Caviillo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant and the king shall live 
 without an heir if that which is lost be ?iot found." The king would give uo credit to 
 the words of the oracle: he said it was a falsehood invented by the queen's friends, 
 and he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the queen ; but while Leontes 
 was speaking a man entered and told him that the Prince Mamillus, hearing his 
 mother was to be tried for her life, struck with grief and shame, had suddenly died. 
 
 Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear affectionate cbild who had lost 
 his life in sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted ; and Leontes, pierced to the heart by 
 the news, began to feel pity for his unhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the 
 ladies who were her attendants, to take her away, and use means for her recovery, 
 Paulina soon returned, and told the king that Hermione was dead. 
 
 When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his cruelty to her; 
 and now that he thought his ill usage had broken Hermione's heart, he believed her 
 innocent; and he now thought the words of the oracle were true, as he knew " if 
 that which was lost was not found," which he concluded was his young daughter, he 
 should be without an heir, the young Prince Mamillus being dead; and he Avould 
 give his kingdom now to recover his lost daughter: and Leontes gave himself up to 
 remorse, and passed many years in mournful thoughts and repentant grief. 
 
 The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to sea was driven by 
 a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of the good King Polixenes. 
 Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the little baby. 
 
 Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes where he had left his daughter, 
 for as he was going back to the ship a bear came out of the woods and tore him to 
 pieces; a just punishment on him for obeying the wicked order of Leontes. 
 
 The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione had made it very 
 fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a paper to its mantle, 
 widi the name of Perdita written thereon, and words obscurely intimating its high 
 birth and untoward fate. 
 
 This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. He was a humane man, and 
 so he carried tlie little Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it tenderly; but poverty 
 temped the shepherd to conceal the rich prize he had found: therefore he left that 
 l>art of the country, that no one might know where he got his riches, and with part 
 of Perdita's jewels he bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy shepherd. He 
 brought up Perdita as his own child, and she knew not she was any other than a 
 shepherd's daughter. 
 
 The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and though she had no better educa- 
 tion than that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did the natural graces she inherited 
 from her royal mother shine forth in her untutored mind, that no one from her 
 behavior would have known she had not been brought up in her father's court. 
 
 Polixenes, the King of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name was Florizel. As 
 this young prince Avas hunting near the shepherd's dwelling he saw the old man's 
 supposed daughter; and the beauty, modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita 
 caused him instantly to fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of Doricles, 
 and in the disguise of a private gentleman, became a constant visitor at the old shep- 
 herd's house. 
 
 Florizel's frequent absence from court alarmed Polixenes; and setting people to 
 watch his son, he discovered his love for the shepherd's fair daughter. 
 
 61 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who had preserved his 
 life from the fury of Leontes, and desired that he Avould accompany him to the house 
 of the shepherd, the supposed father of Perdita. 
 
 Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shepherd's dwelling 
 while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shearing: and though they were strang- 
 ers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest being made welcome, they were invited to 
 walk in and join in the general festivity. 
 
 Nothing but mirth and jollity was going forward. Tables were spread, and great 
 preparations were making for the rustic feast. Some lads and lasses were dancing 
 on the green before the house, while others of the young men were buying ribands, 
 gloves, and such toys of a peddler at the door. 
 
 While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and Perdita sat quietly in a 
 retired corner, seemingly more pleased with the conversation of each other than 
 desirous of engaging in the sports and silly amusements of those around them. 
 
 The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could know him; he 
 therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversation. The simple yet elegant 
 manner in which Perdita conversed with his son did not a little surprise Polixenes: 
 he said to Camillo, " This is the prettiest low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does 
 or says but looks like something greater than herself, too noble for this place." 
 
 Camillo replied, " Indeed she is the very queen of curds and cream." 
 
 " Pray, my good friend," said the king to the old shepherd, "what fair swain 
 is that talking with your daughter?" "They call him Doricles," replied the shep- 
 herd. " He says he loves my daughter; and to speak truth, there is not a kiss to 
 choose whicli loves the other best. If young Doricles can get her, she shall bring 
 him that he little dreams of:" meaning the remainder of Perdita's jewels; which, 
 after he had bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had carefully hoarded up 
 for her marrige portion. 
 
 Polixenes then addressed his son. " How now, young man!"' said he; "your 
 heart seems full of something that takes off your mind from feasting. "When I was 
 young, I used to load my love with presents; but you have let the peddler go, and 
 have bought your lass no toy." 
 
 The young prince, who little thought he was talking to the king his father, 
 replied, " Old sir, she j^rizes not such trifles; the gifts which Perdita expects from 
 me are locked up in my heart." Then turning to Perdita, he said to her, " hear 
 me, Perdita, before this ancient gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover; 
 he shall hear what I profess." Florizel then called upon the old stranger to be a wit- 
 ness to a solemn promise of marriage which he made to Perdita, saying to Polixenes, 
 "I 'praj you, mark our contract." 
 
 "Mark your divorce, young sir," said the King, discovering himself. Polixenes 
 then reproached his son for daring to contract himself to this low-born maiden, calling 
 Perdita "shepherd's brat, sheep-hook," and other disrespectful names : and threaten- 
 ing, if ever she suffered his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old shep- 
 herd her father, to a cruel death. 
 
 Tlie King then left them in great wrath, and ordered Camillo to follow him with 
 Prince Florizel. 
 
 When the King had departed, Perdita, whose royal nature was roused by Polix- 
 enes' reproaches, said, " Though we are all undone, I was not much afraid ; and once 
 
 62 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly that the self-same sun which shines 
 upon his palace hides not his face from our cottage, but looks on both alike." Then 
 sorrowfully she said, " But now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no 
 farther. Leave me, sir ; I will go milk my ewes, and weep." 
 
 The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit and propriety of Perdita's 
 behavior : and perceiving that the young prince was too deeply in love to give up his 
 mistress at the command of his royal father, he thought of a way to befriend the 
 lovers, and at the same time execute a favorable scheme he had in his mind. 
 
 Camillo had long known that Leontes, the King of Sicily, was become a true pen- 
 itent; and though Camillo was now the favored friend of King Polixenes, he could not 
 help wishing once more to see his late royal master and his native home. He therefore 
 proposed to Florizel and Perdita, that they should accompany him to the Sicilian court, 
 where he would engage Leontes should protect them, till, through his mediation, 
 they could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to their marriage. 
 
 To this proposal they joyfully agreed ; and Camillo, who conducted everything 
 relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go along with them. 
 
 The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's jewels, her baby clothes, 
 and the paper which he had found pinned to her mantle. 
 
 After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the old shejiherd, 
 arrived in safety at the court of Leontes. Leontes, who still mourned his dead Her- 
 mione and his lost child, received Camillo with great kindness, and gave a cordial 
 welcome to Prince Florizel. But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess, 
 seemed to engross all Leontes' attention : perceiving a resemblance between her and 
 his dead Queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh, and he said, such a lovely creat- 
 ure might his own daughter have been, if he had not so cruelly destroyed her. " And 
 then, too," said he to Florizel, " I lost the society and friendship of your brave father, 
 whom I now desire more than my life once again to look upon." 
 
 When the old shepherd heard how much notice the king had taken of Perdita, 
 and that he had lost a daughter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to comparing 
 the time when he found the little Perdita, with the manner of its exposure, the 
 jewels and other tokens of its high birth ; from all which it was impossible for him 
 not to conclude that Perdita and the king's lost daughter were the same. 
 
 Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina were present when the old 
 shepherd related to the king the manner in which he had found the child, and also 
 the circumstance of Antigouus' death, he having seen the bear seize upon him. He 
 showed the rich mantle in which Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the 
 child;and he produced a jewel which sheremembered Hermione had tiedabout Perdita's 
 neck ; and he gave up the paper which Paulinaknew to be the writing of her husband; 
 it could not be doubted that Perdita was Leontes' own daughter : but oh, the noble 
 struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her husband's death and joy that the oracle 
 was fulfilled, to the king's heir, his long-lost daughter, being found ! When Leontes 
 heard that Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt that Hermione was 
 not living to behold her child, made him that he could say nothing for a long time 
 but, " thy mother, thy mother !" 
 
 Paulina intewupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying to Leontes, that 
 she had a statue, newly finished by that rare Italian master, Julio Komano, which 
 was such a perfect resemblance of the queen that would his majesty be pleased to go 
 
 63 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 to her house and look upon it, he wonld almost be ready to think it was Hermione 
 herself. Thither then they all went ; the king anxious to see the semblance of his 
 Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the mother she never saw did look like. 
 
 When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed this famous statue, so per- 
 fectly did it resemble Hermione that all the king's sorrow was renewed at the sight : 
 for a long time he had no power to speak or move. 
 
 "I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina; "it the more shows your wonder. 
 Is not this statue very like your queen ? " 
 
 At length the king said, " 0, thus she stood, even with such majesty, when I 
 first wooed her. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this statue looks." 
 Paulina replied, " So much the more the carvers excellence, who has made the statue 
 as Hermione would have looked had she been living now. But let me draw the cur- 
 tain, sire, lest presently you think it moves. '^ 
 
 The king then said, "Do not draw the curtain! Would I were dead! See, Cam- 
 illo, would you not think it breathed? Her eye seems to have motion in it." "I 
 must draw the curtain, my liege," said Paulina. " You are so transported, you will 
 persuade yourself the statue lives." "■ sweet Paulina," said Leontes, "make me 
 think so twenty years together! Still methinks there is an air comes from her. What 
 fine chisel could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss her." 
 "Good my lord, forbear!" said Paulina. "The ruddiness upon her lips is wet; you 
 will stain your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?" "No, not 
 these twenty years," said Leontes. 
 
 Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and beholding in silent admira- 
 tion the statue of her matchless mother, said now, " And so long could I stay here, 
 looking upon my dear mother." 
 
 " Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leontes, "and let me draw the 
 curtain or prepare yourself for more amazement, I can make the statue move 
 indeed; ay, and descend from off the pedestal, and take 3'ou by the hand. But then 
 you will think, which I protest I am not, that I am assisted by some wicked powers." 
 
 "What you can make her do," said the astonished king, "I am content to look 
 upon. What you can make her speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy to make 
 her speak as move." 
 
 Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, which she had prepared for 
 the purpose, to strike up; and to the amazement of all the beholders, the statue came 
 down from oil the pedestal, and threw its arms around Leontes' neck. The statue 
 then began to speak, praying for blessings on her husband, and on her child, the 
 newly-found Perdita. 
 
 No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed her husband and 
 her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermione herself, the real and 
 living queen. 
 
 Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of Hermione, thinking that 
 -the only way to preserve her royal mistress' life; and with the good Paulina, Her- 
 mione had lived ever since, never choosing Leontes should know she was living, till 
 she heard Perdita was found; for though she had long forgiven the injuries which 
 Leontes had done to herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant daughter. 
 
 His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter found, the long-sorrowing 
 Leontes could scarcely support the excess of his own happiness. 
 
 64 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Nothing but congratulations and aflEectionate speeches were heard on all sides. 
 Now the delighted parents thanked Prince Florizel for loving their lowly seeming 
 daughter; and now they blessed the good old shepherd for preserving their child. 
 Greatly did Camillo and Paulina rejoice, that they had lived to see so good an end of 
 all their faithful services. 
 
 And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this strange and unlooked-for 
 joy, King Polixenes himself now entered the palace. 
 
 When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo, knowing that Camillo had long 
 wished to return to Sicily, he conjected he should find the fugitives here; and, follow- 
 ing them with all speed, he happened to arrive just at this, the happiest moment of 
 Leontes' life. 
 
 Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave his friend Leontes the unjust 
 jealously he had conceived against him, and they once more loved each other with all 
 the warmth of their first boyish friendship. And there was no fear that Polixenes 
 would now oppose his son's marriage with Perdita. She was no " sheep-hook" now, 
 but the heiress of the crown of Sicily. 
 
 Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-suffering Hermioue rewarded. 
 That excellent lady lived many years with her Leontes and her Perdita, the happiest 
 of mothers and queens. 
 
 65 
 
The Winter's Tale. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONjE. 
 
 Sicilian Lords. 
 
 Leontes, King of Sicilia. 
 Mamillius, his Son. 
 Camillo, 
 
 AnTIGOJv'US, 
 
 Cleomenes, 
 Dion, 
 
 Another Sicilian Lord. 
 
 RoGERO, a Sicilian Gentleman. 
 
 An Attendant on the young Prince 
 
 Mamillius. 
 Officers of a Court of Judicature. 
 PoLiXENES, King of Buhemia. 
 Florizel, his Son. 
 Archidamcs, a Bohemian Lord. 
 A Mariner. 
 Gaoler. 
 An Old Shepherd, reputed Father of 
 
 Cloivn, his Son. 
 
 Servant to the old Shepherd. 
 
 AuTOLYCUS, a Rogue. 
 
 Time, as Chorus. 
 
 HERMioiirE, QiLcen to Leontes. 
 
 Perdita, Daughter to Leontes and 
 
 Hermione. 
 Paulina, Wife to Antigonus. 
 
 [ Emilia, a Lady, 
 Tivo other Ladies, 
 
 attending the Queen. 
 
 -rw ' >■ Shepherdesses. 
 Dorcas, [ ^ 
 
 Lords, Ladies and Attendauts; Satyrs for 
 
 a dance ; Shepherds, Shepherdesses, 
 
 Guards, etc. 
 
 Perdita. 
 
 SCENE — Sometimes in Sicilia, sometimes in Bohemia. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. Sicilia. An antichamber in 
 
 Leontes' Palace. 
 
 Enter Camillo and Archidamus. 
 
 Arch. If you shall chance, Camillo, to 
 visit Bohemia, on the like occasion where- 
 on my services are now on foot, you shall 
 see, as I have said, great difference 
 betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia. 
 
 Cam. I think, this coming summer, 
 the king of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia 
 the visitation which he justly owes him. 
 
 Arch. Wherein our entertainment shall 
 shame us, we will be justified in our 
 loves: for, indeed, — 
 
 Cam. 'Beseech you, 
 
 Arch. Verily, I speak it in the free- 
 
 dom of my knowledge : we cannot with 
 such magnificence — in so rare — I know 
 
 not what to say. We will give you 
 
 sleepy drinks : that your senses, unintel- 
 ligent of our insufl&cience, may, though 
 they cannot praise us, as little accuse us. 
 
 Cam. You pay a great deal too dear, 
 for what's given freely. 
 
 Arch. Believe me, I speak as my un- 
 derstanding instructs me, and as mine 
 honesty puts it to utterance. 
 
 Cam. Sicilia cannot show himself 
 over-kind to Bohemia. They were trained 
 together in their childhoods; and there 
 rooted betwixt them then such an affec- 
 tion, which cannot choose but branch 
 now. Since their more mature dignities. 
 
 66 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 and royal necessities, made separation of 
 their society, their encounters, though 
 not personal, have been royally attornied, 
 with interchange of gifts, letters, loving 
 embassies; that they have seemed to be 
 together, though absent ; shook hands, as 
 over a vast; and embraced, as it were, 
 from the ends of opposed winds. The 
 heavens continue their loves ! 
 
 Arch. I think, there is not in the 
 world either malice, or matter, to alter it. 
 You have an unspeakable comfort of your 
 young prince Mamillius; it is a gentle- 
 man of the greatest promise, that ever 
 came into my note. 
 
 Cam. I very well agree with you in 
 the hopes of him : it is a gallant child ; 
 one that, indeed, physics the subject, 
 makes old hearts fresh : they, that went 
 on crutches ere he was born, desire yet 
 their life, to see him a man. 
 
 Arch. Would they else be content to 
 die? 
 
 Cam. Yes : if there were no other 
 excuse why they should desire to live. 
 
 Arch. If the king had no son, they 
 would desire to live on crutches till he 
 had one. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Eoom of State in the 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Hermione, 
 
 Mamillius, Camillo, and 
 
 Attendants. 
 
 Pol. Nine changes of the wat'ry star 
 
 have been 
 The Shepherd's note, since we have left 
 
 our throne 
 Without a burden: time as long again 
 Would be fill'd up, my brother, with our 
 
 thanks; 
 And yet we should for perpetuit;^ 
 Go hence in debt: And therefore, like a 
 
 cipher, 
 Yet standing in rich place, I multiply, . 
 
 With one we-thank-you, many thousands 
 
 more 
 That go before it. 
 
 Leon. Stay your thanks awhile; 
 
 And pay them when you part. 
 
 Pol. Sir, that's to-morrow. 
 
 I am question'd by my fears, of what may 
 
 chance. 
 Or breed upon our absence: That may 
 
 blow 
 No sneaping winds at home, to make us 
 
 say, 
 Tliis is put forth too truly! Besides, I have 
 
 stay'd 
 To tire your royalty. 
 
 Leon. We are tougher, brother. 
 
 Than you can put us to't. 
 
 Pol. No longer stay. 
 
 Leon. One seven-night longer. 
 Pol. Very sooth, to-morrow. 
 
 Leon. We'll part the time between's then : 
 
 and in that 
 I'll no gain-saying. 
 
 Pol. Press me not, 'beseech you so: 
 
 There is no tongue that moves, none, none 
 
 i' the world, 
 So soon as yours, could win me: so it 
 
 should now. 
 Were there necessity in your request, al- 
 though 
 'Twere needful I denied it. My affairs 
 Do even drag me homeward: which to 
 
 hinder. 
 Were, in your love, a whip to me; my stay. 
 To you a charge, and. trouble: to save 
 
 both. 
 Farewell, our brother. 
 Leon. Tongue-tied, our queen? speak 
 
 you. 
 Her. I had thought, sir, to have held 
 my peace, until 
 You had drawn oaths from him, not to 
 
 stay. You, sir. 
 Charge him too coldly: Tell him, you 
 
 are sure. 
 All in Bohemia's well: this satisfaction 
 
 67 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 The by-gone day proclaim'd; say this to 
 
 him, 
 He's beat from his best ward. 
 
 Leon. Well said, Hermione, 
 
 Her. To tell, he longs to see his son, 
 were strong; 
 But let him say so then, and let him go; 
 i3ut let him say so, and he shall not stay. 
 We'll thwack him hence with distaffs. — 
 Yet of your royal presence [To PoLix- 
 
 EifES.] I'll adventure. 
 The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia 
 You take my lord, I'll give him my com- 
 mission. 
 To let him there a month, behind the gest 
 Prefix'd for his parting: yet, good deed, 
 
 Leontes, 
 I love thee not a jar o' the clock behind 
 What lady she her lord. — You'll stay? 
 Pol. No, madam. 
 
 Her. Nay, but you will. 
 Pol. I may not, verily. 
 
 Her. Verily! 
 You put me off with limber vows: But I, 
 Though you would seek to unsphere the 
 
 stars with oaths. 
 Should yet say. Sir, no going. Verily, 
 You shall not go; a lady's verily is 
 As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet? 
 Force me to keep you as a prisoner. 
 Not like a guest; so you shall pay your 
 
 fees. 
 When you depart, and save your thanks. 
 
 How say you? 
 My prisoner? or my guest? by your dread 
 
 verily. 
 One of them you shall be. 
 
 Pol. Your guest then, madam: 
 
 To be your prisoner, should import offend- 
 ing; 
 Which is for me less easy to commit, 
 Than you to punish. 
 
 Her. Not your gaoler then, 
 
 But your kind hostess. Come, I'll ques- 
 tion you 
 Of my lord's tricks, and yours, when you 
 were boys: 
 
 You were pretty lordlings then. 
 
 Pol. We were, fair queen. 
 
 Two lads, that thought there was no more 
 
 behind. 
 But such a day to-morrow as to-day, 
 And to be boy eternal. 
 
 Her. Was not my lord the verier wag 
 
 o' the two? 
 Pol. We were as twinn'd lambs, that 
 did frisk i' the sun. 
 And bleat the one at the other: wliat we 
 
 chang'd, 
 Was innocence for innocence; we knew 
 
 not 
 The doctrine of ill-doing, no, nor dream'd 
 That any did: Had we pursued that life, 
 And our weak spirits ne'er been higher 
 
 rear'd 
 With stronger blood, we should have an- 
 
 swer'd heaven 
 Boldly, Not Guilty: the imposition clear'd. 
 Hereditary ours. 
 
 Her. By this we gather, 
 
 You have tripp'd since. 
 
 Pol. my most sacred lady. 
 
 Temptations have since then been born to 
 
 us: for 
 In those unfledg'd days was my wife a girl; 
 Your precious self had then not cross'd 
 
 the eyes 
 Of my young play-fellow. 
 
 Her. Grace to boot! 
 
 Of this make no conclusion; lest you say. 
 Your queen and I are devils: Yet, go on ; 
 ! The offences we have made you do, we'll 
 answer; 
 If you first sinn'd with us, and that with us 
 You did continue fault, and that you 
 
 slipp'd not 
 With any but with us. 
 
 Leo7i, Is he won yet? 
 
 Her. He'll stay, my lord. 
 Leon. At my request, he would not. 
 Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok'st 
 To better purpose. 
 
 Her. Never? 
 
 Leon. Never, but once. 
 
 03 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Her. What? have I twice said well? 
 when was't before? 
 
 I pr'ythee, tell me: Cram us with praise, 
 aud make us 
 
 As fat as tame things: One good deed, 
 dying tongueless, 
 
 Slaughters a thousand, waiting upon that. 
 
 Our praises are our wages: You may 
 ride ns. 
 
 With, one soft kiss, a thousand furlongs, 
 ere 
 
 With spur we heat an acre. But to the 
 goal;— 
 
 My last good deed was, to entreat his stay; 
 
 What was my first? it has an elder sister, 
 
 Or I mistake you: 0, would her name 
 were Grace 
 
 But once before I spoke to the purpose: 
 When? 
 
 Nay, let me have't, I long. 
 
 Leon. Why, that was when 
 
 Three crabbed months had sour'd them- 
 selves to death. 
 
 Ere I could make thee open thy white 
 hand. 
 
 And clap thyself my love; then didst thou 
 utter, 
 
 I am yo2irs forever. 
 
 Her. It is Grace, indeed. — 
 
 Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the pur- 
 pose twice: 
 
 The one for ever earned a royal husband; 
 
 The other, for some while a friend. 
 
 \^Qiving her hmul to Polixenes. 
 
 Leon. Too hot, too hot: \^Aside. 
 
 To mingle friendship far, is mingling 
 bloods. 
 
 I have tremor cordis on me: — my heart 
 dances; 
 
 But not for joy, — not joy.— This enter- 
 tainment 
 
 .May a free face put on: derive a liberty 
 
 From heartiness, from bounty, fertile 
 bosom, 
 
 Aud well become the agent: it may, I 
 grant: 
 
 But, as now they are, making practic'd 
 
 smiles. 
 As in a looking-glass; — and then to sigh, 
 
 as 'twere 
 The mort o' the deer; 0, that is enter- 
 tainment 
 My bosom likes not, nor my brows. — 
 
 Mamillius, 
 Art thou my boy? 
 
 Mam. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Leon. I'fecks? 
 
 Why that's my bawcock. What, hast 
 
 smutch'd thy nose? — 
 They say, it's a copy out of mine. Come, 
 
 captain. 
 We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, 
 
 captain: 
 And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf. 
 Are all call'd, neat, — Still virginalling 
 
 [Observi7ig Polixenes and Hebmione. 
 Upon his palm? — How now, you wanton 
 
 calf? 
 Art thou my calf? 
 
 Mam. Yes, if you will, my lord. 
 
 Leo7i. Thou want'st a rough pash, and 
 
 the shoots that I have, 
 To be full like me: — yet, they say we are 
 Almost as like as eggs; women say so. 
 That will say anything: but were they 
 
 false 
 As o'er-died blacks, as wind, as waters; 
 
 false 
 As dice are to be wish'd, by one that fixes 
 No born 'twixt his and mine; yet were it 
 
 true 
 To say this boy were like me. — Come, sir 
 
 page. 
 Look on me with your welkin eye: Sweet 
 
 villain ! 
 Most dear'st! mycollop! — can thy dam? — 
 
 may't be? 
 Affection! thy intention stabs the center: 
 Thou dost make possible, things not so 
 
 held, 
 Communicat'st with dreams; — (How can 
 
 this be?j— 
 With what's unreal thou co-active art, 
 
 69 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 And fellow'st nothing: Then, 'tis very- 
 credent, 
 Thou may'st co-join with something; and 
 
 thou dost: 
 (And that beyond commission; and I find 
 
 it,) 
 And that to the infection of my brains, 
 And hardening of my brows. 
 
 Pol. Wliat mean Sicilia? 
 
 Her. He something seems unsettled . 
 Pol. How, my lord ? 
 
 What cheer? how is't with you, best 
 brother? 
 Her. You look. 
 
 As if you held a brow of much distraction: 
 Are you mov'd, my lord? 
 
 Leon. No, in good earnest. — 
 
 How sometimes nature will betray its folly. 
 Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime 
 To hardei" bosoms! Looking on the lines 
 Of my boy's face, methoughts, I did recoil 
 Twenty-three years: and saw myself un- 
 
 breech'd. 
 In my green velvet coat; my dagger muz- 
 zled. 
 Lest it should bite its master, and so prove. 
 As ornaments oft do, too dangerous. 
 ' How like, methought, I then was to this 
 
 kernel. 
 This squash, this gentleman: — Mine honest 
 
 friend. 
 Will you take eggs for money? 
 Mam. No, my lord, I'll fight. 
 Leon. You will? why, happy man be 
 his dole! — My brother. 
 Are you so fond of your young prince, as 
 
 we 
 Do seem to be of ours? 
 
 Pol. If at home, sir, 
 
 He's all my exercise, my mirth, my mat- 
 ter: 
 Now my sworn friend, and then mine 
 
 enemy; 
 My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all: 
 He makes a July's day short as December; 
 And, with his varying childness, cures in 
 me 
 
 Thoughts that would thick my blood. 
 
 Leon. So stands this squire 
 
 Offic'd with me: We two will walk, my 
 
 lord, > 
 
 And leave you to your graver steps. — 
 
 Hermione, 
 How thou lov'st us, show in our brother's 
 
 welcome; 
 Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap. 
 Next to thyself, and my young rover, he's 
 Apparent to my heart. 
 
 Her. If you would seek us, 
 
 We are yours i' the garden: Shall's attend 
 
 you there? 
 Leon. To your own bents dispose you: 
 
 You'll be found, • 
 Be you beneath the sky: — I am angling 
 
 now, 
 Tliough you perceive me not how I give 
 
 line. 
 G-o to, go to ! 
 
 [Aside. Observing Polixenes and 
 Herjiioxe. 
 She arms her with the boldness of a wife 
 To her allowing husband! Gone already. 
 
 \^Exeunt Polixenes, Hermoine, 
 and Attendants. 
 Go, play, boy, play; — thy mother inlays, 
 
 and I 
 Play too; but so disgi'ac'd a part, whose 
 
 issue 
 Will hiss me to my grave; contempt and 
 
 clamor 
 Will be my knell. — Go, play, boy, play; — 
 
 There have been, 
 Or I am much deceiv'd, cuckolds ere now; 
 And many a man there is, e^^'en at this 
 
 present. 
 Now, Avhile I speak this, holds his wife by 
 
 the arm. 
 That little thinks she's false: Should all 
 
 despair. 
 That have revolted wives, the tenth of 
 
 mankind 
 Would hang themselves; but many a thou- 
 sand of us 
 
 70 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Have the disease, and feel't not. — How 
 now, boy? 
 Mam. I am like you, they say. 
 Leon. Why, that's some comfort. — 
 
 What! Camillo there? 
 
 Cam. Ay, my good lord. 
 Leon. Go play, Mamillius; thou'rt an 
 honest man. — 
 
 \_Exit Mamillius. 
 
 Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer. 
 Cam. You had much ado to make his 
 anchor hold. 
 When you cast out, it still came home. 
 Leon. Didst note it? 
 
 Cam. He would not stay at your peti- 
 tions ; made 
 His buisness more material. 
 
 Leon. Didst perceive it ? — 
 
 They're here with me already ; whisper- 
 ing, rounding, 
 Sicilia is a so-forth : 'Tis far gone, 
 When I shall gust it last. — How came't, 
 
 Camillo, 
 That he did stay ? 
 
 Cam. At the good queen's entreaty. 
 Leon. At the queen's be't : good should 
 be pertinent ; 
 But so it is, it is not. Was this taken 
 By any understanding pate but thine ? 
 For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in 
 More than the common blocks : — Not 
 
 noted, is't. 
 But of the finer natures ? by some severals. 
 Of head-piece extraordinary ? lower 
 
 messes. 
 Perchance, are to this business purblind : 
 say. 
 Cam. Business, my lord ? I think, 
 most understand 
 Bohemia stays here longer. 
 Leon. Ha ? 
 
 Cam. Stays here longer. 
 
 Leon. Ay, but why ? 
 Cam. To satify your highness, and 
 the entreaties 
 Of our most gracious mistress,. 
 
 Leon. Satisfy 
 The entreaties of your mistress? sat- 
 isfy ? 
 
 Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Ca- 
 millo, 
 With all the nearest things to my heart, 
 
 as well 
 My chamber-councils : wherein, priest- 
 like, thou 
 Hast cleans'd my bosom ; I from the de- 
 parted 
 Thy penitent ref orm'd : but we have been 
 Deceiv'd in thy integrity, deceiv'd 
 In that which seems so. 
 
 Cam. Be it forbid, my lord ! 
 
 Leon. To bide upon't ; — Thou art not 
 honest : or, 
 If thou inclin'st that way, thou art a 
 
 coward ; 
 Which boxes honesty behind, restraining 
 From course requir'd : Or else thou must 
 
 be counted 
 A servant, grafted in my serious trust, 
 And therein negligent ; or else a fool. 
 That seest a game play'd home, the rich 
 
 stake drawn. 
 And tak'st it allf or jest. 
 
 Cam. My gracious lord, 
 
 I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful ; 
 In every one of these no man is free. 
 But that his negligence, his folly, fear. 
 Amongst the infinite doings of the world, 
 Sometime puts forth : In your affairs, 
 
 my lord, 
 If ever I were willful-negligent, 
 It was my folly; if industriously 
 I play'd the fool, it was my negligence, 
 Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful 
 To do a thing, where I the issue doubted. 
 Whereof the execution did cry out 
 Against the non-performance, 'twas a 
 
 fear 
 Which oft affects the wisest : these, my 
 
 lord. 
 Are such allow'd infirmities, that honesty 
 Is never free of. But, 'beseech your 
 grace, 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE WINTEE'S TALE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Be plainer with me ; let me know my tres- 
 pass 
 
 By its own visage : if I then deny it, 
 
 'Tis none of mine. 
 
 Leon. Have not you seen, Camillo, 
 
 (But that's past doubt : you have ; or your 
 eye-glass 
 
 Is thicker than a cuckold's horn ;) or 
 heard, 
 
 (For, to a vision so apparent, rumor 
 
 Cannot be mute,) or thought, (for cogita- 
 tion 
 
 Resides not in that man, that does not 
 think it,) 
 
 My wife is slippery ? If thou wilt confess, 
 
 (Or else be impudently negative. 
 
 To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought,) 
 then say. 
 
 My wife's a woman that deserves a name 
 
 Too rank to mention : say it, and justify 
 it. 
 Cam. I would not be a stander-by, to 
 hear 
 
 My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 
 
 My present vengeance taken : 'Shrew my 
 heart. 
 
 You never spoke what did become you 
 less 
 
 Than this : which to reiterate, were sin 
 
 As deep as that, though true. 
 
 Leon. Is whispering nothing ? 
 
 Is leaning cheek to cheek ? stopping the 
 career 
 
 Of laughter with a sigh ? (a note infalli- 
 ble 
 
 Of breaking honesty :) wishing clocks 
 more swift ? 
 
 Hours, minutes ? noon, midnight ? and 
 all eyes blind 
 
 With the pin and web, but theirs, theirs 
 only. 
 
 That would unseen be wicked ? is this 
 nothing ? 
 
 Why, then the world, and all that's in't, 
 is nothing; 
 
 The covering sky is nothing ; Bohemia 
 nothing ; 
 
 My wife is nothing ; nor nothing have 
 
 these nothings. 
 If this be nothing. 
 
 Cam. Good my lord, be cured 
 
 Of this diseas'd opinion, and betimes; 
 For 'tis most dangerous. 
 
 Leon. Say, it be ; 'tis true. 
 
 Cam. No, no, my lord. 
 
 Leon. It is ; you lie, you lie : 
 
 I say, thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee; 
 
 Pre nounce thee a gross lout, a mindless 
 
 slave : 
 Or else a hovering temporizer, that 
 Canst with thine eyes at once see good and 
 
 evil, 
 Inclining to them both : Were my wife's 
 
 liver 
 Infected as her life, she would not live 
 The running of one glass. 
 
 Cam. Who does infect her ? 
 
 Leon. Why he, that wear? her like her 
 medal, hanging 
 About his neck, Bohemia: Who — if I 
 Had servants true about me, that bare eyes 
 To see alike mine honor as their profits, 
 Their own particular thrifts, — they 
 
 would do that 
 Which should undo more doing : Ay, and 
 
 thou. 
 His cupbearer, — whom I from meaner 
 
 form 
 Have bench'd, and rear'd to worship; 
 
 who may'st see 
 Plainly, as heaven sees earth, and earth 
 
 sees heaven. 
 How I am galled, — thou might'st bespice 
 
 a cup. 
 To give mine enemy a lasting wink ; 
 Which draught to me were cordial. 
 
 Cam. Sir, my lord, 
 
 I could do this : and that with no rash 
 
 potion. 
 But with a ling'ring dram, that should 
 
 not work 
 Maliciously like poison : But I can not 
 Believe this crack to be in my dread mis- 
 tress. 
 
 73 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 So sovereignly being honorable. 
 
 I have lov'd thee, 
 
 Leon. Make't thy question, and go rot ! 
 
 Dost think, I am so muddy, so unsettled. 
 
 To appoint myself in this vexation ? sully 
 
 The purity and whiteness of my sheets, 
 
 Which to preserve, is sleep ; which being 
 spotted. 
 
 Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps? 
 
 Give scandal to the blood o' the prince 
 my son, 
 
 Who, I do think is mine, and love as 
 mine ; 
 
 Without ripe moving to't ? Would I do 
 this ? 
 
 Could man so blench ? 
 
 Cam. I must believe you, sir ; 
 
 I do : and will fetch off Bohemia for't : 
 
 Provided, that when he's remov'd, your 
 highness 
 
 Will take again your queen, as yours at 
 first ; 
 
 Even' for your son's sake : and, thereby, 
 for sealing 
 
 The injury of tongues, in courts and king- 
 doms 
 
 Known and allied to yours. 
 
 Leon. Thou dost advise me, 
 
 Even so as I mine own course have set 
 down : 
 
 I'll give no blemish to her honor, none. 
 Cam. My lord. 
 
 Go then ; and with a countenance as clear 
 
 As friendship wears at feasts, keep with 
 Bohemia, 
 
 And with your queen: I am his cup- 
 bearer ; 
 
 If from me he have wholesome beverage. 
 
 Account me not your servant. 
 
 Leon. This is all ; 
 
 Do't, and thou hast the one half of my 
 heart ; 
 
 Do't not, thou split'st thine own. 
 
 Cam. I'll do't, my lord. 
 
 Leon. I will seem friendly, as thou 
 
 hast advis'd me. \^Exit. 
 
 Cam. miserable lady! — But, for 
 me. 
 
 What case stand I in ? I must be the poi- 
 souer 
 
 Of good Polixenes : and my ground to 
 do't 
 
 Is the obedience to a master ; one. 
 
 Who, in rebellion with himself, will have 
 
 All that are his, so too. — To do this deed. 
 
 Promotion follows : If I could find exam- 
 ple 
 
 Of thousands, that had struck anointed 
 kings. 
 
 And flourish'd after, I'd not do't : but 
 since 
 
 Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, 
 bears not one. 
 
 Let villainy itself forswear't. I must 
 
 Forsake the court : to do't, or no, is cer- 
 tain 
 
 To me a break-neck. Happy star, reign 
 now ! 
 
 Here comes Bohemia. 
 
 Enter Polixenes. 
 
 Pol. This is strange, methinks. 
 
 My favor here begins to warp. Not 
 
 speak ? 
 
 Good-day, Camillo. 
 
 Cam. Hail, most royal sir ! 
 
 Pol. What is the news i' the court ? 
 Cam. None rare, my lord. 
 
 Pol. The king hath on him such a 
 countenance. 
 As he had lost some province, and a 
 
 region, 
 Lov'd as he loves himself : even now I 
 
 met him 
 With customary compliment ; when he, 
 Wafting his eyes to the contrary, and fall- 
 ing 
 A lip of much contempt, speeds from me: 
 
 and 
 So leaves me, to consider what is breed- 
 ing. 
 That changes thus his manners. 
 
 Cam. I dare not know, my lord. 
 
 73 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE WIXTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Pol. How ! dare not ? do not. Do 
 you know, and dare not 
 
 Be intelligent to me ? ^Tis thereabouts ; 
 
 For, to yourself, what you do know, you 
 must ; 
 
 And can not say, you dare not. Good 
 Camillo, 
 
 Your chang'd complexions are to me a 
 mirror. 
 
 Which shows me mine chang'd to : for I 
 must be 
 
 A party in this alteration, finding 
 
 Myself thus altered with it. 
 
 Cam. There is a sickness 
 
 "Which puts some of us in distember : but 
 
 I can not name the disease ; and it is 
 caught 
 
 Of you that yet are well. 
 
 Pol. How ? caught of me ? 
 
 Make me not sighted like the basilisk : 
 
 I have looked on thousands, who have 
 sped the better 
 
 By my regard, but kill'd none so. Ca- 
 millo, 
 
 As you are certainly a gentleman ; thereto 
 
 Clerk-like, experienced, which no less 
 adorns 
 
 Our gentry, than our parents' noble 
 names. 
 
 In whose success we are gentle, — I be- 
 seech you. 
 
 If you know aught which does behoove my 
 knowledge 
 
 Thereof to be inform'd, imprison is not 
 
 In ignorant concealment. 
 
 Cam. I may not answer. 
 
 Pol. A sickness caught of me, and yet 
 I well ! 
 
 I must be answered. — Dost thou hear, 
 Camillo, 
 
 I conjure thee, by all the parts of man. 
 
 Which honor does acknowledge, — 
 whereof the least 
 
 Is not this suit of mine, — that thou de- 
 clare 
 
 What incidency thou dost guess of harm 
 
 Is creeping toward me ; how far off, how 
 
 near ; 
 Which way to be prevented, if to be ; 
 If not, how best to bear it. 
 
 Cam. Sir, I'll tell you ; 
 
 Since I am char'g'd in honor, and by him 
 That I think honorable : Therefore, 
 
 mark my counsel ; 
 Which must be even as swiftly follow'd as 
 I mean to utter it ; or both yourself and 
 
 me 
 Cry, lost, and so good night. 
 Pol. On, good Camillo. 
 
 Cam. I am appointed him to murder 
 
 you, 
 Pol. By whom, Camillo ? 
 
 Cam. By the king. 
 Pol. For what ? 
 
 Cam. He thinks, nay, with all confi- 
 dence he swears. 
 As he had seen't, or been an instrument 
 To vice you to't, — that you have touch'd 
 
 his queen 
 Forbiddenly. 
 
 Pol. 0, then my best blood turn 
 
 To an infected jelly; and my name 
 Be yok'd with his, that did betray the 
 I best ! 
 
 Turn then my freshest reputation to 
 A savor, that may strike the dullest nos- 
 tril 
 Where I arrive ; and my approach be 
 
 shunn'd, 
 Nay, hated too, worse than the greatest 
 
 infection 
 That e'er was heard, or read ! 
 
 Cam. Swear his thought over 
 
 By each particular star in heaven, and 
 By all their influences, you may as well 
 Forbid the sea for to obey the moon. 
 As or, by oath, remove, or counsel, shake 
 The fabric of his folly; whose foundation 
 Is pil'd upon his faith;, and will continue 
 The standing of his body. 
 
 Pol. How should this grow.'' 
 
 Cam. I know not : but, lam sure, 'tis 
 safer to 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Avoid what's grown, than question how 
 'tis born. 
 
 If therefore you dare trust my honesty, — 
 
 That lies enclosed in this trunk, which 
 you 
 
 Shall bear along impawn'd, — away to- 
 night. 
 
 Your followers I will whisper to the busi- 
 ness ; 
 
 And will, by twos, and threes, at several 
 posterns, 
 
 Clear them o' the city : For myself, I'll 
 put 
 
 My fortunes to your service, which are 
 here 
 
 By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain; 
 
 For, by the honor of my parents, I 
 
 Have utter'd truth: which if you seek to 
 prove, 
 
 I dare not stand by; nor shall you be 
 safer 
 
 Than one condemn'd; by the king's own 
 mouth, thereon 
 
 Is execution sworn. 
 
 Pol. I do believe thee; 
 
 I saw his heart in his face. Give me thy 
 hand; 
 
 Be pilot to me, and thy places shall 
 
 Still neighbor mine; My ships are ready, 
 
 and 
 My people did expect my hence departure 
 
 Two days ago. This jealousy 
 
 Is for a precious creature: as she's rare. 
 Must it be great ; and, as his person's 
 
 mighty. 
 Must it be violent; and as he does con- 
 ceive 
 He is dishonor'd by a man which ever 
 Profess'd to him, why, his revenges must 
 In that be made more bitter. Fear o'er- 
 
 shades me. 
 Good expedition be my friend, and com- 
 fort 
 The gracious queen, part of his theme, 
 
 but nothing 
 Of his ill-ta'en suspicion! Come, Camillo; 
 I will respect thee as a father, if 
 Thou bear'st my life off hence: Let us 
 
 avoid. 
 Cam. It is in mine authority to com- 
 mand 
 The keys of all the posterns: Please your 
 
 highness 
 To take the urgent hour : come, sir, 
 away. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. The same. 
 
 E^iter Hermione, Mamillius and Ladies. 
 
 Her. Take the boy to you: he so 
 troubles me, 
 'Tis past enduring. 
 
 1 Lady. Come, my gracious lord. 
 
 Shall I be ycur play-fellow? 
 
 Mam. No, I'll none of you. 
 
 1 Lady. Why, my sweet lord? 
 Mam. You'll kiss me hard; and speak 
 
 to me as if I were a baby still. — I 
 love you better. 
 
 2 Lady. And why so, my good lord? 
 Mam. Not for because 
 
 Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, 
 
 they say, 
 Become some women best; so that there 
 
 be not 
 Too much hair there, but in a semi-circle, 
 Or half-moon made with a pen. 
 
 2 Lady. Who taught you this? 
 
 Mam. I learn'd it out of women's 
 faces. — Pray now 
 What color are your eye-brows? 
 
 1 Lady Blue, my lord. 
 
 Mam. Nay, that's a mock; I have seen 
 a lady's nose 
 That has been blue, but not her eye- 
 brows. 
 
 75 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE WIXTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 2 Lady. Hark ye; 
 
 The queen, your mother, rounds apace: 
 
 we shall 
 Present our services to a fine new prince. 
 One of these days; and then you'd wan- 
 ton with us 
 If we would have you. 
 
 1 Lady. She is spread of late 
 
 Into a goodly bulk: Good time encounter 
 her! 
 Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you? 
 Come, sir, now 
 I am for you again: Pray you sit by us. 
 And tell's a tale. 
 
 Mam. Merry, or sad, shal't be? 
 Her. As merry as you will. 
 Main. A sad tale's best for winter: 
 I have one of sprites and goblins. 
 
 Her. Let's have that, sir. 
 Come on, sit down: — Come on, and do 
 
 your best 
 To fright me with your sprites; you're 
 powerful at it. 
 
 Mam. There was a man, 
 
 Her. N'ay, come, sit down; then on. 
 Jfam. Dwelt by a church-yard; — I 
 will tell it softly; 
 Yon crickets shall not hear it. 
 
 Her. Come on then. 
 
 And give't me in mine ear. 
 Enter Leontes, Aktigojsts, Lords, and 
 others. 
 Leon. Was he met there? his train? 
 
 Camillo with him? 
 1 Lord. Behind the tuft of pines I 
 meet them; never 
 Saw I men scour so on their way: I ey'd 
 
 them 
 Even to their ships. 
 
 Leon. How bless'd am I, 
 
 In my just censure? in my true opinion? — 
 Alack, for lesser knowledge I How ac- 
 
 curs'd, 
 In being so blest! — There may be in the 
 
 cup 
 A spider steep'd, and one may drink, 
 depart. 
 
 And yet partake no venom; for his knowl- 
 edge 
 Is not infected: but if one present 
 The abhorr'd ingredient to his eye, make 
 
 known 
 How he hath drank, he cracks his gorge, 
 
 his sides, 
 With violent hefts: — I have drank, and 
 
 seen the spider. 
 Camillo was his help in this, his pander: — 
 There is a plot against my life, my crown; 
 All's true that is mistrusted: — that false 
 
 villain. 
 Whom I employed, was jore-employ'd by 
 
 him: 
 He has discover'd my design, and I 
 Remain a pinch'd thing ; yea, a very trick 
 For them to play at will: — How came 
 
 the posterns 
 So easy open ? 
 
 1 Lord. By his great authority ; 
 
 Which often hath no less prevail'd than 
 
 so. 
 On your command. 
 
 Leon. I know't too well. 
 
 Give me the boy ; I am glad, you did not 
 
 nurse him : 
 Though he does bear some signs of me, 
 
 yet you 
 Have too much blood in him. 
 
 Her. What is this ? sport ? 
 
 Leon. Bear the boy hence, he shall not 
 
 come about her ; 
 Away with him : — and let her sport her- 
 self 
 With that she's big with ; for 'tis Polixenes 
 Has made thee swell thus. 
 
 Her. But I'd say. he had not. 
 
 And, I'll be sworn, you would believe my 
 
 saying, 
 Howe'er you lean to the nayward. 
 
 Leon. You, my lords. 
 
 Look on her, mark her well ; be but about 
 To say, she j'.s- a goodly lady, and 
 The justice of 3'our hearts will thereto 
 
 add, 
 'Tis pity she's not honest, honorable: 
 
 T6 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE WINTEE'S TALE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Praise her but for this her without-door 
 
 form, 
 (Which, on my faith, deserves high 
 
 speech,) and straight 
 The shrug, the hum, or ha; these petty 
 
 brands, 
 That cahimny doth use : — 0, I am out. 
 That mercy does; for calumny will sear 
 Virtue itself : — These shrugs, these hums, 
 
 and ha's, 
 "When you have said, she's goodly, come 
 
 between. 
 Ere you can say she's honest : But be it 
 
 known. 
 From him that has most cause to grieve it 
 
 should be, 
 She's an adultress. 
 
 Her. Should a villain say so, 
 
 The most replenish'd villain in the world. 
 He were as much more villain : you, my 
 
 lord. 
 Do but mistake. 
 
 Leon. You have mistook, my lady, 
 
 Polixenes for Leontes : thou thing. 
 Which I'll not call a creature of thy place. 
 Lest barbarism, making me the precedent, 
 Should a like language use to all degrees. 
 And mannerly distinguishment leave out 
 Betwixt the prince and beggar! — I have 
 
 said. 
 She's an adultress ; I have said with 
 
 whom : 
 More, she's a traitor ; and Camillo is 
 A federary with her ; and one that knows 
 What she should shame to know herself : 
 She's privy 
 To this their late escape. 
 
 Her. No, by my life, 
 
 Privy to none of this : How will this 
 
 grieve you, 
 When 3'on shall come to clearer knowledge, 
 
 that 
 You thus have publish'd me ? Gentle, my 
 
 lord, 
 You scarce can right me thoroughly then, 
 
 to say 
 You did mistake. 
 
 Leon. No, no ; if I mistake 
 
 In those foundations which I build upon. 
 The center is not big enough to bear 
 A school-boy's top. — Away with her to 
 
 prison : 
 He, who shall speak for her, is afar off 
 
 g^"lty. 
 But that he speaks. 
 
 Her. There's some ill planet reigns : 
 I must be patient, till the heavens look 
 With an aspect more favorable. Good my 
 
 lords, 
 I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
 Commonly are ; the want of which vain 
 
 dew. 
 Perchance, shall dry your pities : but I 
 
 have 
 That honorable grief lodg'd here, which 
 
 burns 
 Worse than tears drown : 'Beseecli you 
 
 all, my lords. 
 With thoughts so qualified as your chari- 
 ties 
 Shall best instruct you, measure me; — 
 
 and so 
 The king's will be perform'd ! 
 
 Leon. Shall I be heard ? 
 
 [To ihe Guards. 
 Her. Who is't that goes with me? — 
 
 'Beseech your highness. 
 My women may be with me ; for, you see. 
 My plight requires it. Do not weep, 
 
 good fools ; 
 There is no cause : when you shall know 
 
 your mistress 
 Has deserv'd prison, then abound in tears, 
 As I conic out : this action, I now go on. 
 Is for my better grace. — Adieu, my lord : 
 I never wish'd to see you sorry ; now, 
 I trust, I shall. My women, come; 
 
 you have leave. 
 Leon. Go do 3'our bidding; hence. 
 
 \_Exeunt Queen and Ladies. 
 1 Lord. 'Beseech your highness, call 
 
 the queen again. 
 Ant. Be certain what you do, sir; lest 
 
 your justice 
 
 77 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXK I. 
 
 Prove violence ; in the which, three great 
 
 ones suffer. 
 Yourself, your queen, your son. 
 
 1 Lord. For her, my lord, — 
 
 I dare my life lay down, and will do't, sir, 
 Please you to accept it, that the queen is 
 
 spotless 
 I'the eyes of heaven, and to you ; I mean. 
 In this which you accuse her. 
 
 A ?if. It it prove 
 
 She's otherwise, I'll keep my stables where 
 I lodge my wife ; I'll go in couples with 
 
 her; 
 Than when I feel, and see her, no further 
 
 trust her ; 
 For every woman in the world is false. 
 If she be. 
 
 Leo7i. Hold your peaces. 
 1 Lord. Good my lord, — 
 
 Ant. It is for you we speak, not for 
 ourselves : 
 You are abus'd, and by some putter on. 
 That will be damn'd for't; 'would I knew 
 the villan. 
 Leon. Cease ; no more 
 
 You smell this business with a sense as 
 
 cold 
 As is a dead man's nose: I see't and 
 
 feel't. 
 As you feel doing thus ; and see withal 
 The instruments that feel. 
 
 A)if. If it be so. 
 
 We need no grave to bury honesty ; 
 There's not a grain of it, the face to 
 
 sweeten 
 Of the whole dungy earth. 
 
 Leon. What ! lack I credit ? 
 
 1 Lord. I had rather you did lack, than 
 I, my lord. 
 Upon this ground : and more it would 
 
 content me 
 To have her honor true, than your sus- 
 picion ; 
 Be blam'd for't how you might. 
 
 Leo7i. Why, what need we 
 
 Commune with you of this ? but rather 
 follow 
 
 Our forceful instigation ? Our preroga- 
 tive 
 
 Call not your counsels ; but our natural 
 goodness 
 
 Imparts this : which, — if you (or stupi- 
 fied. 
 
 Or seeming so in skill) cannot, or will 
 not. 
 
 Relish as truth, like us; inform your- 
 selves. 
 
 We need no more of your advice : the mat- 
 ter. 
 
 The loss, the gain, the orderins,' on't, is 
 all 
 
 Properly ours. 
 Anl. And I wish, my liege. 
 
 You had only in your silent judgment 
 tried it. 
 
 Without more overture. 
 
 Leon. How could that be ? 
 
 Either thou art most ignorant by age. 
 
 Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo's 
 flight, 
 
 Added to their familiarity, 
 
 (Which was as gross as ever touch'd con- 
 jecture. 
 
 That lack'd sight only, nought for appro- 
 bation. 
 
 But only seeing, all othen circumstances 
 
 Made up to the deed,) doth push on this 
 proceeding. 
 
 Yet, for a greater conformation, 
 
 (For, in an act of this importance, 'twere 
 
 Most 23iteous to be wild.) I have despatch'd 
 in post, 
 
 To sacred Delphos, to Apollo's temple, 
 
 Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know 
 
 Of stuff'd sufficiency: Now, from the 
 oracle 
 
 They will bring all ; whose spiritual coun- 
 sel had, 
 
 Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well ? 
 1 Lord. Well done, my lord. 
 Leon. Though I am satisfied, and need 
 no more 
 
 Than what I know, yet shall the oracle 
 
 78 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Give rest to the minds of others ; such as 
 he, 
 
 Whose ignorant credulity will not 
 
 Come up to the truth: So have we 
 thought it good, 
 
 From our free person she should be con- 
 fin'd; 
 
 Lest that the treachery of the two, fled 
 hence. 
 
 Be left her to perform. Come, follow us ; 
 
 Vv'e are to speak in public : for this busi- 
 ness 
 
 Will raise us all. 
 Ant. \^Aside.^ To laughter, as I take it. 
 
 If the good truth were known. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. The outer Room of a Prison. 
 Enter Paulina and Attendants. 
 
 Paul. The keeper of the prison, — 
 call to him ; — 
 
 [Exit an Attendant. 
 
 Let him have knowledge who I am. — 
 
 Good lady ! 
 
 No court in Europe is too good for thee. 
 
 What dost thou then in prison ? — Now, 
 
 good sir, 
 
 Re-enter Attendant, loith the Keeper. 
 
 You know me, do you not ? 
 
 Keep. For a worthy lady. 
 
 And one whom much I honor. 
 
 Paul. Pray you, then. 
 
 Conduct me to the queen. 
 
 Keep. I may not, madam ; to the con- 
 trary 
 T have express commandment. 
 
 Paul. Here's ado. 
 
 To lock up honesty and honor from 
 
 The access of gentle visitors I Is it 
 
 lawful. 
 Pray you, to see her women ? any of 
 
 them ? 
 Emilia? 
 
 Keep. So please you, madam, to put 
 Apart these your attendants, I shall bring 
 Emilia forth. 
 
 Paul. I pray now, call her. 
 
 Withdraw yourselves. \Exexint Attend. 
 
 Keep. And, madam, 
 
 I must be present at your conference. 
 
 Paul. Well, be it so, pr'ythee. 
 
 {Exit Keeper. 
 Here's such ado to make no stain a stain. 
 As passes coloring. 
 
 Re-enter Keeper, ivitli Emilia. 
 
 Dear gentlewoman, how fares our gracious 
 
 lady ? 
 Erail. As well as one so great, and so 
 
 forlorn. 
 May hold together : on her frights and 
 
 griefs, 
 (Which never tender lady hath borne 
 
 greater,) 
 She is, something before her time, de- 
 
 liver'd. 
 Paul. A boy ? 
 
 Emil. A daughter, and a goodly babe. 
 Lusty, and like to live : the queen re- 
 ceives 
 Much comfort in't : says. My poor pris- 
 oner, 
 I am innocent as you. 
 
 Paul. I dare be sworn : — 
 
 These dangerous, unsafe lunes o' the 
 
 king ! beshrew them ! 
 He must be told oii't, and he shall : the 
 
 office 
 Becomes a woman best ; I'll take't uj-jon 
 
 me : 
 If I prove honey-mouth'd let my tongue 
 
 blister ; 
 And never to my red-look'd anger be 
 The trumpet any more : Pray you, 
 
 Emilia, 
 Commend my best obedience to the queen ; 
 If she dares trust me with her little babe, 
 I'll show't the king, and undertake to be 
 Her advocate to th' loudest : We do not 
 
 know 
 How he may soften at the sight of the 
 
 child ; 
 The silence often of pure innocence 
 
 79 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SC£>'E III. 
 
 Persuades, when speaking fails. 
 
 Emil. Most Avorthy madam. 
 
 Your honor, and your goodness, is so evi- 
 dent. 
 
 That your free undertaking cannot miss 
 
 A thriving issue ; there is no lady living 
 
 So meet for this great errand : Please 
 your ladyship 
 
 To visit the next room, I'll presently 
 
 Acquaint the queen of 3'our most noble 
 offer ; 
 
 Who, but to-day, hammer'd of this design ; | 
 
 But durst not tempt a minister of honor, 
 
 Lest she should be denied. 1 
 
 Paul. Tell her, Emilia, 
 
 I'll use that tongue I have : if wit flow ■ 
 from it, 
 
 As boldness from my bosom, let it not be 
 doubted 
 
 I shall do good. 
 
 Emil. Now be you blest for it ! 
 
 I'll to the queen : Please j'ou, come some- 
 thing nearer. 
 
 • Keep. Madam, if't j)lease the queen to 
 send the babe, 
 
 I know not what I shall incur, to pass it. 
 
 Having no warrant. 
 
 Paul. You need not fear it, sir : 
 
 The child was prisoner to the womb; and 
 is. 
 
 By law and process of great nature, 
 thence 
 
 Freed and enfranchis'd : not a party to 
 
 The anger of the king; nor guilty of. 
 
 If any be, the trespass of the queen. 
 Keep. I do believe it. 
 Paul. Do not you fear : upon 
 
 Mine honor, I will stand 'twixt you and 
 danger. \_Exeunt. 
 
 ScEXE III. A Room in the Palace. ■ 
 
 Enter Leoxtes, Antigoxus, Lords, a7id 
 other Attendants. 
 Leon. Nor night, nor day, no rest : It 
 is but weakness 
 To bear the matter thus : mere weakness, 
 if 
 
 The cause were not in being; — parte' 
 
 the cause, 
 She, the adultress; — for the harlot king 
 Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the 
 
 blank 
 And level of my brain, plot-proof : but 
 
 she 
 I can hook to me : Say, that she were 
 
 gone, 
 Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest 
 Might come to me again. Who's 
 
 there ? 
 1 Atte7i. My lord? 
 
 \^Aclvancii)g. 
 Leon. How does the boy ? 
 1 Alien. He took good rest to-night : 
 'Tis hop'd, his sickness is discharg'd. 
 
 Leon. To see. 
 
 His nobleness ! 
 
 Conceiving the dishonor of his mother. 
 He straight declin'd, droop'd, took it 
 
 deeply ; 
 Fasten'd and fix'd the shame on't in him- 
 self ; 
 Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his 
 
 sleep. 
 And downright languish "d. — Leave me 
 
 solely — go 
 See how he fares. \Exit Attend.] — Fye, 
 
 fye ! no thought of him ; 
 The very thought of my revenges that 
 
 way 
 Recoil upon me ; in himself too mighty ; 
 And in his parties, his alliance, — Let him 
 
 be, 
 Until a time may serve : for present ven- 
 geance. 
 Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes 
 Laugh at me; make their pastime at my 
 
 sorrow : 
 They should not laugh if I could reach 
 
 them ; nor 
 Shall she, within my power. 
 
 Enter Paulixa, toith a Child. 
 1 Lord. You must not enter. 
 
 Paul. Nay, rather, good my lords, be 
 
 second to me : 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 Eear you his tyrannous passion more, 
 
 alas, 
 Than the queen's life ? a gracious inno- 
 cent soul ; 
 More free, than he is jealous. 
 Ant. That's enough. 
 1 Atten. Madam, he hath not slept to- 
 night ; commanded 
 None should come at him. 
 
 Paul. Not so hot, good sir ; 
 
 I come to bring him sleep. 'Tis such as 
 
 you,— 
 That creep like shadows by him, and do 
 
 sigh 
 At each his needless heaving, — such as 
 
 you 
 Nourish the cause of his awaking : I 
 Do come with words asmed'cinal as true ; 
 Honest, as either ; to purge him of that 
 
 humor, 
 That presses him fi-om sleep. 
 
 Leo7i. What noise there, ho ? 
 
 Paul. No noise, my lord; but needful 
 conference. 
 About some gossips for your highness. 
 
 Leon. How ? 
 
 Away with that audacious lady ; Anti- 
 
 gonus, 
 1 charg'd thee, that she should not come 
 
 about mo ; 
 I knew, she would. 
 
 Ant. I told her so, my lord, 
 
 On your displeasure's peril, and on mine. 
 She should not visit you. 
 
 Leon. What, canst not rule her ? 
 
 Paul. From all dishonesty, he can ; 
 in this, 
 (Unless he take the course that you have 
 
 done, 
 'Commit me, for committing lionor,) 
 
 trust it. 
 He shall not rule me. 
 
 Ant. Lo you now; you hear ! 
 
 When she will take the rein, I let her 
 
 run ; 
 But she'll not stumble. 
 
 Paul. Good my liege, I come, — 
 
 And, I beseech you, hear me, who profess 
 Myself your loyal servant, your physician. 
 Your most obedient counsellor ; yet that 
 
 dare 
 Less appear so, in comforting your evils, 
 Than such as most seem yours : — I say, I 
 
 come 
 From your good queen. 
 
 Leon. Good queen ! 
 
 Paul. Good queen, my lord, good 
 queen : I say good queen ; 
 And would by combat make her good, so 
 
 were I 
 A man, the worst about you. 
 
 Leon. Force her hence. 
 
 Paul. Let him, that makes but trifles 
 of his eyes. 
 First hand me : on mine own accord I'll 
 
 ofE; 
 But first, I'll do my errand. — The good 
 
 queen, 
 For she is good, hath brought you forth 
 
 a daughter; 
 Here 'tis ; commends it to your blessing. 
 [Laying doivn the child. 
 Leon. Out! 
 
 A very witch ! Hence with her, out o' 
 A most intelligencing bawd ! [door: 
 
 Paul. Not so : 
 
 I am as ignorant in that, as you 
 In so entitling me : and no less honest 
 Than you are mad ; which is enough, I'll 
 
 warrant. 
 As this world goes, to pass for honest. 
 
 Leon. Traitors ! 
 
 Will you not push her out ? Give her 
 
 the bastard : — 
 Thou, dotard, [To Antigonus.] thou art 
 
 woman-tir'd, unroosted 
 By thy dame Partlet here, — take up the 
 
 bastard ; 
 Take't up, I say; give't to thy crone. 
 
 Paul. For ever 
 
 Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou 
 Tak'st up the princess, by that forced 
 baseness 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCE.VE III. 
 
 Which he has put upon't ! 
 
 Leon. He dreads his wife. 
 
 Paul. So, I would, you did : then, 
 
 'twere past all doubt. 
 You'd call your children yours. 
 
 Leon. A nest of traitors ! 
 
 Ant. I am none, by this good light. 
 Paul. Nor I ; nor any. 
 
 But one, that's here ; and that's himself : 
 
 for he 
 The sacred honor of himself, his queen's. 
 His hopeful son's, his babe's, betrays to 
 
 slander. 
 Whose sting is sharper than the sword's ; 
 
 and will not 
 (For as the case now stands, it is a curse 
 He can not be compell'd to't,) once 
 
 remove 
 The root of his opinion, which is rotten, 
 As ever oak, or stone, was sound. 
 
 Leon. A callat, 
 
 Of boundless tongue ; who late hath beat 
 
 her husband, 
 And now baits me I — This brat is none 
 
 of mine ; 
 It is the issue of Polixenes : 
 Hence with it ; and, together with the 
 
 dam. 
 Commit them to the fire. 
 
 Paul. It is yours ; 
 
 And, might we lay the old proverb to 
 
 your charge. 
 So like you, 'tis the worse. — Behold, my 
 
 lords. 
 Although the print be little, the whole 
 
 matter 
 And copy of the father : eye, nose, lip. 
 The trick of his frown, his forehead ; nay, 
 
 the valley. 
 The pretty dimples of his chin, and 
 
 cheek ; his smiles ; 
 The very mold and frame of hand, nail, 
 
 finger : — 
 And thou, good goddess nature, which 
 
 hast made it 
 So like to him that got it, if thou hast 
 
 The ordering of the mind too, 'mongst 
 
 all colors 
 No yellow in't ; lest she suspects as he 
 
 does. 
 Her children not her husband's ! 
 
 Leon. A gross hag ! — 
 
 And lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd. 
 That wilt not stay her tongue. 
 
 Ant. Hang all the husbands 
 
 That can not do that feat, you'll leave 
 
 yourself 
 Hardly one subject. 
 
 Leon. Once more, take her hence. 
 
 Paul. A most unworthy and unnat- 
 ural lord. 
 Can do no more. 
 
 Leon. I'll have thee burn'd. 
 
 Paul. I care not : 
 
 It is an heretic that makes the fire. 
 Not she, which burns in't. I'll not call 
 
 you tyrant ; 
 But this most cruel usage of your queen 
 (Not able to produce more accusation 
 Than your own weak-hiug'd fancy) 
 
 something savors 
 Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you. 
 Yea, scandalous to the world. 
 
 Leon. On your allegiance, 
 
 Out of the chamber with her. Were I a 
 
 tyrant, 
 Where were her life? she durst not call 
 
 me so. 
 If she did know me one. Away witli 
 
 her. 
 Paul. I pray you, do not push me; 
 
 I'll be gone. 
 Look to your babe, my lord ; 'tis yours: 
 
 Jove send her 
 A better guiding spirit! — What need 
 
 these hands? — 
 You, that are thus so tender o'er his fol- 
 lies. 
 Will never do him good, not one of you. 
 So, so: — Farewell; Ave are gone. [Exit. 
 Leon. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy 
 
 wife to this. — 
 
 K2 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE WINTEK'S TALE. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 My child? away vvith't! even thou, that 
 
 hast 
 A heart so tender o'er it, take it hence, 
 And see it instantly consumed with fire; 
 Even thou, and none but thou. Take it 
 
 up straight: 
 "Within this hour bring me word 'tis 
 
 done, 
 (And by good testimony,) or I'll seize thy 
 
 life. 
 With what thou else call'st thine: If thou 
 
 refuse. 
 And wilt encounter with my wrath, say 
 
 so; 
 The bastard brains with these my proper 
 
 hands 
 Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire; 
 For thou sett'st on thy wife. 
 
 Ant. I did not, sir; 
 
 These lords, my noble follows, if they 
 
 please. 
 Can clear me in't. 
 
 1 Lord. We can; my royal liege. 
 
 He is not guilty of her coming hither. 
 Leon. You are liars all. 
 1 Lord. 'Beseech your highness, give 
 
 us better credit: 
 We have always truly serv'd you; and 
 
 beseech 
 So to esteem of us: And on our knees we 
 
 beg, 
 (As recompense of our dear services. 
 Past, and to come,) that you do change 
 
 this purpose; 
 Which being so horrible, so bloody, must 
 Lead on to some foul issue: We all kneel. 
 Leo7i. I am a feather for each wind 
 
 that blows: — 
 Shall I live on, to see this bastard kneel 
 And call me father? Better burn it now. 
 Than curse it then. But, be it; let it 
 
 live: 
 It shall not neither. — You, sii-, come you 
 
 hither; 
 
 [To Antigonus. 
 You, that have been so tenderly officious 
 With lady Margery, your midwife, there. 
 
 To save this bastard's life: — for 'tis a bas- 
 tard. 
 
 So sure as this beard's gray, — what will 
 you adventure 
 
 To save this brat's life? 
 
 Anl. Anything, my lord, 
 
 That my ability may undergo, 
 
 And nobleness impose: at least thus 
 much; 
 
 I'll pawn the little blood which I have 
 left, 
 
 To save the innocent: anything possible. 
 Leon. It shall be possible: Swear by 
 this sword, 
 
 Thou wilt perform my bidding. 
 
 Ant. I will, my lord. 
 
 Leon. Mark, and perform it; (seest 
 thou?) for the fail 
 
 Of any point in't shall not only be 
 
 Death to thyself, but to thylew'd-tongu'd 
 wife; 
 
 Whom, for this time, we pardon. We 
 enjoin thee. 
 
 As thou art liegeman to us, that thou 
 carry 
 
 This female bastard hence; and that thou 
 bear it 
 
 To some remote and desert place, quite 
 out 
 
 Of our dominions; and xhat there thou 
 leave it. 
 
 Without more mercy, to its own protec- 
 tion. 
 
 And favor of the climate. As by strange 
 fortune 
 
 It came to us, I do in justice charge 
 thee, — 
 
 On thy soul's peril, and thy body's tor- 
 ture, — 
 
 That thou commend it strangely to some 
 place. 
 
 Where chance may nurse, or end it: Take 
 it up. 
 Ant. I swear to do this, though a pres- 
 ent death 
 
 Had been more merciful. — Come on, poor 
 babe: 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Some powerful spirit instruct the kites 
 
 and ravens. 
 To be thy nurses! "Wolves, and bears, 
 
 they say. 
 Casting their savageness aside, have done 
 Like offices of pity. — Sir, be prosperous 
 In more than this deed doth require! and 
 
 blessing, 
 Against this cruelty, fight on thy side. 
 Poor thing, condemn'd to loss! 
 
 {Exit wiili the child. 
 Leon. No, I'll not rear 
 
 Another's issue. 
 
 1 Atten. Please your highness, posts. 
 From those you sent to the oracle, are 
 
 come 
 An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion, 
 
 Being well arriv'd from Delphos, are both 
 
 landed, 
 Hasting to the court. 
 
 1 Lord. So please you, sir, their speed 
 Hath been beyond account. 
 
 Leon. Twenty-three days 
 
 They have been absent: 'Tis good speed; 
 
 foretells. 
 The great Apollo suddenly will have 
 The truth of this appear. Prepare you, 
 
 lords; 
 Summon a session, that we may arraign 
 Our most disloyal lady: for as she hath 
 Been publicly accus'd, so shall she have 
 A just and open trial. While she lives, 
 My heart will be a burden to me. Leave 
 
 me ; 
 And think upon my bidding. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT 
 
 ScEN"E I, A Street in some Town. 
 
 Enter CLEOMEifES and Diox. 
 
 Cleo. The climate's delicate; the air 
 most sweet; 
 
 Fertile the isle; the temple much surpass- 
 ing 
 
 The common praise it bears. 
 
 Dion. I shall report. 
 
 For most it caught me, the celestial hab- 
 its, 
 
 (Methinks, I so should term them,) and 
 the reverence 
 
 Of the grave wearers. 0, the sacrifice! 
 
 How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly 
 
 It was i'the offering! 
 
 Cleo. But, of all, the burst 
 
 And the ear-deafening voice o'the oracle. 
 
 Kin to Jove's thunder, so surpris'd my 
 sense. 
 
 That I was nothing. 
 
 Dion. If the event o'the journey 
 
 Prove as successful to the queen, — 0, be't 
 so! — 
 
 As it hath been to us, rare, pleasant, 
 speedy. 
 
 III. 
 
 The time is worth the use on't. 
 
 Cleo. Great Apollo 
 
 Turn all to the best! These proclama- 
 tions. 
 
 So forcing faults upon Hermione, 
 
 I little like. 
 Dion. The violent carriage of it 
 
 Will clear, or end, the business: When 
 the oracle. 
 
 Thus (by Apollo's great divine seal'd up,) 
 
 Shall the contents discover, something 
 rare. 
 
 Even then, will rush to knowledge. 
 
 Go, — fresh horses; — 
 
 And gracious be the issue! [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Court of Justice. 
 
 Leontbs, Lords, and Officers, appear 
 properly seated. 
 
 Leon. The sessions (to our great grief, 
 
 we pronounce,) 
 Even pushes 'gainst our heart: The party 
 
 tried. 
 The daughter of a king; our wife; and 
 
 one 
 
 8i 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 Of US too much belov'd. — Let us be 
 
 clear'd 
 Of being tyrannous, since we so openly 
 Proceed in justice; which shall have due 
 
 course, 
 
 Even to the guilt, or the purgation. 
 
 Produce the prisoner. 
 
 Offi. It is his highness' pleasure, that 
 
 the queen 
 Appear in person here in court. — Silence! 
 
 Hermione is brought in, gxiarded; 
 Paulina and Ladies attending. 
 
 Leon. Read the indictment. 
 Offi. Hermione, qxieen to the toorthy 
 Leontes, Tcing of Sicilia, thou art here 
 accused and arraigned of high treason, in 
 committing adultery with Polixenes, king 
 of Bohemia; and conspiring tvith Oamillo 
 to take away the life of our sovereign lord 
 the king, the royal husband; the pretense 
 whereof being by circumstances partly 
 laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to 
 the faith and allegiance of a true subject, 
 didst counsel and aid them, for their bet- 
 ter safely to fly aioay by night. 
 
 Her. Since what I am to say, must be 
 
 but that 
 Which contradicts my accusation; and 
 The testimony on my part, no other 
 But what comes from myself; it shall 
 
 scarce boot me 
 To say. Not guilty: mine integrity. 
 Being counted falsehood, shall, as I 
 
 express it. 
 Be so receiv'd. But thus, — If powers 
 
 divine 
 Behold our human actions, (as they do,) 
 I doubt not then, but innocence shall 
 
 make 
 False accusation blush, and tyranny 
 Tremble at patience. — You, my lord, best 
 
 know, 
 (Who least will seem to do so,) my past 
 
 life 
 Hath been as continent, as chaste, as 
 
 true, 
 
 As I am now unhappy; which is more 
 Than history can pattern, though devis'd. 
 And play'd to take spectators: For behold 
 
 me, — 
 A fellow of the royal bed, which owe 
 A moiety of the throne, a great king's 
 
 daughter. 
 The mother to a hopeful prince, — here 
 
 standing 
 To prate and talk for life, and honor, 
 
 'fore 
 Who please to come and hear. For life, 
 
 I prize it 
 As I weigh grief, which I would spare: 
 
 for honor, 
 'Tis a derivative from me to mine. 
 And only that I stand for. I appeal 
 To your own conscience, sir, before Polix- 
 enes 
 Came to your court, how I was in your 
 
 grace. 
 How merited to be so; since he came. 
 With what encounter so uncurrent I 
 Have strain'd to appear thus: if one jot 
 
 beyond 
 The bound of honor; or, in act, or will. 
 That way inclining; harden'd be the 
 
 hearts 
 Of all that hear me, and my near'st of 
 
 kin 
 Cry, Fye upon my grave ! 
 
 Leon. I ne'er heard yet. 
 
 That any of these bolder vices wanted 
 Less impudence to gainsay what they did. 
 Than to perform it first. 
 
 Her. That's true enough; 
 
 Though 'tis a saying, sir, not due to me. 
 
 Leon. You will not own it. 
 
 Her. More than mistress of. 
 
 Which comes to me in name of fault, I 
 
 must not 
 At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, 
 (With whom I am accus'd,) I do confess, 
 I lov'd him, as in honor he requir'd; 
 With such a kind of love, as might 
 
 become 
 A lady like me; with a love, even such. 
 
 85 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE WIJs^TER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 So, and no other, as yourself commanded: 
 Which not to have done, I think, had 
 
 been in me 
 Both disobedience and ingratitude. 
 To you, and toward your friend; whose 
 
 love had spoke. 
 Even since it could speak, from an infant, 
 
 freely. 
 That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, 
 I know not how it tastes; though it be 
 
 dish'd 
 For me to try how: all I know of it 
 Is, that Camillo was an honest man ; 
 And, why he left your court, the gods 
 
 themselves, 
 Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. 
 Leon. You knew of his departure, as 
 
 you know 
 What you have undertaken to do in his 
 
 absence. 
 Her. Sir, 
 You speak a language that I understand 
 
 not: 
 My life stands in the level of your dreams. 
 Which I'll lay down. 
 
 Leon. Your actions are my dreams; 
 You had a bastard by Polixenes, 
 And I but dream'd it: — As you were past 
 
 all shame, 
 (Those of your fact are so,) so past all 
 
 truth: 
 Which to deny, concerns more than 
 
 avails: 
 For as 
 Thy brat hath been cast out, like to 
 
 itself, 
 Iso father owning it, (which is, indeed, 
 More criminal in thee, than it,) so thou 
 Shalt feel our Justice; in whose easiest 
 
 passage, 
 Look for no less than death. 
 
 Her. Sir, spare your threats; 
 
 The bug, which you would fright me 
 
 with, I seek. 
 To me can life be no commodity: 
 The crown and comfort of my life, your 
 
 favor 
 
 I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, 
 
 But know not how it went: My second 
 
 And first-fruits of my body, from his 
 
 presence, 
 I am barr'd, like one infectious: My third 
 
 comfort, 
 Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast. 
 The innocent milk in its most innocent 
 
 mouth. 
 Haled out to murder: Myself on every 
 
 post 
 Proclaimed a strumpet; With immodest 
 
 hatred. 
 The child-bed privilege denied, which 
 
 'longs 
 To women of all fashion: — Lastly, hur- 
 ried 
 Here to this place, i' the open air, before 
 I have got strength of limit. Now, my 
 
 liege. 
 Tell me what blessings I have here alive. 
 That I should fear to die? Therefore, 
 
 proceed. 
 But yet, hear this; mistake me not; 
 
 No! life, 
 I prize it not a straw: — but for mine 
 
 honor, 
 (Which I would free,) if I shall be con- 
 
 demn'd 
 Upon surmises ; all proofs sleeping else. 
 But Vy^hat your jealousies awake ; I tell 
 
 you, 
 'Tis rigor, and not law. — Your honors all, 
 I do refer me to the oracle ; 
 Apollo be my judge. 
 
 1 Lord. This your request 
 
 Is altogether just : therefore, bring forth. 
 And in Apollo's name, his oracle, 
 
 [Exeunt certain Officers. 
 
 Her. The Emperor of Russia was my 
 father : 
 0, that he were alive, and here beholding 
 His daughter's trial! that he did but see 
 The flatness of my misery; yet with eyes 
 Of pity, not revenge! 
 
 66 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 Re-enter Officers witli Cleomenes 
 and Dion. 
 
 Offi. You here shall swear upon this 
 
 sword of justice. 
 That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have 
 Been both at Delphos ; and from therce 
 
 have brought 
 This seaFd up oracle, by the hand de- 
 
 liver'd 
 Of great Apollo's priest: and that, since 
 
 then, 
 You have not dar'd to break the holy seal, 
 Nor read the secrets in't. 
 
 DIq^^ f All this we swear. 
 
 Leon. Break up the seals and read. 
 
 Offi. \^Reads.^ Hermione is chaste, 
 Polixenes Mameless, Camillo a true sub- 
 ject , Leontes a jealous tyrant. Ids innocent 
 hate truly 'begotten; and the king shall live 
 without an heir, if that, which is lost, be 
 not found. 
 
 Lords. Now blessed be the great 
 Apollo! 
 
 Her. Praised . 
 
 Leon. Hast thou read truth? 
 
 Offi. Ay, my lord ; even so 
 
 As it is here set down. 
 
 Leo7i. There is no truth at all i' the 
 oracle: 
 The sessions shall proceed; this is mere 
 falsehood. 
 
 Enter a Servant, hastily. 
 
 Serv. My lord the king, the king! 
 
 Leon. What is the business? 
 
 Serv. sir, I shall be hated to report 
 it: 
 The prince your son, with mere conceit 
 
 and fear 
 Of the queen's speed, is gone. 
 Leon. How! gone? 
 
 Serv. Is dead. 
 
 Leon. Apollo's angry: and the heavens 
 themselves 
 Do strike at my injustice. [IlEEiiioxE 
 faints.] How now there? 
 
 Paid. This news is mortal to the queen: 
 — Look down. 
 And see what death is doing. 
 
 Leon. Take her hence: 
 
 Her heart is but o'ercharg'd; she will re- 
 cover. — 
 I have too much believ'd mine own suspi- 
 cion: — 
 'Beseech you, tenderly apply to her 
 Some remedies for life. — Apollo, pardon 
 [Bxeunt Paulina and Ladies, tuith 
 Hermoine. 
 My great profaneness 'gainst thine 
 
 oracle! — 
 I'll reconcile me to Polixenes; 
 New woo my queen; recall the good Cam- 
 illo; 
 Whom I reckon a man of truth, of mercy: 
 For, being transported by my jealousies 
 To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I 
 
 chose 
 Camillo for the minister, to poison 
 My friend Polixenes: which had been 
 
 done. 
 But that the good mind of Camillo tardied 
 My swift command, though I with death, 
 
 and with 
 Reward, did threaten and encourage him, 
 Not doing it, and being done: he, most 
 
 humane. 
 And fill'd with honor, to my kingly guest 
 Unclasp'd my practice; quit his fortunes 
 
 here. 
 Which you knew great; and to the certain 
 
 hazard 
 Of all incertainties himself commended. 
 No richer than his honor: — How he 
 
 glisters 
 Thorough my rust! and how his piety 
 Does my deeds make the blacker! 
 
 Re-enter Paulij^"a. 
 
 Paul. AYoe the while 
 
 0, cut my lace; lest my heart, cracking it, 
 Break too! 
 
 1 Lord. What fit is this, good lady? 
 
Aci III. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Paul. What studied torments, tyrant, 
 
 hast for me? 
 What wheels? racks? fires? What flaying? 
 
 boiling, 
 In leads, or oils? what old, or newer tor- 
 ture 
 Must I receive; whose every word deserves 
 To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny 
 Together working with thy jealousies, — 
 Fancies too weak for boys, too green and 
 
 idle 
 For girls of nine! — 0, think, what they 
 
 have done, 
 And then run mad, indeed; stark mad I 
 
 for all 
 Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. 
 That thou betray'dst Polixenes, ^twas 
 
 nothing; 
 That did but show thee, of a fool, incon- 
 stant. 
 And horribly ungrateful: nor was't much. 
 Thou wouldst have poison'd good Camillo's 
 
 honor. 
 To have him kill a king; poor trespasses. 
 More monstrous standing by: whereof I 
 
 reckon 
 The casting forth to crows thy baby 
 
 daughter. 
 Nor is't directly laid to thee, the death 
 Of the young prince, whose honorable 
 
 thoughts 
 (Thoughts high for one so slender), cleft 
 
 the heart 
 That could conceive, a cross and foolish 
 
 sire 
 Blemish'd his gracious dam: this is not, 
 
 no. 
 Laid to thy answer: But the last, — 0, 
 
 lords, 
 "When I have said, cry, woe I — the queen^ 
 
 the queen, 
 The sweetest, dearest, creature's dead; 
 
 and vengeance for't 
 Not drop down yet. 
 
 1 Lord. The higher powers forbid! 
 
 Paxil. I say, she's dead; I'll swear't: if 
 
 word nor oath. 
 
 Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring 
 
 Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye. 
 
 Heat outwardly, or breath within, I'll 
 serve you 
 
 As I would do the gods. — But, 0, thou 
 tyrant ! 
 
 Do not repent these things; for they are 
 heavier 
 
 Than all thy woes can stir: therefore be- 
 take thee 
 
 To nothing but despair. A thousand 
 knees 
 
 Ten thousand years together, naked, fast- 
 ing, 
 
 L'pon a barren mountain, and still winter 
 
 In storm perpetual, could not move the 
 gods 
 
 To look that way thou wert. 
 
 Leon. Go on, go on: 
 
 Thou canst not speak too much: I have 
 deserv'd 
 
 All tongues to talk their bitterest. 
 
 1 Lord. Say no more; 
 
 Howe'er the business goes, you have made 
 fault 
 
 I'the boldness of your speech. 
 
 Paul. I am sorry for't; 
 
 All faults I make, when I shall come to 
 know them 
 
 I do repeat: Alas, I have show'd too 
 much 
 
 The rashness of a woman: he is touch'd 
 
 To the noble heart. — What's gone, and 
 what's past help. 
 
 Should be past grief: Do not receive 
 affliction 
 
 At my petition, I beseech you; rather 
 
 Let me be punish'd, that have minded you 
 
 Of what you should forget. Xow, good 
 my liege. 
 
 Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman: 
 
 The love I bore your queen, — lo, fool 
 again ! — 
 
 I'll speak of her no more, nor of your chil- 
 dren; 
 
 I'll not remember you of my own lord, 
 
 t« 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE WINTEE'S TALE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Who is lost too: Take your patience to 
 
 you. 
 And I'll say nothing. 
 
 Leo7i. Thou didst speak but well, 
 
 When most the truth; which I receive 
 
 much better 
 Than to be pitied of thee. Pr'ythee, 
 
 bring me 
 To the dead bodies of my queen and son: 
 One grave shall be for both ; upon them- 
 
 shall 
 The causes of their death appear, unto 
 Our shame perpetual: Once a day I'll 
 
 visit 
 The chapel where they lie; and tears shed 
 
 there. 
 Shall be my recreation : So long as 
 Nature will bear up with this exercise, 
 So long I daily vow to use it. Come, 
 And lead me to these sorrows. 
 
 [ Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. Bohemia. A Desert Country 
 near the Sea. 
 
 Enter Antigonus, loitli the Child and a 
 Mariner. 
 Ant. Thou art perfect then our ship 
 hath touch'd upon 
 The deserts of Bohemia? 
 
 Mar. Ay, my lord, and fear 
 
 We have landed in ill time: the skies look 
 
 grimly. 
 And threaten present blusters. In my 
 
 conscience, 
 The heavens with that we have in hand 
 
 are angry. 
 And frown upon us. 
 
 A7it. Their sacred wills be done! — Go, 
 get aboard; 
 Look to thy bark; I'll not be long, before 
 I call upon thee. 
 
 Mar. Make your best haste; and go not 
 Too far i'the land hair: 'tis like to be loud 
 
 weather; 
 Besides, this place is famous for the 
 
 creatures 
 Of prey, that keep upon't. 
 
 A7if. Go thou away: 
 
 I'll follow instantly. 
 
 Mar. I am glad at heart. 
 
 To be so rid o' the business. \^Exit. 
 
 Ant. Come, poor babe: 
 
 I have heard (but not believ'd), the spirits 
 
 of the dead 
 May walk again: if such thing be, thy 
 
 mother 
 Appear'd to me last night; for ne'er was 
 
 dream 
 So like a waking. To me comes a creature. 
 Sometimes her head on one side, some 
 
 anethor; 
 I never saw a vessel of like sorrow. 
 So fill'd, and so becoming: in pure white 
 
 robes, 
 Like very sanctity, she did approach 
 My cabin where I lay: thrice bow'd before 
 
 me; 
 And gasping to begin some speech, her 
 
 eyes 
 Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon 
 Did this break from her] Good Kniigouns,, 
 Sitice fate, against tinj better disposition. 
 Hath made thy person for the throioer- 
 
 out 
 Of my poor babe, according to thine oath, — 
 Places remote enough are in Bohemia, 
 There weep, and leave it crying; and, for 
 
 the babe 
 Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, 
 I pr'ythee, call't; for this tmgentle busi- 
 ness. 
 Put on thee by my lord, thou tie' er shall see 
 Thy IV if e Paulina more: — and so, with 
 
 shrieks, 
 She melted into air. Affrighted much, 
 I did in time collect myself; and thouglit 
 This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are 
 
 toys: 
 Yet, for this once, yea, superstitiously, 
 I will be squared by this. I do believe, 
 Hermione hath suffer'd death; and that 
 Apollo would, this being indeed the issue 
 Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid. 
 Either for life, or death, upon the earth. 
 
 89 
 
Act hi. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Of its right father. — Blossom, speed thee 
 well! 
 
 [Laying doion the Child. 
 There lie; and there thy character: there 
 these; 
 
 [Laying dotun a hindle. 
 
 Which may, if fortune please, both breed 
 
 thee, pretty, 
 And still rest thine. The storm begins 
 
 — Poor wretch. 
 That, for thy mother's fault, art thus ex- 
 
 pos'd 
 
 To loss, and what may follow ! — Weep I 
 can not, 
 
 But my heart bleeds: and most accurs'd- 
 am I, 
 
 To be by oath enjoined to this. — Fare- 
 well! 
 
 The day frowns more and more; thou art 
 
 like to have 
 A lullaby too rough: I never saw 
 The heavens so dim by day. A savage 
 
 clamor? — 
 Well may I get aboard!— This is the chase; 
 
 90 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 I am gone for ever. [Exit, pursued hy a 
 Bear. 
 Enter an old Shepherd, 
 Shep. I would there were no age be- 
 tween ten and three and twenty; or that 
 youth would sleep out the rest: for there 
 is nothing in the between but wronging 
 the ancientry, stealing, fighting. — Hark 
 you now!- 
 
 — Would any but these boiled 
 brains of nineteen, and two and twenty, 
 hunt this weather? They have s'cared 
 away two of my best sheep; which, I fear, 
 the wolf will sooner find, than the master: 
 if any where I have them, 'tis by the sea- 
 side, browzing on ivy. Good luck, an't 
 be thy will! what have we here? [Taking 
 lip the Child.] Mercy on's, a barne; a 
 very j^iretty barne! A pretty one; a very 
 pretty one: I'll take it up for pity: Yet 
 I'll tarry till my son come; he hallaed but 
 even now. Whoa, ho hoa! 
 Enter Clown. 
 
 Clo. Hilloa, loa! 
 
 Shep. AVhat, are so near? if thou'lt see 
 a thing to talk on Avhen thou art dead and 
 rotten, come hither. What ailest thou, 
 man? 
 
 Clo. I have seen two such sights, by 
 sea and by land; — but I am not to say, it 
 is a sea, for it is now the sky; betwixt the 
 firmament and it, you can not thrust a 
 bodkin's point, 
 
 Shep. Why, boy, how is it? 
 
 Clo. I would you did but see how it 
 chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the 
 shore! but that's not to the jioint: 0, the 
 most i^iteous cry of the poor souls! some- 
 times to see 'em, and not to see 'em : now 
 the ship boring the moon with her main- 
 mast; and anon swallowed with yest and 
 froth, as you'd thrust a cork into a hogs- 
 head. And then for the land service. — 
 To see how the bear tore out his shoulder- 
 bone; how he cried to me for help, and 
 said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman: 
 — But to make an end of the ship: — 
 to see how the sea flap-dragoned it: — 
 
 but, first, how the poor souls roared, 
 and the sea mocked them; — and how the 
 poor gentleman roared, and the bear 
 mocked him, both roaring louder than the 
 sea or weather. 
 
 Shep. ' Name of mercy, when was this, 
 boy? 
 
 Clo. Now, now ; I have not winked 
 since I saw these sights: the men are not 
 yet cold under water, nor the bear half 
 dined on the gentleman: he's at it now. 
 
 Shep. Would I had been by, to have 
 helped the old man ! 
 
 Clo. I would you had been by the ship 
 side, to have helped her ; there your 
 charity would have lacked footing. [Aside. 
 
 Shep. Heavy matters ! heavy matters ! 
 but look thee here, boy. Now bless thy- 
 self ; thou met'st with things dying I, 
 ■with things newborn. Here's a sight for 
 thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a 
 squire's child ! Look thee here: take up, 
 take up, boy; open't. So, let's see: It 
 was told me, I should be rich by the fair- 
 ies: this is some changeling: — open't: 
 What's within, boy ? 
 
 Clo. You're a made old man ; if the 
 sins of your youth are forgiven you, you're 
 well to live. Gold ! all gold ! 
 
 Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and 
 'twill prove so : up with it, keep it close ; 
 home, home, the next way. We are lucky, 
 boy; and to be so still, requires nothing 
 but secrecy, — Let my sheep go : — Come, 
 good boy, the next way home, 
 
 Clo. Go you the next way with your 
 findings ; I'll go see if the bear be gone 
 from the gentleman, and how much he 
 hath eaten: they are never curst, but 
 when they are hungry : if there be any of 
 him left, I'll bury it. 
 
 Shep. That's a good deed : If thou 
 mayst discern by that which is left of him, 
 what he is, fetch me to the sight of him. 
 
 Clo. j\Iarry, will I ; and you shall help 
 put him i'the ground. 
 
 Sliep. 'Tis a lucky day, boy ; and we'll 
 do good deeds on't. [Exeunt. 
 
 91 
 
Act IV 
 
 THE WINTER^S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Enter Time, as Chorns. 
 
 Time. I, — that please some, try all ; 
 
 both joy and terror. 
 Of good and bad; that make, and unfold 
 
 error, — 
 Now take upon me, in the name of Time, 
 To use my wings. Impute it not a crime. 
 To me, or my swift passage, that I slide 
 O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth 
 
 untried 
 Of that wide gap: since it is in my power 
 To overthrow law, and in one self-born 
 
 hour 
 To plant and o'erwhelm custom; Let me 
 
 pass 
 The same I am, ere ancient'st order was. 
 Or what is now received: I witness to 
 The time that brought them in ; so shall 
 
 I do 
 To the freshest things now reigning; and 
 
 make stale 
 The glistering of this present, as my tale 
 Now seems to it. Your patience this 
 
 allowing, 
 I turn my glass ; and give mj scene such 
 
 growing. 
 As you had slept between. Leontes leav- 
 ing 
 The effects of his fond jealousies ; so 
 
 grieving, 
 That he shuts up himself; imagine me, 
 Gentle spectators, that I now may be 
 In fair Bohemia ; and remember well, 
 I mentioned a son o' the king's, which 
 
 Florizel 
 I now name to you ; and with speed so 
 
 space 
 To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace 
 Equal with wond'ring : What of her 
 
 ensues, 
 I list not prophecy; but let Time's news 
 Be known, when 'tis brought forth : — a 
 
 shepherd's daughter. 
 And what to her adheres which follows 
 
 after. 
 Is the argument of time : Of this allow. 
 
 If ever you have spent time worse ere now ; 
 If ever yet, that Time himself doth say. 
 He wishes earnestly, you never may. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene I. — Bohemia. A Room in the 
 Palace of Polixenes. 
 
 Enter Polixenes and Camillo. 
 
 Pol. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no 
 more importunate : 'tis a sickness, deny- 
 ing thee any thing ; a death, to grant this. 
 
 Cam. It is fifteen years, since I saw 
 my country ; though I have, for the most 
 part, been aired abroad, I desire to lay 
 my bones there. Besides, the penitent 
 king, my master, hath sent for me : to 
 whose feeling sorrows I might be some 
 allay, or I o'erween to think so ; which is 
 another spur to my departure. 
 
 Pol. As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe 
 not out the rest of thy services, by leav- 
 ing me now : the need I have of thee, 
 thine own goodness hath made ; better not 
 to have had thee, than thus to want thee : 
 thou, haying made the businesses, which 
 none, without thee, can sufficiently man- 
 age, must either stay to execute them thy- 
 self, or take away with thee the very ser- 
 vices thou hath done : which if I have not 
 enough considered, (as too much I cannot.) 
 to be more thankful to thee, shall be my 
 study: and my profit therein, the heaping 
 friendships. Of that fatal country, Sici- 
 lia, pr'ythee speak no more : whose very 
 naming punishes me with the remem- 
 brance of that penitent, asthoucall'st him, 
 and reconciled king, my brother ; Avhose 
 loss of his most precious queen, and chil- 
 dren, are even now to be afresh lamented. 
 Say to me, when saw'st thou the prince 
 Florizel, my son ? Kings are no less un- 
 happy, their issue not being gracious, 
 than they are in losing them, when they 
 have approved their virtues. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Cam. Sir, it is three days, since I saw 
 the prince : What his happier affairs may 
 be, are to me unknown : but I have, miss- 
 ingly, noted, he is of late much retired 
 from court ; and is less frequent to his 
 princely exercises, than formerly he hath 
 appeared. 
 
 Pol. I have considered so much, Cam- 
 illo; and with some care; so far, that I 
 have eyes under my service, which look 
 upon his removedness: from whom I have 
 this intelligence ; That he is seldom from 
 the house of a most homely shepherd; a 
 man, they say, that from very nothing, 
 and beyond the imagination of his neigh- 
 bors, is grown into an unspeakable estate. 
 
 Cavi. I have heard, sir, of such a man, 
 who hath a daughter of most rare note : 
 the report of her is extended more, than 
 can be thought to begin from such a cot- 
 tage. 
 
 Pol. That's likewise part of my intel- 
 ligence. But, I fear the angel that plucks 
 our son thither. Thou shalt accompany 
 us to the place : where we will, not 
 appearing what we are, have some ques- 
 tion with the shepherd ; from whose sim- 
 plicity, I think it not uneasy to get the 
 cause of my son's resort thither. Pr'y- 
 thee, be my present partner in this busi- 
 ness, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia. 
 
 Cam. I willingly obey your command. 
 
 Pol. My best Camillo ! — We must dis- 
 guise ourselves. \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A Eoad near the Shepherd's 
 
 Cottage. 
 
 Enter Autolycus, singing. 
 
 When daffodils begin to peer, — 
 
 With heigh ! the doxy over the dale,— 
 Why then comes in the sweet o'the year ; 
 
 For the red blood reigns in the lointer's 
 pale. 
 
 Tlie white sheet bleaching on the hedge, — 
 With, hey ! the sioeet birds, how they 
 sing! 
 
 Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; 
 For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 
 
 The lark, that tirra, lira chants, — 
 
 With, hey ! ivith hey! the thrush and the 
 jay : 
 Are simimers' songs for me and my aunts, 
 
 Wliile we lie tumbling in tlie liay. 
 I have served prince Florizel, and, in my 
 time, wore three-pile ; but now I am out 
 of service : 
 
 [Sings. 
 But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? 
 
 Tlie pale moon shines by night: 
 Andwhen I wander hero and there, 
 
 I then do most go right. 
 If tinkers may liave leave to live, 
 
 And bear the sow-ski^i budget ; 
 Tlien my account Iivill may give, 
 
 And in tlie stocks avouch it. 
 
 My father named me, Autolycus ; who, 
 being, as I am, littered under Mercury, 
 was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered 
 trifles : With die, and drab, I purchased 
 this caparison : and my revenue is the 
 silly cheat ; Gallows, and knock, are too 
 powerful on the highway : beating, and 
 hanging, are terrors to me ; for the life to 
 come, I sleep out the thought of it. — A 
 prize ! a prize ! 
 
 Enter Clown. 
 
 Clo. Let me see : — Every 'le ven wether 
 
 — tods; every tod yields — pound and 
 odd shilling: fifteen hundred shorn, — 
 What comes the wool to ? 
 
 Aut, If the springe hold, the cock's 
 
 mine. \^Aside. 
 
 Clo. I cannot do't without counters. 
 
 — Let me see; what am I to buy for our 
 sheep-shearing feast ? Tliree pour.ds of 
 
 sugar ; five pounds of currants; rice 
 
 What will this sister of mine do with rice ? 
 But my father hath made her mistress of 
 the feast, and she lays it on. She hath 
 made me four-and-twenty nosegays for 
 the shearers; three-man song-men all, and 
 
 93 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEK^E II. 
 
 very good ones ; but they are most of them 
 means and bases. I must have saffron, to 
 color the warden pies ; mace, — dates, 
 — none ; that's out of my note : nutmegs, 
 seven; a race, or tivo, of ginger; but that 
 I may beg ; — four 'pound of prunes, and 
 as many of raisins o'the sun. 
 Aut. 0, that ever I was born ! 
 
 [Grovelitig on the ground. 
 
 CIo. I'the name of me, 
 
 A^lt. help me, help me ! pluck but 
 off these rags; and then, death, death ! 
 
 Clo. Alack, poor soul ! thou hast need 
 of more rags to lay on thee, rather than 
 have these off. 
 
 Aut. 0, sir, the loathsomeness of them 
 offends me more than the stripes I have 
 received ; which are mighty ones and 
 millions. 
 
 Clo. Alas, poor man ! a million of 
 beating may come to a greater matter. 
 
 A^it, I am robber, sir, and beaten ; my 
 money and apparel ta'en from me, and 
 these detestable things i^ut upon me. 
 
 Clo. What, by a horse-man, or a foot- 
 man ? 
 
 Aut. A foot-man, sweet sir, a foot- 
 man. 
 
 Clo. Indeed, he should be a foot-man, 
 by the garments he hath left with thee ; 
 if this be a horse-man's coat, it hath seen 
 very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I'll 
 help thee : come, lend me thy hand. 
 
 [ffeljnng Mm up. 
 
 Aut. ! good sir, tenderly, oh ! 
 
 Clo. Alas, poor soul. 
 
 Aut. 0, go'od sir, softly, good sir : I 
 fear, sir, my shoulder-blade is out. 
 
 Clo. How now ? canst stand ? 
 
 Aut. Softly, dear sir ; \_Picks his 
 poJccet.] good sir, softly; you ha' done me 
 a charitable office. 
 
 Clo. Dost lack any money ? I have a 
 little money for thee. 
 
 A7it. 1^0, good sweet sir ; no, I be- 
 seech j'ou, sir : I have a kinsman not 
 
 past three quarters of a mile hence, unto 
 whom I was going ; I shall there have 
 money, or any thing I want ; Offer me no 
 money, I pray you ; that kills my heart. 
 
 Clo. What manner of fellow was he 
 that robbed you ? 
 
 Aut. A fellow, sir, that I have known 
 to go about with trol-my-dames : I knew 
 him once a servant of the prince ; I 
 cannot tell, good sir, for which of his vir- 
 tues it was, but he was certainly whipped 
 out of the court. 
 
 Clo. His vices, you would say; there's 
 no virtue whipped out of the court : they 
 cherish it, to make it stay there ; and yet 
 it will no more but abide. 
 
 Aut. Vices I would say, sir. I know 
 this man well : he hath been since an ape- 
 bearer ; then a process-server, a bailiff ; 
 then he married a tinker's wife within a 
 mile where my land and living lies ; and, 
 having flown over many knavish profes- 
 sions, he settled only in rogue : some call 
 him Autolycus. 
 
 Clo. Out upon him ! Prig, for my life, 
 prig: he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear- 
 baitings. 
 
 Aut. Very true, sir ; he, sir, he; that's 
 the rogue, that put me into this apparel. 
 
 Clo. Not a more cowardly rogue in all 
 Bohemia ; if you had but looked big, and 
 spit at him, he'd have run. 
 
 Aut. I must confess to you, sir, I am 
 no fighter : I am false of heart that way ; 
 and that he knew, I warrent him. 
 
 Clo. How do you know ? 
 
 Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I 
 was; I can stand, and walk : I will even 
 take my leave of you, and pace softly 
 toward my kinsman's. 
 
 Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way? 
 
 Aut. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. 
 
 Clo. Then fare thee well; I must go 
 buy spices for our sheep-shearing. 
 
 Aut. Prosper you, sweet sir! — [JExit 
 Clotvn.] Your purse is not hot enough 
 to purchase your spice. I'll be with you 
 
 94 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 at yonr sheep-shearing too : If I make 
 not this cheat bring ont another, and the 
 shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled, 
 and my name put in the book of virtue! 
 Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, 
 
 And merrily heat the still-a: 
 A merry heart goes all the day, 
 
 Tour sad tires in a mile-a. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. A Shepherd's Cottage. 
 
 Enter Florizel ayid Perdita. 
 Flo. These your unusual weeds to 
 
 each part of you 
 Do give a life: no shepherdess; but Flora, 
 Peering in April's front. This your 
 
 sheep-shearing 
 Is as a meeting of the petty gods. 
 And you the queen on't. 
 
 Per. Sir, my gracious lord. 
 
 To chide at your extremes, it not be- 
 comes me; 
 0, pardon, that I name them: your high 
 
 self. 
 The gracious mark o'the land, you have 
 
 obscur'd 
 With a swain's wearing: and me, poor 
 
 lowly maid. 
 Most goddess-like prank'd up: But that 
 
 our feasts 
 In every mess have folly, and the feeders 
 Digest it with a custom, I should blush 
 To see you so attir'd; sworn, I think, 
 To show myself a glass. 
 
 Flo. I bless the time. 
 
 When my good falcon made her flight 
 
 across 
 My father's ground. 
 
 Per. Now Jove afford you cause! 
 
 To me, the difference forges dread; your 
 
 greatness 
 Ilath not been us'd to fear. Even noM' I 
 
 tremble 
 To think, your father, by some accident. 
 Should pass this way, as you did: 0, the 
 
 fates! 
 How would he look, to see his work, so 
 
 noble. 
 
 Vilely bound up? What would he say? 
 
 Or how 
 Should I, in these my borrow'd flaunts, 
 
 behold 
 The sternness of his presence? 
 
 Fo. Apprehend 
 
 Nothing but jollity. The gods them- 
 selves. 
 Humbling their deities to love, have 
 
 taken 
 The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter 
 Became a bull, and bellow'd; the green 
 
 Neptune 
 A ram, and bleated; 'and the fire-rob'd 
 
 god. 
 Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain. 
 As I seem now: Their tranformations 
 Were never for a piece of beauty rarer; 
 Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires 
 Run not before mine honor. 
 
 Per. but, dear sir. 
 
 Your resolution cannot hold, when 'tis 
 Oppos'd, as it must be, by the power o'the 
 
 king: 
 One of these two must be necessities, 
 Which then Avill speak; that you must 
 
 change this purpose. 
 Or I my life. 
 
 Flo. Thou dearest Perdita, 
 
 With these forc'd thoughts, I pr'ythee 
 
 darken not 
 The mirth o'the feast: Or I'll be thine, 
 
 my fair. 
 Or not my father's: for I cannot be 
 Mine own, nor any thing to any, if 
 I be not thine: to this I am most con- 
 stant, 
 Though destiny say, no. Be merry, gentle ; 
 Strangle such thoughts as these, with any 
 
 thing 
 That you behold the while. Your guests 
 
 are coming: 
 Lift up your countenance: as it were the 
 
 day 
 Of celebration of that nuptial, which 
 We two have sworn shall come. 
 
 Per. lady fortune, 
 
 Stand you auspicious! 
 
 95 
 
Act IV 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCElifE III. 
 
 Enter Shepherd, icitli Polixexes and 
 Camillo, disguised; Clown, Mopsa, 
 DoKCAS, and others. 
 
 Flo. See, your guests approach : 
 
 Address yourself to entertam them 
 
 sprightly, 
 And let's be red with mirth. 
 
 Sliep. Eye, daughter I when my old 
 
 wife liv'd, upon 
 
 i. . 
 
 '/ - 
 
 
 This day, she was both pantler, butler, 
 
 cook; 
 Both dame and servant: welcom'd all; 
 
 serv'd all: 
 
 Would sing her song, and dance her turn: 
 
 now here, 
 At upper end o'the table, now i'the 
 
 middle; 
 
 96 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEIfE III. 
 
 On liis shoulder, and his: her face o'fire 
 With labor; and the thing, she took to 
 
 quench it. 
 She would to each one sip: You are 
 
 retir'd. 
 As if you were a feasted one, and not 
 The hostess of the meeting: Pray you, 
 
 bid 
 These unknoAvn friends to us welcome: for 
 
 it is 
 A way to make us better friends, more 
 
 known. 
 Come, quench your blushes; and present 
 
 yourself 
 That which you are, mistress o'the feast: 
 
 Come on. 
 And bid us welcome to your sheep-shear- 
 ing, 
 As your good flock shall prosper. 
 
 Pe7\ Welcome, sir! [7b Pol. 
 
 It is my father's will, I should take on me 
 The hostess-ship o'the day: — You're wel- 
 come, sir! [To Camillo. 
 Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. — 
 
 Reverend sirs. 
 For you there's rosemary, and rue; these 
 
 keep 
 Seeming, and savor, all the winter long: 
 Grace, and remembrance, be to you both. 
 And welcome to our shearing! 
 
 Pol. Shepherdess, 
 
 (A fair one are you,) well you fit our ages 
 With flowers of winter. 
 
 Per. Sir, the year growing ancient. — 
 Not yet on summer's death, nor on the 
 
 birth 
 Of trembling winter, — the fairest flowers 
 
 o'the seaso7i 
 Are our carnations, and streak'd gill}'- 
 
 flowers. 
 Which some call nature's bastards: of that 
 
 kind 
 Our rustic garden's barren; and I care 
 
 not 
 To get slips of them. 
 
 Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden, 
 
 Do you neglect them? 
 
 Per. For I have heard it said. 
 
 There is an art, which, in their piedness, 
 
 shares 
 With great creating nature. 
 
 Pol. Say, there be; 
 
 Yet nature is maae better by no mean. 
 But nature makes that mean: so, o'er 
 
 that ai"t, 
 Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art 
 That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, 
 
 we marry 
 A gentle scion to the wildest stock; 
 And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
 By bud of nobler race; This is an art 
 Which does mend nature, — change it 
 
 rather: but 
 The art itself is nature. 
 
 Per. So it is. 
 
 Pol. Then make your garden rich in 
 
 gillyf]*owers. 
 And do not call them bastards. 
 
 Per. I'll not put 
 
 The dibble in earth to set one slip of them: 
 No more than, were I painted, I would 
 
 wish 
 This youth should say, 'twere well. — 
 
 Here's flowers for you; 
 Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; 
 The marigold, that goes to bed with the 
 
 sun. 
 And with him rises weeping; these are 
 
 flowers 
 Of middle summer, and, I think, they 
 
 are given 
 To men of middle age : You are very 
 
 welcome. 
 Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of 
 
 your flock, 
 And only live by grazing. 
 
 Per. Out, ala,=! 
 
 You'd be so lean, that blasts of January 
 Would blow you through and through. — 
 
 Now, my fairest friend, 
 I would I had some flowers o'the spring, 
 
 that might 
 Become your time of day, — Proserpine, 
 
 97 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE Wns^TER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 For the flowers now, that frighted, thou 
 
 let'st fall 
 From Dis^s wagon ! daffodils. 
 That come before the swallow dares, and 
 
 take 
 The winds of March with beai;ty: violets 
 
 dim 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
 Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses. 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength; bold 
 
 oxlips and 
 The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds. 
 The flower-de-luce being one I 0, these, I 
 
 lack. 
 To make you garlands of; and my sweet 
 
 friend, 
 To strew him o'er and o'er. — Come, take 
 
 your flowers: 
 Methinks, I play as I have seen them do 
 In Whitsun' pastorals: sure, this robe of 
 
 mine 
 Does change my disposition. 
 
 Flo. "What you do, 
 
 Still betters what is done. When you 
 
 speak, sweet, 
 I'd have you do it ever: when you sing, 
 I'd have you buy and sell so; so give 
 
 alms; 
 Pray so; and, for the ordering your 
 
 affairs. 
 To sing them too : When you do dance, I 
 
 wish you 
 A wave o'the sea, that you might ever do 
 Nothing but that; move still, still so, and 
 
 own 
 No other function : Each your doing. 
 So singular in each particular. 
 Crowns what you are doing in the present 
 
 deeds. 
 That all yoar acts are queens. 
 
 Per. Doricles, 
 
 Your praises are too large: but that your 
 
 youth. 
 And the true blood, which fairly peeps 
 
 through it. 
 
 98 
 
 Do plainly give you out an unstain'd 
 
 shepherd ; 
 With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, 
 You woo'd me the false way. 
 
 Flo. I think, you have 
 
 As little skill to fear, as I have purpose 
 To put you to't. — But, come; our dance, I 
 
 pray : 
 Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair. 
 That never mean to part. 
 
 Per. I'll swear for 'em. 
 
 Flo. This is the prettiest low-born lass, 
 that ever 
 Ean on the green-sward: nothing she 
 
 does, or seems, 
 But smacks of something greater than 
 
 herself; 
 Too noble for this place. 
 
 Cam. He tells her something, 
 That makes her blood look ont: Good 
 
 sooth, she is 
 The queen of curds and cream. 
 
 Clo. Come on, strike up. 
 
 Dor. Mopsa must be j-our mistress. 
 Mop. In good time! 
 
 Clo. Not a word, a Avord; we stand 
 upon our manners. — 
 Come, strike up. YMusic. 
 
 Here a dance of Shepherds and shepherd- 
 esses. 
 Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what 
 Fair swain is this, whicli dances with your 
 daughter? 
 Shep. They call him Doricles; and he 
 boasts himself 
 To have a worthy feeding: but I have it 
 Upon his own report, and I believe it; 
 He looks like sooth: He says, he loves 
 
 my daughter; 
 I think so too; for never gaz'd the moon 
 Upon the water, as he'll stand, and read. 
 As 'twere, my daughter's eyes : and, to be 
 
 plain, 
 I think, there is not half a kiss to choose, 
 Who loves another best. 
 Pol. She dances f eatly. 
 
Act IY 
 
 THE WINTEE'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 She}}. So she does any thing; though I 
 
 report it, 
 That shouhl be silent: if young Doricles 
 Do light upon her, she shall bring him 
 
 that 
 "Which he not dreams of. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Serv. master, if you did but hear 
 the peddler at the door, you would never 
 dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, 
 the bagpipe could not move you: he sings 
 several tunes, faster than you'll tell 
 money; he utters them as he had eaten 
 ballads, and all men's ears grew to his 
 tunes. 
 
 Clo. He could never come better: he 
 shall come in: I love a ballad but even too 
 well: if it be doleful matter, merrily set 
 down; or a very pleasant thing indeed, 
 and sung lamentably. 
 
 Serv. He hath songs, for man, or 
 woman, of all sizes; no milliner can so fit 
 his customers with gloves. 
 
 Pol. This is a brave fellow. 
 
 Clo. Believe me, thou talkest of an 
 admirable conceited fellow. Has he an}^ 
 unbraided wares? 
 
 Serv. He hath ribands of all the 
 colors i'the rainbow; points more than all 
 the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly 
 handle, though they come to him by the 
 gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: 
 why, he sings them over, as they Avere 
 gods or goddesses. 
 
 Clo. Pr'ythee, bring him in; and let 
 him approach singing. 
 
 Per. Forewarn him, that he i;se no 
 scurilous words in his tunes. 
 
 Clo. You have of these peddlers, that 
 have more in "em than you'd think, 
 sister. 
 
 Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to 
 think. 
 
 Enter Autolycus, singing. 
 Lawn, as white as ch'iven snow; 
 Cyprus, black as e'er was crow; 
 
 Gloves, as siveet as damask roses; 
 Masks for faces, and for noses; 
 Bugle bracelet, necklace amber. 
 Perfume for a lady's chamber: 
 Golden quoifs, and stomachers, 
 For my lads to give their dears ; 
 Come, buy of me, come; come buy, 
 
 come buy; 
 Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry; 
 Come, buy, etc. 
 Clo. If I were not in love with Mopsa, 
 thou shouldst take no money of me ; but 
 being enthrall'd as I am, it will also be the 
 bondage of certain ribands and gloves. 
 
 Mop. I was promis'd them against the 
 feast ; but they come not too late now. 
 
 Clo. Have I not told thee, how I was 
 cozened by the way, and lost all my 
 money ? 
 
 A^it. And, indeed, sir, there are coz- 
 eners abroad ; therefore it behoves men to 
 be wary. 
 
 Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt 
 lose nothing here. 
 
 Atit. 1 hope so, sir : for I have about 
 me many parcels of charge. 
 
 Clo. , What hast here ? ballads ? 
 3foj). Pray now, buy some : I love a 
 ballad in print, a life ; for then we are sure 
 they are true. 
 
 Aut. Here's a ballad, of a fish, that 
 appeared upon the coast, on Wednesday 
 the fourscore of April, forty thousand 
 fathom above water, and sung this ballad 
 against the hard hearts of maids : it was 
 thought, she was a woman, and was 
 turned into a cold fish. The ballad is 
 very 2")itiful, and true. 
 
 Dor. Is it true, think you ? 
 Aut. Five justices' hands at it ; and 
 witnesses, more than my pack will hold. 
 Clo. Lay it by : Another. 
 Aut. This is a merry ballad ; but a 
 
 very pretty one. 
 3fo2). Let's have some merry one. 
 Aut. Why this is a passing merry one; 
 and goes to the tune of. Two maids tvooing 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE WINTEE'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 a man : there's scarce a maid westward, 
 but slie sings it; ^tis in request, I can 
 tell you. 
 
 Jfop. We can both sing it ; if thou'lt 
 bear a part thou shalt hear ; 'tis in three 
 parts. 
 
 Dor. We had the tune on't a month 
 ago. 
 
 Aut. I can bear my part ; you must 
 know, 'tis my occupation: have at it with 
 you. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A. Get you hence, for I must go; 
 Wliere, it fits not you to know. 
 
 D. Whither? M. 0, whither? D. 
 Whither? 
 M. It becomes tliy oath full well, 
 Thou to me thy secrets tell : 
 D. Me too, let me go thither. 
 M. Or thou go'st to the grange, or will : 
 D. If to either, thou dost ill. 
 A. Neither. D. What, neither ? ' A. 
 Neither. 
 D. TJiou hast sworn my love to le ; 
 M. TJiou hast szoorn it more to me : 
 Then, whither go'st ? say, whither? 
 
 Clo. We'll have this song out anon by 
 ourselves ; My father and the gentleman 
 are in sad talk, and we'll not trouble 
 them : Come, bring away thy pack after 
 me. Girls, I'll buy for you both : — Ped- 
 dler, let's have the first choice. — Follow 
 me, girls. 
 
 Aut. And you shall pay well for 'em. 
 
 \^Aside. 
 Will you huy any tape. 
 Or lace for your cape. 
 My dainty duck, my dear-a? 
 Any silk, any thread, 
 Any toys for your head, 
 Of the neio'st, and fin' st, fin'st wear-a, 
 Come to the peddler J 
 Money's a meddler. 
 That doth utter all men wear-a. 
 [Exeunt Clown, Autolycus, Dorcas, 
 and !Mopsa. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Serv. Master, there is three carters, 
 three shepherds, three neat-herds, three 
 swine-herds that have made themselves all 
 men of hair ; they call themselves saltiers: 
 and they have a dance which the wenches 
 say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because 
 they are notin't ; but they themselves are 
 o' the mind, it will please plentifully. 
 
 Shep. Away ! we'll none on't ; here has 
 been too much humble foolery already: — 
 I know, sir, we weary you. 
 
 Pol. You weary those that refresh us: 
 Pray, let's see those four threes of herds- 
 men. 
 
 Serv. One three of them, by their own 
 report, sir, hath danced before the king ; 
 and not the worst of the three, but jumps 
 twelve foot and a half by the squire. 
 
 Shep. Leave your prating ; since these 
 good men are pleased, let them come in ; 
 but quickly now. 
 
 Serv. Why, they stay at door, sir. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Servant, with tioelve Rustics 
 
 habited like Satyrs. They dance, 
 
 and then exeunt. 
 
 Pol. 0, father, you'll know more of 
 
 that hereafter. — 
 
 Is it not too far gone ? — 'Tis time to part 
 
 them. — 
 He's simple,- and tells much. [Js/fZe.]— 
 
 How now, fair shepherd ? 
 Your heart is full of something, that does 
 
 take 
 Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when 
 
 I was young, 
 And handed love, as you do, I was wont 
 To load my she with knacks : I would 
 
 have ransack'd 
 The peddler's silken treasury, and liave 
 
 pour'd it 
 To her acceptance ; you have let him go. 
 And nothing marted with him ; if your 
 
 lass 
 Interpretation should abuse; and call this 
 
 ]00 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE WINTEE'S TALE. 
 
 SC£KE III. 
 
 Your lack of love, or bounty: you were 
 
 straited 
 For a reply, at least, if you make a care 
 Of happy holding her. 
 
 Flo. Old sir, I know 
 
 She prizes not such trifles as there are : 
 The gifts, she looks from me, are pack'd 
 
 and lock'd 
 Up in my heart ; which I have given 
 
 already. 
 But not delivered. — 0, hear me breathe 
 
 my life 
 Before this ancient sir, who, it should 
 
 seem, 
 Hath sometime lov'd : I take thy hand, 
 
 this hand. 
 As soft as dove's down, and as white as 
 
 it; 
 Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow. 
 That's bolted by the northern blast twice 
 
 o'er 
 Pol What follows tills ? — 
 How jirettily the young swain seems to 
 
 wash 
 The hand, was fair before ! — I have put 
 
 you out : — 
 But to your protestation ; let me hear 
 What you profess. 
 
 Flo. Do, and be witness to't. 
 
 Pol. And this my neighbor too ? 
 Flo. And he, and more 
 
 Than he, and men ; the earth, the heav- 
 ens, and all : 
 That, — were I crown'd the most imperial 
 
 monarch, 
 Thereof most worthy ; were I the fairest 
 
 youth 
 That ever made eye swerve; had force, and 
 
 knowledge. 
 More than was ever man's, — I would not 
 
 prize them. 
 Without her love ; for her, employ them 
 
 all; 
 Commend them, and condemn them, to 
 
 her service. 
 Or to their own perdition. 
 
 Pol. Fairlv ofler'd. 
 
 0am. This shows a sound affection. 
 Shep. But, my daughter. 
 
 Say you the like to him ? 
 
 Per. I cannot speak 
 
 So well, nothing so well ; no, nor mean 
 
 better : 
 By the pattern of mine own thoughts I 
 
 cut out 
 The purity of his. 
 
 Sliep. Take hands, a bargain: 
 
 And, friends unknown, you shall bear 
 
 witnesses to't : 
 I give my daughter to him, and will make 
 Her portion equal his. 
 
 Flo. 0, that must be 
 
 I'the virtue of your daughter : one being 
 
 dead, 
 I shall have more than you can dream of 
 
 yet ; 
 Enough then for your wonder : But, 
 
 come on, 
 Contract us 'fore these witnesses. 
 
 Shep. Come, your hand ; — - — 
 
 And, daughter, yours. 
 
 Pol. Soft, swain, awhile, 'beseech you ; 
 Have you a father ? 
 
 Flo. I have : But what of him ? 
 
 Pol. Knows he of this ? 
 Flo. He neither does, nor shall. 
 
 Pol. Methinks, a father 
 Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest 
 That best becomes the table. Pray you, 
 
 once more ; 
 Is not your father grown incapable 
 Of reasonable affairs ? is he not stupid 
 With age and altering rheums ? Can he 
 
 speak ? hear ? 
 Know man from man ? dispute his own 
 
 estate ? 
 Lies he not bed-rid ? and again does noth- 
 ing. 
 But what he did being childish ? 
 
 Flo. No, good sir ; 
 
 He has his health, and ampler strength, 
 
 indeed. 
 Than most have of his age. 
 
 Pol. By my white beard. 
 
 101 
 
Act iV 
 
 THE WIJs'TEE'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 You offer him, if tliis be so, a wrong 
 Something unfilial : Eeason, my son 
 Should choose himself a wife : but as gooa 
 
 reason, 
 The father, (all whose joy is nothing else 
 But fair posterity.) should hold some 
 
 counsel 
 In such a business. 
 
 Flo. I yield all this ; 
 
 But, for some other reasons, my grave 
 
 sir, 
 Which 'tis ■ not fit you know, I not 
 
 acquaint 
 My father of this business. 
 
 Pol. Let him knoVt. 
 
 Flo. He shall not. 
 Fol. Pr'ythee, let him. 
 
 Flo, Ko, he must not. 
 
 Shep. Let him, my son ; he shall not 
 need to grieve 
 At knowing of thy choice. 
 
 Flo. Come, come, he must not : — 
 
 Mark our contract. 
 
 Pol. Mark your divorce, young sir, 
 
 [Discovering liimself. 
 
 Whom son I dare not call ; thou art too 
 
 base 
 To be acknowledg'd : Thou a scepters 
 
 heir. 
 That thus affect'st a sheep-hook ! — Thou 
 
 old traitor, 
 I am sorry, that, by hanging thee, I can 
 
 but 
 Shorten thy life one week. — And thou, 
 
 fresh piece 
 Of excellent witchcraft ; who, of force 
 must know 
 
 The royal fool thou cop'st with ; 
 
 She}). 0, my heart ! 
 
 Pol. ril have thy beauty scratch'd 
 with briars, and made 
 More homely than thy state. — Eor thee, 
 
 fond boy, — 
 If I may ever know, thou dost but sigh, 
 That thou no more shalt, see this knack, 
 (as never 
 
 I mean thou shalt,) we'll bar thee from 
 
 succession ; 
 Not hold thee of our blood, no not our 
 
 kin. 
 Far than Deucalion off : — Mark thou my 
 
 words ; 
 Follow us to the court. — Thou churl, for 
 
 this time. 
 Though full of our displeasure, yet we free 
 
 thee 
 From the dead blow of it. — And you, 
 
 enchantment, — 
 Worthy enough a herdsman ; yea, him 
 
 too, 
 That makes himself, but for our honor 
 
 therein, 
 Unworthy thee, — if ever, henceforth, 
 
 thou 
 These rural latches to his entrance open, 
 I will devise a death as cruel for thee. 
 As thou art tendar to't. \_Exit. 
 
 Per. Even here undone ! 
 
 I was not much af card : for once or twice, 
 I was about to speak ; and tell him 
 
 plainly. 
 The self-same sun, that shines upon his 
 
 court. 
 Hides not his visage from our cottage, 
 
 but 
 Looks on alike. — Wilt please you, sir, 
 
 begone ? 
 
 [7b Florizel. 
 I told you, what would come of this : 
 
 'Beseecli you, 
 Of your own state take care : this dream 
 
 of mine, — 
 Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch 
 
 further. 
 But milk my ewes, and weep. 
 
 Cam. Why, how now, father ? 
 
 Speak ere thou diest. 
 
 Shep. I cannot speak, nor think, 
 
 Nor dare to know that which I know. — 
 
 0, sir, 
 
 [To Flokizel. 
 You have undone a man of fourscore 
 
 three. 
 
 103 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE AVINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCE^-E III. 
 
 That thought to fill his grave iu quiet ; 
 
 3'ea, 
 To die ujjon the bed my father died. 
 To lie close by his honest boues : but now 
 Some hangman must put on my shroud, 
 
 and lay me 
 Where no joriest shovels-in dust. — 
 wretched girl ! 
 
 [To Perdita. 
 That knew'st this was the prince, and 
 
 Avouldst adventure 
 To mingle faith with him. — Undone! 
 
 undone ! 
 If I might die within this hour, I have 
 
 liv'd 
 To die when I desire. [BxiL 
 
 Flo. ^^ liy look you so iipon me ? 
 
 I am but sorry, not afear'd ; delay'd. 
 But nothing alter'd : What I was, I am ; 
 More straining on, for plucking back ; not 
 
 following 
 My leash unwillingly. 
 
 Cam. Gracious my lord, 
 
 You know your father's temper : at this 
 
 time 
 He will allow no speech, — which, I do 
 
 guess. 
 You do not ptirpose to him ; — and -as 
 
 hardly 
 Will he endiire your sight as yet, I fear : 
 Then, till the fury of his highness settle, 
 Come not before him. 
 
 Flo. I not 2iurj)ose it. 
 
 I think, Camillo. 
 
 Cam. Even he, my lord. 
 
 Pc7\ How often have I told you, 
 'twould be thus: 
 How often said, my dignity would last 
 But till 'twere known? 
 
 Flo. It cannot fail, but by 
 
 The violation of my faith; And then 
 Let nature crush the sides o'the earth 
 
 together. 
 And mar the seeds within! — Lift uji thy 
 
 looks: — 
 From my succession wipe me, father! I 
 Am heir to mv affection. 
 
 Cam. Be advis'd. 
 
 Flo. I am; and by my fancy: if my 
 reason 
 Will therto be obedient, I have reason; 
 If not, my senses, better pleas'd with 
 
 madness. 
 Do bid it welcome. 
 
 Cam. This is desperate, sir. 
 
 Flo. So call it: but it does fulfil my 
 vow; 
 I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, 
 Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
 Be thereat glean'd; for all the sun sees, or 
 The close earth wombs, or the profound 
 
 seas hide 
 In unknown fathoms, will I break my 
 
 oath 
 To this my fair belov'd : Therefore, I pray 
 
 yon. 
 As you have ever been my father's friend. 
 When he shall miss me, (as, in faith, I 
 
 mean not 
 To see him any more,) cast your good 
 
 counsels 
 Upon his passion; Let myself and fortune, 
 Tug for the time to come. This you may 
 
 know. 
 And so deliver, — I am put to sea 
 With her, whom here I cannot hold on 
 
 shore; 
 And, most oppertune to our need, I have 
 A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar'd 
 For this design. What course I mean to 
 
 hold. 
 Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, 
 
 nor 
 Concern me the reporting. 
 
 Cam. 0, my lord, 
 
 I would your spirit were easier for advice. 
 Or stronger for your need. 
 
 Flo. Hark, Perdita. [Takes 
 
 her aside. 
 I'll hear you by and by. [To Ca.millo. 
 
 Cam. He's irremovable, 
 Resolv'd for flight: Now were I happj^, if 
 His going I could frame to serve my turn; 
 
 103 
 
Act IV 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Save him from danger, do him love and 
 
 honor; 
 Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia, 
 And that unhappy king, my master, whom 
 I so much thirst to see. 
 
 Flo. Now, good Camillo, 
 
 I am so frauglit with curious business, 
 
 that 
 I leave out ceremony. [Going. 
 
 Cam. Sir, I think. 
 
 You have heard of my poor services, i'the 
 
 love 
 That I have borne your father? 
 
 Flo. Very nobly 
 
 Have you deserv'd: it is my father's 
 
 music. 
 To speak your deeds: not little of his care 
 To have them recompens'd as thought on. 
 Cam. Well, my lord. 
 
 If you ma3" please to think I love the king; 
 And, through him, what is nearest to him, 
 
 which is 
 Your gracious self; embrace but my 
 
 direction, 
 (If your more ponderous and settled 
 
 project 
 May suffer alteration), on mine honour 
 I'll point you where you shall have such 
 
 receiving 
 As shall become your highness; where you 
 
 may 
 Enjoy your mistress; (from the whom, I 
 
 see. 
 There's no disjunction to be made, but by. 
 As heavens forf end! your ruin:) marry her; 
 And (with my best endeavors, in your 
 
 absence,) 
 Your discontenting father strive to 
 
 qualify, 
 And bring him up to liking. 
 Flo. How, Camillo, 
 
 May this, almost a miracle, be done? 
 That I may call thee something more 
 
 than man. 
 And, after that, trust to thee. 
 
 Cavi. Have you thought on 
 
 A place, whereto you'll go? 
 
 Flo. Not any yet: 
 
 But as the unthought-on accident is guilty 
 To what we wildly do; so we profess 
 Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and 
 
 flies 
 Of every wind that blows. 
 
 Cam. Then list to me: 
 
 This follows, — if you will not change your 
 
 purpose. 
 But undergo this flight: — Make for Sicilia; 
 And there present yourself, and your fair 
 
 princess, 
 (For so, I see, she must be,) 'fore Leontes; 
 She shall be habited, as it becomes 
 The partner of your bed. Methinks, I see 
 Leontes, opening his free arms, and weep- 
 ing 
 His welcomes forth: asks thee, the son, 
 
 forgiveness. 
 As 'twere i'the father's person: kisses the 
 
 hands 
 Of your fresh princess: o'er and o'er 
 
 divides him 
 'Twixt his unkiudness and his kindness; 
 
 the one 
 He chides to hell, and bids the other grow. 
 Faster than thought, or time. 
 
 Flo. Worthy Camillo, 
 
 What color for my visitation shall I 
 Hold up before him? 
 
 Cam. Sent by the king your father 
 
 To greet him, and to give him comforts. 
 
 Sir, 
 The manner of your bearing towards him, 
 
 with 
 What you, as from your father, shall de- 
 liver. 
 Things known betwixt us three, I'll write 
 
 you down. 
 The which shall point you forth at every 
 
 sitting, 
 What you must say; that he shall not 
 
 perceive. 
 But that you have your father's bosom 
 
 there, 
 And speak his very heart. 
 
 104 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE AVINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Flo. I am bound to you : 
 
 There is some sap in this. 
 
 Cam. A course more promising 
 
 Than a wild dedication of yourselves 
 To unpath'd waters, undream'd shores; 
 
 most certain. 
 To miseries enough: no hope to help you; 
 But, as you shake off one, to take another: 
 Nothing so certain as your anchors: who 
 Do their best office, if they can but stay 
 
 you 
 Where you'll be loath to be: Besides, you 
 
 know, 
 Prosperity's the very bond of love; 
 Whose fresh complexion and whose heart 
 
 togetlier 
 Affliction alters. 
 
 Per. One of these is true: — 
 
 I think, affliction may subdue the cheek. 
 But not take in the mind. 
 
 Cam. Yes, say you so? 
 
 There shall not, at your father's house, 
 
 these seven years. 
 Be born another such. 
 
 Flo. My good Camillo, 
 
 She is as forward of her breeding, as 
 I'the rear of birth. 
 
 Cam. I cannot say, 'tis pity 
 
 She- lacks instructions; for she seems a 
 
 mistress 
 To most that teach. 
 
 Per. Your pardon, sir, for this; 
 
 I'll blush you thanks. 
 
 Flo. My prettiest Perdita. 
 
 But, 0, the thorns M'e stand upon! — 
 
 Camillo, — 
 Preserver of my father, now of me: 
 The medicine of our house! — how shall 
 
 we do? 
 We are not furnish'd like Bohemia's son; 
 Nor shall appear in Sicily — ^- 
 
 Cam. My lord, 
 
 Eear none of this: I think, you know, my 
 
 fortunes 
 Do all lie there: it shall be so my care 
 To have you royally appointed, as if 
 
 The 
 
 For 
 
 scene you play, were mine, 
 instance, sir. 
 That you may know you shall not want, — 
 one word. 
 
 [They talk Aside_ 
 
 Enter Autolycus. 
 
 Ant. Ha, ha! what a fool honesty is! 
 and trust, his sworn brother, a very simple 
 gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery; 
 not a counterfeit stone, not a riband, 
 glass pomander, brooch, table-book, 
 ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tye, brace- 
 let, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fast- 
 ing: they throng who should buy first; as 
 if my trinkets had been hallowed, and 
 brought a benediction to the buyer: by 
 which means I saw whose purse was best 
 in picture; and, what I saw, to my good 
 use, I remembered. My clown (who 
 wants but something to be a reasonable 
 man) grew so in love with the song, that 
 he would not stir his pettitoes, till he had 
 both tune and Avords; which so drew the 
 rest of the herd to me, that all their 
 other senses stuck in ears. I would have 
 filed keys off, that hung in chains : no 
 hearing, no feeling, but my sir's song, 
 and admiring the nothing of it. So that, 
 in this time of lethargy, I picked and cut 
 most of their festival purses : and had not 
 the old man come in with a whoobub 
 against his daughter and the king's son, 
 and scared my choughs from the chaff, I 
 had not left a purse alive in the whole 
 army. 
 
 [Camillo, Florizel and Peudita, 
 come forward. 
 
 Cam. Nay, but my letters by this 
 means being there 
 So soon as you arrive, shall clear that 
 doubt. 
 
 Flo. And those that you'll procure from 
 king Leontes, 
 
 Cam. Shall satisfy your father. 
 
 Per. Happy be you ! 
 
 All, that you speak, shows fair. 
 
 105 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 Cam. Who have Ave here ? 
 
 {Seeing Atjtoltcus. 
 We'll make an instrument of this; omit 
 Nothing, may give ns aid. 
 
 A^lt. If they have overheard me now, 
 
 why hanging \_Aside. 
 
 Cam. How now, good fellow ? Why 
 shakest thou so ? Fearnot, man ; here's 
 no harm intended to thee. 
 Aut. I am a poor fellow, sir. 
 Cam. Why, be so still ; here's nobody 
 will steel that from thee : Yet, for the 
 outside of thy poverty, we must make an 
 exchange: therefore, disease thee in- 
 stantly, (thou must think, there's necessity 
 in't,) and change garments with this 
 gentleman : Though the pennyworth, on 
 his side, be the worst, yet hold thee, there's 
 some boot. 
 
 Aut. lam a poor fellow, sir : — I know 
 
 ye Avell enough. \^Aside. 
 
 Cam. Nay, pr'ythee, despatch : the 
 
 gentleman is half flayed already. 
 Aut. Are you in earnest, sir? — I 
 smell the trick of it — [Aside. 
 
 Flo. Despatch, I pr'ythee. 
 Atct. Indeed I have had earnest ; but 
 
 I cannot with conscience take it. 
 Cam. Unbuckle, unbuckle. — 
 [Flo. and Autol. exchange garmeiits. 
 Fortunate mistress, — let my prophecy 
 Come home to you — you must retire 
 
 yourself 
 Into some covert: take your sweetheart's 
 
 hat, 
 And pluck it o'er your brows ; muffle your 
 
 face ; 
 Dismantle you: and as you can, disliken 
 The truth of your own seeming ; that you 
 
 may, 
 (For I do fear eyes over j'ou,) to ship- 
 board 
 Get undescried. 
 
 Per. , I see, the play so lies. 
 
 That I must bear a part. 
 
 Cam. No remedy. — 
 
 Have vou done there ? 
 
 106 
 
 Flo. Should I now meet my father. 
 He would not call me son. 
 
 Cam. Nay, you shall have 
 
 No hat : — Come, lady, come. — Farewell, 
 my friend. 
 Aut. Adieu, sir. 
 
 Flo. Perdita, what have we twain 
 
 forgot ? 
 
 Pray you, a word. \_They converse apart. 
 
 Cam. What I do next, shall be, to tell 
 
 the king. * \_Aside. 
 
 Of this escape, and whither they are 
 
 bound ; 
 Wherein, my hope is, I shall so prevail. 
 To force him after: in Avliose company 
 I shall review Sicilia ; for Avhose sight 
 I have a woman's longing. 
 
 Flo. Fortune speed us I — 
 
 Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side. 
 Cam. The swifter speed, the better. 
 
 [Exeunt Florizel, Perdita and 
 Camilla. 
 Aut. I understand the business, I liear 
 it : To have an open ear, a quick eye, 
 and a nimble hand, is necessary for a cut- 
 purse: a good nose is requisite also, to smell 
 out work for the other senses. I see, 
 this is the time that the unjust man doth 
 thrive. What an exchange had this been, 
 without boot ? what a boot is here, with, 
 this exchange ? Sure, the gods do this 
 year connive at us, and we may do any 
 thing extempore. The prince himself is 
 about a piece of iniquity; stealing away 
 from his father, with his clog at his heels: 
 If I thought it were not a piece of honesty 
 to acquaint the king withal, I would do't: 
 I hold it the more knavery to conceal it : 
 and therein am I constant to my profes- 
 sion. 
 
 Enter Clown ajid Shepherd. 
 Aside, aside; — here is more matter for a 
 
 hot brain : 
 Every lane's end, every shop, church, ses- 
 sion, hanging, yields a careful man 
 work. 
 Clo. See, see ; what a man you are 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 now ! there is no other yvay, but to tell 
 the king she's a changeling, and none of 
 your flesh and blood. 
 
 She]). Nay, but heav me. 
 
 CIo. Nay, but hear me. 
 
 SJiep. Go to then. 
 
 Clo. She being none of your flesh and 
 blood, your flesh and blood has not 
 offended the king; and, so, your flesh 
 and blood is not to be punished by him. 
 Show those things you found about her. 
 This being done, let the law go whistle; I 
 warrant you. 
 
 Shep. I will tell the king all, every 
 word, yea, and his son's pranks too; who, 
 I may say, is no honest man neither to 
 his father, nor to me, to go about to make 
 me the king's brothor-in-law. 
 
 Clo. Indeed, brother-in-law was the 
 furthest off you could have been to him ; 
 and then your blood had been the dearer, 
 by I know how much an ounce. 
 
 Aiit. Very wisely; puppies! [Aside. 
 
 Shep. Well ; let us to the king : there 
 is that in this fardel, will make him 
 scratch his beard. 
 
 Atit. I know not what impediment 
 this complaint may be to the flight of my 
 master. 
 
 Clo. 'Pray heartily he be at palace. 
 
 Aut. Though I am not naturally hon- 
 est, I am so sometimes by chance : — Let 
 me pocket up my peddler's beard. — 
 [Takes off his false beard.] How now, 
 rustics? whither are you bound? 
 
 She]}. To the palace, an it like your 
 worship. 
 
 Aut. Your affairs there? what? with 
 whom? the condition of that fardel, the 
 place of your dwelling, your names, your 
 ages, of Avhat having, breeding, and any 
 thing that is fltting to be known, dis- 
 cover. 
 
 Clo. We are but plain fellows, sir. 
 
 Aut. A lie; you are rough: Let me 
 have no lying; it becomes none but 
 tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers 
 
 the lie: but we pay them for it with 
 stamped coin, not stabbing steel; there- 
 fore they do not give us the lie. 
 
 Clo. Your worshiiJ had like to have 
 given us one, if you had not taken your- 
 self with the manner. 
 
 Shep. Are you a courtier, an't like 
 you, sir? 
 
 Arct. Whether it like me, or no, I am 
 a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the 
 court, in these enfoldings ? hath not my 
 gait in it, the measure of the court? 
 receives not thy nose court-odor from 
 me? reflect I not on thy baseness, court- 
 contempt? Think'st thou, for that I 
 insinuate, or toze from thee thy business, 
 I am therefore no courtier ? I am courtier 
 cap-a-pe; and one that will either push 
 on, or pluck back thy business there: 
 whereupon I command thee to open thy 
 affair. 
 
 Shep. My. business, sir, is to the king. 
 
 Aut. What advocate hast thou ta 
 him? 
 
 Shc]). I know not, an't like you. 
 
 Clo. Advocates the court- word for a 
 pheasant ; say, you have none. 
 
 She]). None, sir; I have no pheasant, 
 cock nor hen. 
 
 Aut. How bless'd are we, that are not 
 simple men! Yet nature might have 
 made me as these are, 
 Therefore I'll not disdain. 
 
 Cloi This cannot be but a great courtier. 
 
 She]). His garments are rich, but he 
 wears them not handsomely. 
 
 Clo. He seems to be the more noble in 
 being fantastical ; a great man, I'll war- 
 rant; I know, by the picking on's teeth. 
 
 Aut. The fardel there ? what's i' the 
 fardel ? Wherefore that box ? 
 
 She]). Sir, there lies such secrets in 
 this fardel, and box, whicli none must 
 know but the king ; and whicli he shall 
 know Avithin this hour, if I may come to 
 the speech of him. 
 
 Aut. Age, thou hast lost thy labor. 
 
 107 
 
Ac-r IV 
 
 T'lIE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Shep. Why, sir ? 
 
 Aut. The king is not at the palace; 
 lie is gone aboard a neT7 ship to purge 
 melancholy, and air himself : For if thou 
 be'st capable of things serious, thou must 
 know, the king is full of grief. 
 
 Sliep. So "'tis said, sir ; about his son, 
 that should have married a shepherd's 
 daughter. 
 
 Aut. If the shepherd be not in hand- 
 iast, let him fly ; the curses he shall have, 
 the tortures he shall feel, will break the 
 back of man, the heart of monster. 
 
 Clo. Think you so, sir ? 
 
 Aut. Xot he alone shall suffer what 
 wit can make heavy, and vengeance bit- 
 ter; but those that are germane to him 
 though removed fifty times, shall all come 
 under the hangman : which though it be 
 great pity, yet it is necessary. An old 
 sheej^-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to 
 offer to have his daughter come into 
 grace ! Some say, he shall be stoned; but 
 that death is too soft for him, say I : 
 Draw our throne into a sheep-cote! all 
 deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy, 
 
 Clo. Has the old man e'er a son, sir, 
 do you hear, an't like you, sir ? 
 
 Aid. He has a son, who shall be flayed 
 alive; then, ■'nointed over with honey, 
 set on the head of a wasp's nest ; then 
 stand, till he be three quarters and a 
 dram dead : then recovered again with 
 aqua-vitae, or some other hot infusion : 
 then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day 
 . prognostication proclaims, shall he be set 
 against a brick-wall, the sun looking with 
 a southward eye upon him ; where he is 
 to behold him, with flies blown to death. 
 But what talk we of these traitorly ras- 
 cals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, 
 their offences being so capital ? Tell me, 
 (for you seem to be honest plain men,) 
 what you have to the king: being some- 
 thing gently considered, I'll bring you 
 where he is aboard, tender your persons 
 to his presence, whisjDer him in your 
 
 behalfs; and, if it be in man, besides the 
 king, to effect your suits, here is the man 
 shall do it. 
 
 Clo. He seems to be of great author- 
 ity : close with him, give him gold ; and 
 though authority be a stubborn bear, yet 
 he is oft led by the nose with gold : show 
 the inside of your purse to the outside of 
 his hand, and no more ado : Remember 
 stoned, and flayed alive. 
 
 Shep. An't please you, sir, to under- 
 take the business for us, here is that gold 
 I have : I'll make it as much more ; and 
 leave this young man in pawn, till I bring 
 it you. 
 
 Aut. After I have done what I prom- 
 ised ? 
 
 Sliep. Ay, sir. 
 
 Aut. Well, give me the moiety ; — Are 
 you a party in this business ? 
 
 Clo. In some sort, sir; but though 
 my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall 
 not be flayed out of it. 
 
 Aut. 0, that's the case of the shep- 
 herd's son: — Hang him, he'll be made an 
 example. 
 
 Clo. Comfort, good comfort: we must 
 \o the king, and show our strange sights; 
 he must know, 'tis none of your daughter 
 nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I 
 will give you as mitch as this old man 
 does, when the business is performed ; and 
 remain, as he says, your pawn, till it be 
 brought you. 
 
 Aut. I will trust you. Walk before 
 toward the sea side; go on the right 
 hand; I will but look upon the hedge, 
 and follow you. 
 
 Clo. We are blessed in this man, as I 
 may say; even blessed. 
 
 Shep. Let's before, as he bids us: he 
 was provided to do us good. 
 
 \Exeunt Shepherd and ClotV7i. 
 
 Aut. If I had a mind to be honest, I 
 see, fortune would not suffer me; she 
 drops booties in my mouth. I am courted 
 now with a double occasion; gold, and a 
 
 108 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 means to do the prince my master good; 
 which, who knows how that may turn 
 back to my advancement? I will bring 
 these two moles, these blind ones, aboard 
 him: if he think it fit to shore them 
 again, and that the complaint they have 
 
 to the king concerns him nothing, let him 
 call me, rogue, for being so far officious; 
 for I am proof against that title, and 
 what shame else belongs to't : To him will 
 I present them, there may be matter in 
 it. [^Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. Sicilia. A Room in the 
 Palace of Leontes. 
 
 Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, 
 Paulina, and others. 
 Cleo. Sir, you have done enough, and 
 
 have perform'd 
 A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you 
 
 make. 
 Which you have not redeem'd; indeed 
 
 paid down 
 More penitence than done trespass: At 
 
 the last. 
 Do, as the heavens have done; forget 
 
 your evil; 
 With them, forgive yourself. 
 
 Leon. Whilst I remember 
 
 Her, and her virtues, I cannot forget 
 My blemishes in them; and so still think 
 
 of 
 The wrong I did myself: which was so 
 
 much, 
 That heirless it hath made my kingdom; 
 
 and 
 Destroyed the sweet'st companion, that 
 
 e'er man 
 Bred his hopes out of. 
 
 Paul. True, too true, my lord . 
 If, one by one, you wedded all the world. 
 Or, from the all that are, took something 
 
 good, 
 To make a perfect woman; she you kijl'd. 
 Would be unparallel'd. 
 
 Leon. I think so. Kill'd I 
 
 She I kill'd? I did so: but thou strik'st 
 
 me 
 Sorely, to say I did ; it is as bitter 
 
 Upon thy tongue, as in my thought: 
 
 Now, good now. 
 Say so but seldom. 
 
 Cleo. Not, at all, good lady : 
 
 You might have spoken a thousand things 
 
 that would 
 Have done the time more benefit, and 
 
 grac'd 
 Your kindness better. 
 
 Paul. You are one of those. 
 
 Would have him wed again. 
 
 Dion. If you would not so. 
 
 You pity not the state, nor the remem- 
 brance 
 Of his most sovereign dame; consider 
 
 little. 
 What dangers, by his highness' fail of 
 
 issue. 
 May drop upon his kingdom, and devour 
 Incertain lookers-on. What were more 
 
 holy, 
 Than to rejoice, the former queen is 
 
 .well? 
 What holier, than, — for royalty's repair. 
 For present comfort and for future good, — 
 To bless the bed of majesty again 
 With a sweet fellow to't? 
 
 Patil. There is none worthy, 
 
 Respecting her that's gone. Besides, the 
 
 gods 
 Will have fulfill'd their secret purposes: 
 For has not the devine Apollo said, 
 Is't not the tenor of his oracle, 
 That king Leontes shall not have an heir. 
 Till his lost child be found? which, that 
 
 it shall, , 
 
 109 
 
Act Y 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Is all as monstrous to our human reason, 
 As my Antigonus to break Ms grave. 
 And come again to me; wjio, on my life, 
 Did perish with the infant. 'Tis your 
 
 counsel. 
 My lord should to the heavens be contrary. 
 Oppose against their wills. — Care not for 
 
 issue. [To LE02fTES. 
 
 The crown will find an heir: Great Alex- 
 ander 
 Left his to the worthiest ; so his successor 
 Was like to be the best. 
 
 Leo)i. Good Paulina, — 
 
 Who hast the memory of Hermioaie, 
 I know in honor, — 0, that ever I 
 Had squar'd me to thy counsel! — then, 
 
 even now, 
 I might have look'd upon my queen's full 
 
 eyes; 
 
 Have taken treasure from her lips, 
 
 Fmd. And left them 
 
 More rich, for what they yielded. 
 
 Leo7i. Thou speak'st truth. 
 
 IN'o more such wives; therefore, no wife: 
 
 one worse, 
 And better us'd, would make her sainted 
 
 sjDirit 
 Agaixi possess her corpse; and, on this 
 
 stage, 
 (Where we offenders now ajopear,) sonl- 
 
 vex'd 
 Begin, AjkI tvhy to me? 
 
 Paid. Had she such power. 
 
 She had just cause. 
 
 Leon. She had: and would incense me 
 To murder her I married. 
 
 Paul. I should so : 
 
 Were I the ghost that walk'd, I'd bid you 
 
 mark 
 Her eye ; and tell me, for what dull part 
 
 "in't 
 You chose her : then I'd shriek, that even 
 
 your ears 
 Should rift to hear me; and the words 
 
 that follow'd 
 Should be. Remember mitie. 
 
 Leoji. Stars, very stars. 
 
 And all eyes else dead coals I — fear thou 
 
 no wife, 
 I'll have no wife, Paulina. 
 
 Paul. Will you swear 
 
 Never to marry, but by my free leave? 
 Leon. Never, Paulina; so be bless'd 
 
 my sjairit I 
 Paul. Then, good my lords, bear wit- 
 ness to his oath. 
 Cleo. You tempt him over- much. 
 Paul. L^nless another. 
 
 As like Hermione as is her picture. 
 Affront his eyes. 
 
 Cleo. Good madam, 
 
 Paul. I have done. 
 
 Yet, if my lord will marry, — if you will, 
 
 sir. 
 No remedy, but you will ; give me the 
 
 office 
 To choose you a queen : she shall not be 
 
 so young 
 As was your former; but she shall be 
 
 such, 
 As, walk'd your first queen's ghost, it 
 
 should take joy 
 To see her in your arms. 
 
 Leon. My true Paulina, 
 
 We shall not maiTy, till thou bidd'st us. 
 
 Paul. That 
 
 Shall be, when your first queen's again in 
 
 breath ; 
 Never till then. 
 
 Enter a Gentleman. 
 Gent. One that gives out himself 
 prince Florizel, 
 Son of Polixeues, with his princess, (she 
 The fairest I have yet beheld,) desires 
 
 access 
 To your high presence. 
 
 Leon. What with him? he comes not 
 Like tohis father's greatness: his approach 
 So out of circumstance, and sudden, tells 
 
 us, 
 ' Tis not a visitation f ram'd, but f orc'd 
 By need, and accident. What train? 
 
 Gent. But few, 
 
 And those but mean. 
 
 110 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Leo7i. His princess, say you, with him ? 
 Gent. Ay; the most peerless piece of 
 
 earth, I think. 
 That e'er the sun shone bright on. 
 
 Paul. Hermione, 
 
 As every prsent time doth boast itself 
 Above a better, gone; so must thy grave 
 Give way to what's seen now. Sir, you 
 
 yourself 
 Have said, and writ so, (but your writing 
 
 now 
 Is colder than that theme,) She had not 
 
 been 
 Nor was not to be equaU'd; — thus your 
 
 verse 
 Elow'd with her beauty once; 'tis shrewdly 
 
 ebb'd. 
 To say, you have seen a better. 
 
 Ge7it. Pardon, madam: 
 
 The one I have almost forgot; (your par- 
 don,) 
 The other, when she has obtain'd your 
 
 eye. 
 Will have your tongue too. This is such 
 
 a creature. 
 Would she begin a sect, might quench 
 
 the zeal 
 Of all professors else; make proselytes. 
 Of who she but bid follow. 
 
 Paul. How? not women? 
 
 ' Ge7it. Women will love her, that she 
 is a woman 
 More worth than any man ; men, that 
 
 she is 
 The rarest of all women. 
 
 Leon. Go, Cleomenes: 
 
 Yourself, assisted with your lionor'd 
 
 friends, 
 Ering them to our embracement. — Still 
 'tis strange, 
 
 [Exeunt Cleomenes, Lords, and 
 Gentlema7i. 
 He thus should steal upon us. 
 
 Paul. Had our prince, 
 
 (Jewel of children,) seen this hour, he 
 had pair'd 
 
 Well with this lord ; there was not full a 
 
 month 
 Between their births. 
 
 Leon. Pr'ythee, no more ; thou know'st. 
 He dies to me again, when talk'd of: sure. 
 When I shall see this gentleman, thy 
 
 speeches. 
 Will bring me to consider that, which 
 
 may 
 Unfurnish me of reason. — they are 
 
 come. 
 
 Re-enter Cleomekes, with Florizel, 
 
 Perdita, and Attendants. 
 
 Your mother was most true to wedlock, 
 
 prince ; 
 For she did print your royal father off. 
 Conceiving you : were I but twenty-one. 
 Your father's image is so hit in you. 
 His very air, that I should call you brother. 
 As I did him ; and speak of something, 
 
 widely 
 By us perform'd before. Most dearly 
 
 welcome! 
 And your fair princess, goddess! — 0, 
 
 alas ! 
 I lost a couple, that 'twixt heaven and 
 
 earth 
 Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, 
 
 as 
 You, gracious couple, do! and then I lost 
 (All mine own folly) the society. 
 Amity too, of your brave father ; whom. 
 Though bearing misery, I desire my life 
 Once more to look ujion. 
 
 Flo. By his command 
 
 Have I here touch'd Sicilia: and from 
 
 him 
 Give you all greetings, that a king, at 
 
 friend. 
 Can send his brother: and, but infirmity 
 (Which waits upon worn times) hath some- 
 thing seiz'd 
 His wish'd ability, he had himself 
 The lands and waters 'twixt your throne 
 
 and his 
 Measur'd, to look upon you ; whom he 
 
 loves 
 
 111 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 (He bade me say so) more than all the 
 
 scepters. 
 And those that bear them, living. 
 
 Leon. 0, my brother, 
 
 (Good gentleman,) the wrongs I have done 
 
 thee, stir 
 Afresh within me; and these thy offices. 
 So rarely kind, are as interpreters 
 Of my behind-hand slackness I — Welcome 
 
 hither; 
 As is the spring to the earth. And hath 
 
 he too 
 Exposed this paragon to the fearful usage 
 (At least, ungentle,) of the dreadful Xep- 
 
 tune, 
 To greet a man, not worth her pains ; 
 
 much less 
 The adventure of her person? 
 
 Flo. Good my lord, 
 
 She came from Libya. 
 
 Leon. Where the warlike Smalus, 
 
 That noble honor'd lord, is fear'd, and 
 
 lov'd? 
 Flo. Most royal sir, from thence: from 
 
 him, whose daughter 
 His tears proclaim'd his, parting with her: 
 
 thence 
 (A prosperous south-wind friendly) we 
 
 have crossM, 
 To execute the charge my father gave me, 
 For visiting your highness: My best 
 
 train 
 I have from your Si'cilian shores dismiss'd; 
 Who for Bohemia bend, to signify 
 Xot only my success in Libya, sir. 
 But my arrival, and my wife's in safety 
 Here, where we are. 
 
 Leon. The blessed gods 
 
 Purge all infection from our air, whilst 
 
 you 
 Do climate here I You have a holy father, 
 A graceful gentleman; against whose per- 
 son. 
 So sacred as it is, I have done sin: 
 For which the heavens, taking angry note, 
 Have left me issueless; and your father's 
 
 bless'd, 
 
 (As he from heaven merits it,) with you, 
 Worthy his goodness. What might I have 
 
 been, 
 Might I a son and daughter now have 
 
 look'd on, 
 Such goodly things as you? 
 
 Enter a Lord. 
 
 Lord. Most noble sir, 
 
 That which I shall report, will bear no 
 
 credit. 
 Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, 
 
 great sir, 
 Bohemia greets you from himself, by me: 
 Desires you to attach his son; who has 
 (His dignity and duty both cast off) 
 Fled from his father, from his hopes, and 
 
 with 
 A shepherd^s daughter. 
 
 Leon. Where's Bohemia? speak. 
 
 Lord. Here in the city; I now come 
 
 from him: 
 I speak amazedly; and it becomes 
 My marvel, and my message. To your 
 
 court 
 Whiles he was hast'ning, (in the chase, it 
 
 seems, 
 Of this fair couple,) meets he on the way 
 The father of this seeming lady, and 
 Her brother, having both their country 
 
 quitted 
 With this young prince. 
 
 Flo. Camillo has betray'd me ; 
 
 Whose honor, and whose honesty, till 
 
 now, 
 Endur'd all weathers. 
 
 Lord. Lay't so, to his charge; 
 
 'He's with the king your father. 
 
 Leon. ' Who? Camillo? 
 
 Lord. Camillo, sir; I spake with him; 
 
 who now 
 Has these poor men in question. Kever 
 
 saw I 
 Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss 
 
 the earth; 
 Forswear themselves as often as thev 
 
 speak: 
 
 112 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens 
 
 them 
 With divers deaths in death. 
 
 Per. 0, my poor father! — 
 
 The heaven set spies upon us, will not 
 
 have 
 Our contract celebrated. 
 
 Leon. You are married? 
 
 Flo. We are not, sir, nor are we like 
 
 to be; 
 The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys 
 
 first: — 
 The odds for high and low's alike. 
 
 Leon. My lord. 
 
 Is this the daughter of a king? 
 
 Flo. She is. 
 
 When once she is my wife. 
 
 Leon. That once, I see, by your good 
 
 father's speed. 
 Will come on very slowly. I am sorry. 
 Most sorry, you have broken from his 
 
 liking. 
 Where you were tied in duty: and as sorry, 
 Your choice is not so rich in worth as 
 
 beauty. 
 That you might well enjoy her. 
 
 Flo. Dear, look up: 
 
 Though fortune, visible an enemy. 
 Should chase us, with my father; power 
 
 no jot 
 Hath she, to change our loves. — 'Beseech 
 
 you, sir, 
 Eemember since you ow'd no more to 
 
 time 
 Than I do now: with thoughts of such 
 
 affections. 
 Step forth mine advocate; at your request. 
 My father will grant precious things, as 
 
 trifles, 
 Leon. Would he do so, I'd beg your 
 
 precious mistress, 
 Which he counts but a trifle. 
 
 Paul. Sir, my liege, 
 
 Your eye hath too much youth in't: not 
 
 a month 
 Tore your queen died, she was more worth 
 
 such gazes, 
 
 Than what you look on now. 
 
 Leon. I thought of her. 
 
 Even in these looks I made. — But your 
 
 petition [2b Florizel. 
 Is yet unanswer'd: I will to your father; 
 Your honor not o'erthrown by your 
 
 desires, 
 I am a friend to them, and you: upon 
 
 which errand 
 I now go toward him; therefore, follow 
 
 me. 
 And mark what way I make: Come, good 
 
 my lord. \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. Before the Palace. 
 Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman. 
 
 Aut. ' Beseech you, sir, were you pres- 
 ent at this relation ? 
 
 1 Gent. I was by at the opening of the 
 fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the 
 manner how he found it : whereupon, 
 after a little amazedness, we were all com- 
 manded out of the chamber; only this 
 methought I heard the shepherd say, he 
 found the child. 
 
 Aut. I would most gladly know the 
 issue of it. 
 
 1 Gent. I make a broken delivery of 
 the business; — But the changes I- per- 
 ceived in the king, and Camillo, were 
 very notes of admiration : they seemed al- 
 most, with staring on one another, to tear 
 the cases of their eyes ; there was speech 
 in their dumbness, language in their very 
 gesture ; they looked, as they had heard 
 of a world ransomed, or one destroyed : 
 A notable passion of wonder appeared in 
 them : but the wisest beholder, that knew 
 no more but seeing, could not say, if the 
 importance were joy, or sorrow : but in 
 the extremity of the one, it must needs 
 be. 
 
 Enter another Gentleman. 
 Here comes a gentleman, that, happily, 
 
 knows more: 
 The news, Rogero ? 
 
 113 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE WINTEE'S TALE. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 2 Gent. Nothing but bonfires : The 
 oracle is fulfilled ; the king's daughter is 
 found : such a deal of wonder is broken 
 out within this hour, that ballad-makers 
 cannot be able to express it. 
 
 Enter a third Gentleman. 
 
 Here comes the lady Paulina's steward : 
 he can deliver you more. — How goes it 
 now, sir ? this news, which is called true, 
 is so like an old tale, that the verity of it 
 is in strong su.spicion : Has the king found 
 his heir? 
 
 3 Gent. Most true ; if ever truth were 
 pregnant by circumstance : that which 
 you hear, you'll swear you see, there is 
 such unity in the proofs. The mantle of 
 queen Hermione : — her jewel about the 
 neck of it : — the letters of Antigonus, 
 found with it, which they know to be his 
 character : — the majesty of the creature, 
 in resemblance of the mother; — the affec- 
 tion of nobleness, which nature shows 
 above her breeding, — and many other evi- 
 dences, proclaim her, with all certainty, 
 to be the king's daughter. Did you see 
 the meeting of the two kings ? 
 
 2 Gent. No. 
 
 3 Gent. Then have you lost a sight, 
 which was to be seen, cannot be spoken 
 of. There might you have beheld one 
 joy crown another ; so, and in such man- 
 ner, that it seemed, sorrow wept to take 
 leave of them; for their joy waded in 
 tears. There was casting up of eyes, 
 holding up of hands ; with countenance 
 of such distraction, that they were to be 
 known by garment, not by favor. Our 
 king, being ready to leap out of himself 
 for joy of his found daughter; as if that 
 jov were now become a loss, cries, 0, tlnj 
 mother, thy mother! then asks Bohemia 
 forgiveness ; then embraces his son-in- 
 law ; then again worries he his daughter, 
 with clipping her ; now he thanks the old 
 shepherd, which stands by, like a weather- 
 beaten conduit of many kings' reigns. I 
 
 never heard of such another encounter, 
 which lames report to follow it, and un- 
 does description to do it. 
 
 3 Gent. What, pray you, became of 
 Antigonus, that carried hence the child ? 
 3 Gent. Like an old tale still ; which 
 will have matter to rehearse, though 
 credit be asleep, and not an ear open : 
 He was torn to pieces with a bear : this 
 avouches the shepherd's son ; who has not 
 only his innocence (which seems much) 
 to justify him, but a handkerchief, and 
 rings, of his, that Paulina knows. 
 
 1 Ge7it. What became of his bark, and 
 his followers ? 
 
 3 Gent. Wreck'd, the same instant of 
 their master's death : and in the view of 
 the shepherd : so that all the instruments, 
 which aided to expose the child, were 
 even then lost, when it was found. But, 
 0, the noble combat, that, 'twixt joy and 
 sorrow, was fought in Paulina ! She had 
 one eye declined for the loss of her hus- 
 band ; another elevated that the oracle 
 was fulfilled : She lifted the Princess 
 from the earth ; and so locks her in em- 
 bracing, as if she would pin her to her 
 heart, that she might no more be in dan- 
 ger of losing. 
 
 1 Gent. The dignity of this act was 
 worth the audience of kings and princes ; 
 for by such was it acted. 
 
 3 Gent. One of the prettiest touches 
 of all, and that which angled for mine 
 eyes (caught the water, though not the 
 fish), was, when at the relation of the 
 queen's death, with the manner how 
 she came to it, (bravely confessed, and 
 lamented by the king,) how atten- 
 tiveness wounded his daughter : till, 
 from one sign of dolour to another, she 
 did, with an alas! I would fain say, bleed 
 tears ; for, I am sure, my heart wejit blood. 
 Who was most marble there, changed 
 color ; some swooned, all sorrowed : if 
 
 all the world could have seen it, the woe 
 1 
 had been universal. 
 
 114 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 1 Ge7it. Are they returned to the 
 court ? 
 
 3 Gent. No : the princess hearing of 
 her mother's statue, which is in the keep- 
 ing of Paulina, — a piece many years in do- 
 ing, and now newly performed by that rare 
 Italian master, Julio Eomano ; who, had 
 he himself eternity, and could put breath 
 into his work, woukl beguile nature of 
 her custom, so perfectly he is her ape : 
 he so near to Hermione hath done Her- 
 mione, that, they say, one would speak 
 to her, and stand in hope of answer : 
 thither with all greediness of affection, 
 are they gone ; and there they intend to 
 sup. 
 
 3 Gent. I thought, she had some great 
 matter there in hand ; for she hath pri- 
 Tately, twice or thrice a day, ever since 
 tlie death of Ilermoine, visited that re- 
 moved house. Shall we thither, and with 
 our company j^iece the rejoicing ? 
 
 1 Gent. Who would be thence, that 
 has the benefit of access ? every wink of 
 an eye, some new grace will be born : our 
 absence makes us unthrifty to our knowl- 
 edge. Let's along. 
 
 [Exeunt Geiitlemen. 
 
 Aut. Now, had I not the dash of my 
 former life in me, would preferment drop 
 on my head. I brought the old man and 
 his son aboard the prince ; told him, I 
 heard him talk of a fardel, and I know 
 not what : but he at that time, over-fond 
 of the shepherd's daughter, (so he then took 
 her to be,) who began to be much sea- 
 sick, and himself little better, extremity 
 of weather continuing, this mystery re- 
 mained undiscovered. But 'tis all one to 
 me : for had I been the finder-out of this 
 secret, it would not have relished among 
 my other discredits. 
 
 Enter Shepherd and Clown. 
 Here come those I have done good to 
 
 against my will, and already appearing in 
 the blossoms of their fortune. 
 
 Shej). Come, boy ; I am past more chil- 
 dren ; but thy sons and daughters will be 
 all gentlemen born. 
 
 Glo. You are well met, sir : You denied 
 to fight with me this other day, because 
 I was no gentleman born : See you these 
 clothes ? say, you see them not, and think 
 me still no gentleman born : you were best 
 say, these robes are not gentlemen born. 
 Give me the lie ; do; and try whether I 
 am not now a gentleman born. 
 
 A^it. I know, you are now, sir, a gentle- 
 man born. 
 
 Glo. Ay, and have' been so any time 
 these four hours. 
 
 She]}. And so have I, boy. 
 
 Glo. So you have : — but I was a gentle- 
 man born before m}^ father : for the king's 
 son took me by the hand, and called me, 
 brother : and then the two kings called me 
 father, brother ; and then the prince, my 
 brother, and the princess, my sister, called 
 my father, father ; and so we wej)t : and 
 there was the first gentleman-like tears 
 that ever we shed, 
 
 Sliep. We may live, son, to shed many 
 more. 
 
 Glo. Ay ; or else 'twere hard luck, being 
 in so preposterous estate as we are. 
 
 Atit. I humbly beseech you, sir, to par- 
 don me all the faults I have committed to 
 your worship, and to give me your good 
 report to the prince my master. 
 
 Shep. Pr'ythee, son, do; for we must 
 be gentle, now we are gentlemen. 
 
 Glo. Thou wilt amend thy life ? 
 
 Aid. Ay, an' it like your good worship. 
 
 Glo. Give me thy hand : I will swear 
 to the prince, thou art as honest a true 
 fellow as any is in Bohemia. — Hark ! the 
 kings and the princes, our kindred, are 
 going to see the queen's picture. Come, 
 follow us : we'll be thy good masters. 
 
 \^Excunt. 
 
 ir> 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEIs^E III. 
 
 Scene III. A Room in Paulina's House. 
 Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, 
 
 Peedita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords, 
 
 and Attendants. 
 
 Leon. grave and good Paulina, the 
 great comfort 
 
 That I have had of thee ! 
 
 Paul. What, sovereign, sir. 
 
 I did not well, I meant well: All my ser- 
 vices. 
 
 You have paid home : but that you have 
 vouchsaf'd 
 
 With your crown'd brother, and these 
 your contracted 
 
 Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house 
 to visit. 
 
 It is a surplus of your grace, which never 
 
 My life may last to answer. 
 
 Leon. Paulina, 
 
 We honor you with trouble : But we 
 came 
 
 To see the statue of our queen : your gal- 
 lery 
 
 Have we pass'd through, not without 
 much content 
 
 In many singularities; but we saw not 
 
 That which my daughter came to look 
 upon. 
 
 The statue of her mother. 
 Paul. As she liv'd peerless. 
 
 So her dead likeness, I do well believe. 
 
 Excels whatever yet you look'd upon. 
 
 Or hand of man hath done; therefore I 
 keep it 
 
 Lonely, apart : But here it is : prepare 
 
 To see the life as lively mock'd, as ever 
 
 Still sleep mocked death: behold ; and say, 
 'tis well. 
 
 [Paulina U7idraws a Curtain and 
 discovers a Statue. 
 
 I like your silence, it the more shows off 
 Your wonder : But yet speak ; — first, you, 
 
 my liege. 
 Comes it not something near ? 
 
 Leon. Her natural posture !— 
 
 Chide me, dear stone ; that I may say, 
 
 indeed. 
 Thou art Hermione : or, rather, thou art 
 
 she. 
 In thy not chiding; for she was as tender. 
 As infancy, and grace. — But yet, Paulina, 
 Hermione was not so much wrinkled ; 
 
 nothing 
 So aged, as this seems. 
 
 CoL 0, not by much. 
 
 Paul. So much the more our carver's 
 
 excellence ; 
 Which lets go by some sixteen years, and 
 
 makes her 
 As she liVd now. 
 
 Leo7i. As now she might have done. 
 So much to my good comfort, as it is 
 Now piercing to my soul. 0, thus she 
 
 stood. 
 Even with such life of majesty, (warm life. 
 As now it coldly stands.) when first I 
 
 woo'd her ! 
 I am asham'd : Does not the stoiae rebuke 
 
 me. 
 For being more stone than it ? — 0, royal 
 
 piece. 
 There's magic in thy majesty ; which has 
 My evil's conjur'dto remembrance ; and 
 From thy admiring daughter took the 
 
 spirits. 
 Standing like stone with thee ! 
 
 Per. And give me leave ; 
 
 And do not say, 'tis superstition, that 
 I kneel, and then implore her blessing. — 
 
 Lady, 
 Dear queen, that ended when I but began. 
 Give me that hand of yours, to kiss. 
 
 Patil 0, patience; 
 
 The statute is but newly fix'd, the color's 
 Not dry. 
 
 Cam. My lord, your sorrow was too 
 
 sore laid on 
 Which sixteen winters cannot blow away. 
 So many summers, dry : scarce any joy 
 Did ever so long live ; no sorrow. 
 But kill'd itself much sooner. 
 
 116 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE WINTEE'S TALE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Pol. Dear my brother, 
 
 Let liim, that was the cause of this, have 
 
 power 
 To take off so much grief from you, as he 
 Will piece up in himself. 
 
 Paul. Indeed, my lord, 
 
 If I had thought the sight of my poor 
 
 image 
 Would thus have wrought you, (for the 
 
 stone is mine,) 
 I'd not have shovv'd it. 
 
 Leon. Do not draw the curtain. 
 
 Paul. No longer shall you gaze on't ; 
 lest your fancy 
 May think anon, it moves. 
 
 Leon. Let be, let be. 
 
 Would I were dead, but that, methinks 
 
 already — 
 What was he, that did make it ? — See, my 
 
 lord. 
 Would you not deem, it breath'd ? and 
 
 that those veins 
 Did verily bear blood ? 
 
 Pol. Masterly done : 
 
 The very life seems warm upon her lip. 
 Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion 
 in't. 
 As we are mock'd with art. 
 
 Paul. I'll draw the curtain ; 
 
 My lord's almost so far transported, that 
 He'll think anon, it lives. 
 
 Leon. 0, sweet Paulina, 
 
 Make me to think so twenty years to- 
 gether ; 
 No settled senses of the world can match 
 The pleasure of that madness. Let's 
 alone. 
 Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far 
 stirr'd you : but 
 I could afflict you further. 
 
 Leon. Do, Paulina; 
 
 For this affliction has a taste as sweet 
 As any cordial comfort. — Still, methinks. 
 There is an air comes from her : What 
 
 fine chisel 
 Could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man 
 mock me. 
 
 For I will kiss her. 
 
 Paul. Good my lord, forbear : 
 
 The ruddiness upon her lip is wet ; 
 You'll mar it, if you kiss it ; stain your 
 
 own 
 With oily painting : Shall I draw the cur- 
 tain ? 
 Leon. No, not these twenty years. 
 Per. So long could I 
 
 Stand by, a looker on. 
 
 Paul. Either forbear. 
 
 Quit presently the chapel ; or resolve you 
 For mere amazement : If you can behold 
 
 it. 
 I'll make the statue move indeed; descend. 
 And take you by the hand : but then you '11 
 
 think, 
 (Which I protest against,) I am assisted 
 By wicked powers. 
 
 Leon. What you can make her do, 
 
 I am content to look on : what to speak 
 I am content to hear : for 'tis as easy 
 To make her speak, as move. 
 
 Paul. It is requir'd 
 
 You do awake your faith : Then, all stand 
 
 still : 
 Or those, that think it is unlawful busi- 
 ness 
 I am about, let them depart. 
 
 Leon. Proceed ; 
 
 No foot shall stir. 
 
 Paul. Music ; awake her : strike. — 
 
 [^Mtisic. 
 'Tis time ; descend ; be stone no more : 
 
 approach : 
 Strike all that look upon with marvel. 
 
 Come : 
 I'll fill your grave up : stir; nay, come 
 
 away ; 
 Bequeath to death your numbness, for 
 
 from him » 
 
 Dear life redeems you. — You perceive 
 she stirs; 
 
 [Herjiioke comes doivn from the 
 Pedestal. 
 Start not : her actions shall be holy, as, 
 
 117 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 You heai% my spell is lawful : do not shun 
 
 her. 
 Until you see her die again ; for then 
 You kill her double : Nay, present your 
 
 hand : 
 When she was young, you woo'd her ; now, 
 
 in age, 
 Is she become the suitor. 
 
 Leon. 0, she's warm! {^Embracing lier. 
 If this be magic, let it be an art 
 Lawful as eating. 
 
 Pol. She embraces him. 
 
 Cam. She hangs about his neck ; 
 If she pertain to life, let her speak too. 
 Pol. Ay, and make't manifest where 
 
 she has liv'd. 
 Or, how stolen from the dead ? 
 
 Paul. That she is living. 
 
 Were it but told you, should be hooted at 
 Like an old tale ; but it appears, she lives 
 Though yet she speak not. Mark a little 
 
 while. — 
 Please you to interpose, fair madam ; 
 
 kneel. 
 And pray your mother's blessing. — Turn, 
 
 good lady ; 
 Our Perdita is found. 
 
 ^Presenting Perdita, ivho kneels to 
 Hekmione. 
 Her, You gods, look down. 
 
 And from your sacred vials pour your 
 
 graces 
 Upon my daughter's head I — Tell me, 
 mine own. 
 
 Lest they desire, upon this push, to trouble 
 Your joys with like relation. — Go to- 
 gether, 
 You precious winners all ; your exultation 
 Partake to every one. I, an old turtle, 
 Will wing me to some wither'd bough ; 
 
 and there 
 My mate, that's never to be found again. 
 Lament till I am lost. 
 
 Leon. peace, Paulina ; 
 
 Thou shouldst a husband take by my con- 
 sent. 
 As I by thine, a wife : this is a match, 
 And made between's by vows. Thou hast 
 
 found mine ; 
 But how, is to be question'd : for I saw 
 
 her. 
 As I thought, dead ; and have, in vain, 
 
 said many 
 A prayer upon her grave : I'll not seek 
 
 far 
 (For him, I partly know his mind,) to find 
 
 thee 
 An honorable .aisband : — Come, Camillo, 
 And take her by the hand: whose worth, 
 
 and honesty. 
 Is richly noted ; and here justified 
 By us a pair of kings. — Let's from this 
 
 place. — 
 What? — Look upon my brother : — both 
 
 your pardons. 
 That e'er I put between your holy looks 
 My ill suspicion. — This your son-in-law. 
 And son unto the king, (whom heavens 
 directing,) 
 
 Where hast thou been preserv'd ? where i^ troth-plight to your daughter, —Good 
 
 liv'd ? how found 
 
 Thy father's court ? for thou shalt hear, 
 that I,— 
 
 Knowing by Paulina, that the oracle 
 
 Gave hope thou wast in being, — have pre- 
 serv'd 
 
 Myself, to see the issue. 
 
 Paul. ' There's time enough for that; 
 
 Paulina, 
 
 Lead us from hence ; where we may leis- 
 urely 
 
 Each one demand, and answer to his j^art 
 
 Perf orm'd in this wide gap of time, since 
 first 
 
 We were dissevered : Hastily lead away. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 118 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 SHYLOCK, the Jew, lived at Venice; he was a usurer who had amassed an 
 immense fortune by lending money at great interest to Christian merchants. 
 Shyiock, being a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of the money he lent with 
 such severity that he was much disliked by all good men, and particularly by Anto- 
 nio, a young merchant of Venice; and Shylock as much hated Antonio, because he 
 used to lend money to people in distress, and would never take any interest for the 
 money he lent; therefore there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and the 
 generous merchant Antonio. "Whenever Antonio met Shylock on the Eialto (or 
 Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and hard dealings; which the 
 Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he secretly meditated revenge. 
 
 Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best conditioned, and had the 
 most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies; indeed, he was one in whom the ancient 
 Eoman honor more appeared than in any that drew breath in Italy. He was greatly 
 beloved by all his fellow-citizens; but the friend who was nearest and dearest to his 
 heart was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, had nearly 
 exhausted his little fortune by living in too expensive a manner for his slender means, 
 as young men of high rank with small fortunes are apt to do. Whenever Bassanio 
 wanted money, Antonio assisted him; and it seemed as if they had but one heart 
 and one purse between them. 
 
 One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told him that he wished to repair his 
 fortune by a wealthy man-iage with a lady whom he dearly loved, whose father, that 
 was lately dead, had left her sole heiress to a large estate; and that in her father's lifetime 
 he used to visit at her house, when he thought he had observed this lady had some- 
 times from her eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to say he would be no 
 unwelcome suitor, but not having money to furnish himself with an appearance 
 befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought Antonio to add to the many 
 favors he had shown him by lending him three thousand ducats. 
 
 Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend; but expecting 
 soon to have some ships come home laden with merchandise, he said he would go to 
 Shylock, the rich money-lender, and borrow the money upon the credit of those ships. 
 
 Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Antonio asked the Jew 
 to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest he should require, to be paid 
 out of the merchandise contained in his ships at sea. On this, Shylock thought 
 within himself, "If I can once catch him on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient 
 grudge I bear him; he hates our Jewish nation; he lends out money gratis; and 
 among the merchants he rails at me and my well-earned bargains, which he calls 
 interest. Cursed be my tribe if I forgive him!" Antonio, finding he was musing 
 within himself and did not answer, and being impatient for money, said, "Shj^lock, 
 do you hear? will you lend the money?" To this question the Jew replied, " Signer 
 Antonio, on the Rialto many a time and often you have railed at me about my 
 moneys and my usuries, and I have borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the 
 
 119 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 badge of all our tribe ; and then you have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and 
 spit upon my Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if I were a cur. 
 Well then, it now appears you need my help; and you come to me, and say, Sliyloch, 
 leyid me moneys. Has a dog money? Is it possible a cur should lend three thousand 
 ducats? Shall I bend low and say. Pair sir, you spat upon me on "Wednesday last, 
 another time you called me dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you moneys?" 
 Antonio replied, "I am as like to call you so again, to spit on you again, and spurn 
 you too. If you will lend me this money, lend it not to me as to a friend, but rather 
 lend it to me as to an enemy, that, if I break, you may with better face exact the 
 penalty." "Why, look you," said Shylock, "how you storm! I would be friends 
 with you, and have your love. I will forget the shames you have put upon nie. I 
 will supply your wants, and take no interest for my money." This seemingly kind 
 offer greatly surprised Antonio; and then Shylock, still pretending kindness, and 
 that all he did was to gain Antonio's love, again said he would lend him the three 
 thousand ducats, and take no interest for his money; only Antonio should go with 
 him to a lawyer, and there sign in merry sport a bond, that if he did not repay the 
 money by a certain day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut off from any part 
 of his body that Shylock pleased. 
 
 " Content," said Antonio : "I will sign to this bond, and say there is much kind- 
 ness in the Jew." 
 
 Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a bond for him; and still Anto- 
 nio insisted that he would sign it, for that before the day of payment came his ships 
 would return laden with many times the value of the money. 
 
 Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, " O Father Abraham, what suspicious 
 people these Christians are! Their own hard dealings teach them to suspect the 
 thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this, Bassanio: if he should break this day, 
 what should I gain by the execution of the forfeiture ? A pound of man's flesh, 
 taken from a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton 
 or of beef. I say, to buy his favor I offer this friendship: if he will take it, so; if 
 not, adieu." 
 
 At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding all the Jew had 
 said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend should run the hazard of this 
 shocking penalty for his sake, Antonio signed the bond, thinking it really (as the 
 Jew said) merely in sport. 
 
 The rich heiress that BassSnio wished to marry lived near Venice, at a place 
 called Belmont: her name was Portia, and in the graces of her person and her mind 
 she was nothing inferior to that Portia of whom we read, who was Gate's daughter, 
 and the wife of Brutus. 
 
 Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his friend Antonio, at the 
 hazard of his life, set out out for Belmont with a splendid train and attended by a 
 gentleman of the name of Gratiano. 
 
 Bassanio proving suecessful in his suit, Portia in a short time consented to 
 accept of him for a husband. 
 
 Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that his high birth and 
 noble ancestry was all that he could boast of: she, who loved him for his worthy 
 qualities, and had riches enough not to regard wealth in a husband, answered with a 
 graceful modesty that she would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten 
 
 120 ' ^ 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 thousand times more ricli, to be more worthy of him; and then the accomplished 
 Portia prettily disjoraised herself, and said she was an unlessoned girl, unschooled, 
 unpracticed, j-et not so old but that she could learn, and that she would commit her 
 gentle spirit to be directed and governed by him in all things; and she said, "Myself 
 and what is mine, to you and yours is now converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I was 
 the lady of this fair mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over these servants; and 
 now this house, these servants, and myself are yours, my lord; I give them with this 
 ring," presenting a ring to Bassanio. 
 
 Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the gracious manner 
 in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his humble fortunes, that he 
 could not express his joy and reverence to the dear lady who so honored him by any- 
 thing but broken words of love and thankfulness; and taking the ring he vowed never 
 to part with it. 
 
 Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance upon their lord 
 and lady when Portia so gracefully promised to become the obedient wife of Bassanio; 
 and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the generous lady joy, desired permission to be 
 married at the same time. 
 
 "With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, "if you can get a wife." 
 
 Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting gfntlewoman, 
 Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if her lady married Bassanio. 
 Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied, " Madam, it is so, if you 
 approve of it." Portia willingly consented, Bassanio pleasantly said, "Then our 
 wedding feast shall be much honored by your marriage, Gratiano." 
 
 The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this moment by the entrance 
 of a messenger, who brought a letter from Antonio containing fearful tidings. 
 When Bassanio read Antonio's letter, Portia feared it was to tell himof the death, 
 of some dear friend, he looked so pale ; and inquiring what was the news which had 
 so distressed him, he said, "0 sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words 
 that ever blotted paper : gentle lady, when I first imparted my love to you, I freely 
 told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins ; but I should have told you that I had 
 less than nothing, being in debt." Bassanio then told Portia what has been here 
 related, of his borrowing the money of Antonio, and of Antonio's procuring it of 
 Shylock, the Jew, and of the bond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound 
 of flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day ; and then Bassanio read Atonio's let- 
 ter, the words of which were, " Sioeet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my bond to 
 the Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it is impossiile I should live, I could wish to 
 ^ee you at my death ; notwithstanding, use your 2)leasure; if your love for me do not 
 persuade you to come, let not my letter." " Oh my dear love," said Portia, " dispatch 
 the business and be gone ; you shall have gold to pay the money twenty times over, 
 before this kind friend shall lose a hair by my Bassanio's fault ; and as you are so 
 dearly bought, I will dearly love you." Portia then said she would be married to 
 Bassanio before he set out, to give him a legal right to her money ; and that same 
 •day they were married, and Gratiano was also married to Nerissa ; and Bassanio and 
 Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great haste for Venice, where 
 Bassanio found Antonio in prison. 
 
 The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept of the money 
 which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having a pound of Antonio's flesh. 
 
 121 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 A day was appointed to try this shocking cause before the Duke of Venice, and 
 Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the event of the trial. 
 
 When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to him, and bade 
 him bring his dear friend along with him when he returned; yet she feared it would go 
 'hard with Antonio, and when she was left alone, she began to think and consider within 
 herself, if she could by any means be instrumental in saving the life of her dear 
 Bassanio's friend; and notwithstanding, when she wished to honor her Bassanio, she 
 had said to him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that she would submit in all 
 things to be governed by his superior wisdom, yet being now called forth into action by 
 theperilof her honored husband's friend, she did nothingdoubt herownpowers, and by 
 the sole guidance of her own true and perfect judgment, at once resolved to go herself 
 to Venice, and speak in Antonio's defense. 
 
 Portia had a relation who was a counselor in the law; to this gentleman, whose- 
 name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to him, desired his opinion, and 
 that with his advice he would also send her the dress worn by a counselor. When 
 the messenger returned, he brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, 
 and also everything necessary for her equipment. 
 
 Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, and putting on 
 the robes of a counselor, she took Nerissa along with her as her clerk; and setting 
 out immediately, they arrived at Venice on the very day of the trial. The cause was 
 just going to be heard before the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, 
 when Portia entered this high court of justice, and presented a letter from Bellario, 
 in which that learned counselor wrote to the duke, saying he would have come him- 
 self to plead for Antonio, but that he was prevented by sickness, and he requested 
 that the learned young Doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be permitted to 
 plead in his stead. This the duke granted, much wondering at the youthful appear- 
 ance of the stranger, who was prettily disguised by her counselor's robes and her 
 large wig. 
 
 And now began this important trial. Portia looked around her, and she saw the 
 merciless Jew, and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her not in her disguise. He was 
 standing beside Antonio, in an agony of distress and fear for his friend. 
 
 The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave this tender lady 
 courage, and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had undertaken to perform. And 
 first of all she addressed herself to Shylock; and allowing that he had a right by th& 
 Venetian law to have the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the 
 noble quality of mercy as would have softened any heart but the unfeeling Shylock's; 
 saying that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath; and 
 how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him that gave, and him that received it; 
 and how it became monarchs better than their crowns, being an attribute of God him- 
 self; and that earthly power came nearest to God's in proportion as mercy tempered 
 justice; and she bid Shylock remember that as we all pray for mercy, that same 
 prayer should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only answered her by desiring to 
 have the penalty forfeited in the bond. "Is he not able to pay the money?" asked 
 Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the payment of the three thousand ducats as 
 many times over as he should desire; which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon 
 having a pound of Antonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned young counselor 
 would endeavor to wrest the law a little, to save Antonio's life. But Portia gravely 
 
 122 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 answered, that laws once established must never be altered. Shylock hearing Portia 
 say that the law might not be altered, it seemed to him that she was pleading in his 
 favor, and he said, "A Daniel is come to judgment! wise young judge, how I do 
 honor you ! How much elder are you than your looks ! " 
 
 Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond; and when she had read it, 
 she said, ''This bond is forfeited and by this the Jew may lawfully claim a pound of 
 flesh, to be by him cutoff nearest Antonio's heart." Then she said to Shylock, "Be 
 merciful; take the money, and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy would the cruel 
 Shylock show: and he said, " By my soul I swear there is no power in the tongue of 
 man to alter me." "Why then, Antonio," said Portia, "you must prepare your 
 bosom for the knife;" and while Shylock was sharpening a long knife with great 
 eagerness, to cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio, " Have you anything 
 to say?" Antonio, with a calm resignation, replied, that he had but little to say, for 
 that he had prepared his mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio, " Give me your 
 hand, Bassanio! Pare you well! Grieve not that I am fallen into this misfortune 
 for you. Commend me to your honorable wife, and tell her how I have loved you! " 
 Bassanio, in the deepest affliction, replied, " Antonio, I am married to a wife who is 
 as dear to me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, and all the world, are not esteemed 
 with me above your life: I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to this devil here to 
 deliver you." 
 
 Portia, hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not offended with her 
 husband for expressing the love he owed to so true a friend as Antonio in these strong 
 terms, yet could not help answering, "Your wife would give you little thanks if she 
 were present to hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to copy 
 what his lord did, thought he must make a speech like Bassanio's, and he said, in 
 Nerissa's hearing, who was writing in her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, " I have 
 a wife whom I protest I love ; I wish she were in heaven, if she could but entreat 
 some power there to change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." " It is well you 
 wish this behind her back, else you would have but an unquiet house," said Nerissa. 
 
 Shylock now cried out impatiently, " We trifle time ; I pray pronounce the 
 sentence." And now all was awful expectation in the court, and every heart was full 
 of grief for Antonio. 
 
 Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she said to the Jew, 
 " Shylock,you musthavesomesurgeonby, lest he bleed to death." Shylock, whose whole 
 intent was that Antonio should bleed to death, said, " It is not so named in the bond. " 
 Portia replied, " It is not so named in the bond, but what of that ? It were good 
 you did so much charity." To this all the answer Shylock would make was, "I can- 
 not find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said Portia, " a pound of Antonio's 
 flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the court awards it. And you may cut this 
 flesh from off his breast. The law allows it, and the court awards it." Again Shy- 
 lock exclaimed, "0 wise and upright judge ! A Daniel is come to judgment!" 
 And then he sharpened his long knife again, and looking eagerly on Antonio, he said, 
 " Come, prepare !" 
 
 " Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; " there is something else. This bond here 
 gives you no drop of blood; the words expressly are, 'a pound of flesh.' If in the 
 cutting of the pound of flesh you shed one drop of Christian blood, your land and 
 goods are by the law to be confiscated to the State of Venice." Now, as it was utterly 
 
 123 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 impossible for Shylock to cut off the j^ound of flesli without shedding some of 
 Antonio's blood, this wise discovery of Portia, that it was flesh and not blood that 
 was named in the bond, saved the life of Antonio; and all admiring the wonderful 
 sagacity of the young counselor who had so happily thought of this expedient, 
 plaudits resounded from every part of the senate-house; and Gratiano exclaimed, in 
 the words which Shylock had used, "0 wise and upright judge! mark, Jew, a 
 Daniel is come to judgment!" 
 
 Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said ■vfith a disappointed 
 look, that he would take the money; and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure at 
 Aatonio's unexpected deliverance, cried out, " Here is the money!" But Portia 
 stopped him, saying, "Softly, there is no haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the 
 penalty: therefore, prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh; but mind you shed no 
 blood; nor do not cut off more nor less than just a pound; be it more or less by one 
 poor scruple, nay, if the scale turn but by the weight of a single hair, you are 
 condemned by the laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth is forfeited to the 
 senate." ''Give me my money, and let me go," said Shylock. ''I have it ready," 
 said Bassanio; "here it is." 
 
 Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again stopped him, saying, 
 "Tarry, Jew; I have yet another hold upon you. By the laws of Venice, your 
 wealth is forfeited to the State, for having conspired against the life of one of its cit- 
 izens, and your life lies at the mercy of the duke; therefore down on your knees and 
 ask him to pardon you." 
 
 The duke then said to Shylock, " That you may see the difference of our Christ- 
 ian spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it: half your wealth belongs to Anto- 
 nio, the other half comes to the State." 
 
 The generous Antonio then said that he would give up his share of Shylock's 
 wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at his death to his daughter and 
 her husband; for Antonio knew that the Jew had an only daughter, who had lately 
 married against his consent to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Anto- 
 nio's, which had so offended Shylock that he had disinherited her. 
 
 The Jew agreed to this: and being thus disappointed in his revenge, and des- 
 poiled of his riches, he said, "I am ill. Let me go home: send the deed after me, 
 and I will sign over half my riches to my daughter." " Get thee gone then," said the 
 duke, "and sign it; and if you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the State will 
 forgive you the fine of the other half of your riches." 
 
 The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the court. He then highly 
 praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counselor, and invited him home to 
 dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont before her husband, replied, " I 
 humbly thank your grace, but I must away directly." The duke said he was sorry he 
 had not leisure to stay and dine with him; and turning to Antonio, he added, "Keward 
 this gentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted to him." 
 
 The duke and his senators left the court and then Bassanio said to Portia, "Most 
 worthy gentlemen, I and my friend Antonio, have by your wisdom been this day 
 acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you will accept of three thousand ducats 
 due unto the Jew." " And we shall stand indebted to you over and above," said 
 Antonio, " in love and service evermore." 
 
 124 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money ; but upon Bassanio still 
 pressing her to accept of some reward, she said, "Give me your gloves ; I will wear 
 them for your sake; and then Bassanio taking off his gloves, she espied the ring which 
 she had given him upon his finger; now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to get from 
 him, to make a merry jest when she saw Bassanio again, that made her ask him for 
 his gloves and she said, when she saw the ring, "And for your love I will take this 
 ring from you." Bassanio was sadly distressed that the counselor should ask him for 
 the only thing he could not part with, and he replied in great confusion, that he could 
 not give him that ring, because it was his wife's gift, and he had vowed never to part 
 with it : but that he would give him the most valuable ring in Venice, and find it out 
 by proclamation. On this Portia affected to be affronted and left the court, saying, 
 "You teach me, sir, how a beggar should be answered." 
 
 "Dear Bassanio," said Antonio, "let him have the ring; let my love and the great 
 service he has done for me be valued against your wife's displeasure." Bassanio, 
 ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, and sent Gratiano after Portia, with the 
 ring ; and then the clerk Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged his 
 ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity by his lord) gave it to 
 her. And there was laughing among these ladies, to think, when they got home, how 
 they would tax their husbands with giving away their rings, and swear they had given 
 them as a present to some woman. 
 
 Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind which never fails to 
 attend the consciousness of having performed a good action ; her cheerful spirit 
 enjoyed everything she saw : the moon never seemed to shine so bright before ; and when 
 that pleasant moon was hid behind acloud, then a light which she saw from her house 
 at Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa, " That light 
 we see is burning in my hall ; how far that little candle throws its beams ; so shines a 
 good deed in a naughty world: "and hearing the sound of music from her house, she 
 said, "Metliinks that music sounds sweeter than by day." 
 
 And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing themselves in their 
 own apparel they awaited the arrival of their husbands, who soon followed them with 
 Antonio ; and Bassanio presenting his dear friend to the Lady Portia, the congratu- 
 lations and welcomings of that lady were hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa 
 and her husband quarreling in a corner of the room. "A quarrel already ?" said 
 Portia. "What is the matter?" Gratiano replied, "Lady, it is about a paltry gift 
 ring that Nerissa gave, with words upon it like the poetry on a cutler's knife : Love 
 me, and leave me not." 
 
 " What does the poetry or the value of the ring signify ?" said Nerissa. "You 
 swore to me, when I gave it to you, that you would keep it till the hour of death ; 
 and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk. I know you gave it to a woman." 
 " By this hand," replied Gratiano, " I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrub- 
 bed boy no higher than yourself ; he was clerk to the young counselor that by his 
 wise pleading saved Antonio's life : this prating boy begged it for a fee, and I could 
 not for my life deny him." Portia said, " You were to blame, Gratiano, to part witli 
 your wife's first gift. I gave my Lord Bassanio a ring, and I am sure he would not 
 part with it for all the world." Gratiano, in excuse for his fault, now said, "^My 
 Lord Bassanio gave his ring away to the counselor^ and then the boy, his clerk, tliat 
 took some pains in writing, he begged my ring." 
 
 125 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bassanio for giving away 
 her ring; and she said Nerissa had taught her what to believe, and that she knew 
 some woman had the ring. Bassanio was very unhappy to have so offended his dear 
 lady, and he said with great earnestness, " No, by my honor, no woman had it, but a 
 civil doctor, who refused three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, which 
 when I denied him he went displeased away. What could I do, sweet Portia? I was 
 so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I was forced to send the ring 
 after him. Pardon me, good lady; had you been there, I think you would have begged 
 the ring of me to give the worthy doctor." 
 
 "Ah!" said Antonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these quarrels." 
 
 Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at that, for that he was welcome notwithstand- 
 ing; and then Antonio said, "I once did lend my body for Bassanio's sake; and but 
 for him to whom your husband gave the ring, I should have now been dead. I dare 
 be bound again, my soul upon the forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith 
 with you." " Then you shall be his surety," said Portia; " givehim this ring, and bid 
 him keep it better than the other." 
 
 When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to find it was the 
 same he gave away; and then Portia told him how she was the young counselor, and 
 Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found, to his unspeakable wonder and delight, 
 that it was by the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life was 
 saved. 
 
 And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him letters which by some 
 chance had fallen into her hands, Avhich contained an account of Antonio's ships, 
 that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in the harbor. So these tragical begin- 
 nings of this rich merchant's story were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune 
 which ensued; and there was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings, 
 and the husbands that did not know their own wives: Gratiano merrily swearing, in a 
 sort of rhyming speech, that 
 
 while be lived, lie'd fear no other thing 
 
 So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. 
 
 126 
 
The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 The Duke of Yekice. 
 The Prince oe Morocco, ) suitors to 
 The Prince of Arragok, [ Portia. 
 Antonio, a mercliant of Venice. 
 Bassanio, Ills friend, sititor lilceivise to 
 
 Portia. 
 Salanio, 
 
 Salarino, friends to Antonio and Bas- 
 Gratiano, I sanio. 
 
 DRAMATIS PER80NM. 
 
 I Launcelot Gobbo, tlie clown, servant to 
 
 Sliylock. 
 Old Gobbo, father to Launcelot. 
 Leonardo, servant to Bassanio. 
 Balthasar, ) ^^^^^^,^ .^ ^^ p^,.^ .^_ 
 Stephano, ) 
 Portia, a rich heiress. 
 JSTerissa, her waiting-maid. 
 Jessica, daughter to Shyloch. 
 Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court 
 
 of Justice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, 
 
 and other attendants. 
 
 Salerio, j 
 
 Lorenzo, in love with Jessica. 
 Shylock, a rich Jeio. 
 Tubal, a Jew, his friend. 
 
 .SCENE : — Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on 
 
 THE Continent. 
 
 ACT I 
 Scene I. Venice. A street. 
 .£'?^^fer Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio. 
 Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am 
 
 so sad : 
 It wearies ine; you say it wearies you; 
 But how I caught it, found it, or came by 
 
 it, 
 "What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is 
 
 born, 
 I am to learn; 
 And such a want-wit sadness makes of 
 
 me. 
 That I have much ado to know myself. 
 Salccr. Your mind is tossing on the 
 
 ocean; 
 There, where your argosies with portly 
 
 sail. 
 Like signiors and rich burghers on the 
 
 flood. 
 Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea. 
 
 Do overpeer the petty traffickers. 
 
 That curtsy to them, do them reverence, 
 
 As they fly by them with their woven 
 
 wings. 
 Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such 
 
 venture forth, 
 The better part of my affections would 
 Be with my hopes abroad. I should be 
 
 still 
 Plucking the grass, to know where sits 
 
 the wind. 
 Peering in maps for ports and piers and 
 
 roads; 
 And every object that might make me 
 
 fear 
 Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt 
 "Would make me sad. 
 
 Salar, My wind cooling my broth 
 
 Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
 What harm a wind too great at sea might 
 
 do. 
 
 137 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 I should not see the sandy hour-glass run. Which touching but my gentle vessel's 
 
 But I should think of shallows and of flats. 
 And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in 
 sand, 
 
 side, 
 Would scatter all her spices on the stream. 
 Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,. 
 
 
 Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs 
 To kiss her burial. Should I go to church 
 And see the holy edifice of stone. 
 And not bethink me straight of danger- 
 ous rocks. 
 
 128 
 
 And, in a word, but even now worth this, 
 And now worth nothing ? Shall I have 
 
 the thoiight 
 To think on this, and shall I lack the 
 
 thought 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 That such a thing bechanced would make 
 
 me sad ? 
 But tell not me; I know, Antonio 
 Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 
 Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my for- 
 tune for it. 
 My ventures are not in one bottom trusted. 
 Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate 
 Upon the fortune of this present year: 
 Therefore my merchandise makes me not 
 sad. 
 Salar. Why, then you are in love. 
 Ant. Fie, fie! 
 
 Solar. Not in love neither ? Then let 
 us say you are sad, 
 Because you are not merry: and 'twere as 
 
 easy 
 For you to laugh and leap and say you are 
 
 merry. 
 Because you are not sad. Now, by two- 
 headed Janus, 
 Nature hath framed strange fellows in her 
 
 time: 
 Some that will evermore peep through 
 
 their eyes 
 And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, 
 And other of such vinegar aspect 
 That they'll not show their teeth in way 
 
 of smile. 
 Though Nestor swear the jest be laugh- 
 able. 
 Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo-, and Gra- 
 
 TIANO. 
 
 Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your 
 most noble kinsman, 
 Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well: 
 We leave you now in better company. 
 Salar. I would have stay'd till I had 
 made you merry, 
 If worthier friends had not prevented me. 
 Ant. Your worth is very dear in my 
 regard. 
 I take it, your own business calls on you 
 And you embrace the occasion to depart. 
 Salar. Good morrow, my good lords. 
 Bass. Good Signiors, both, when shall 
 we laugh ? say, whc n ? 
 
 12!) 
 
 You grow exceeding strange: must it be 
 
 so ? 
 Salar. We'll make our leisures to 
 
 attend on yours. 
 
 \Exeunt Salarino and Salanio. 
 Lor. My Lord Bassanio, since you 
 
 have found Antonio, 
 We two will leave you: but at dinner- 
 time, 
 I pray you, have in mind where we must 
 
 meet. 
 Bass. I will not fail you. 
 Gra. You look not well, Signior 
 
 Antonio; 
 You have too much respect upon the 
 
 world: 
 They lose it that do buy it with much 
 
 care: 
 Believe me, you are marvellously changed. 
 Aiit. I hold the world but as the world, 
 
 Gratiano; 
 A stage where every man must play apart. 
 And mine a sad one. 
 
 Gra. Let me play the fool: 
 
 With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles 
 
 come, 
 And let my liver rather heat with wine 
 Than my heart cool with mortifying 
 
 groans. 
 Wliy should a man, whose blood is warm. 
 
 within. 
 Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? 
 Sleep when he wakes and creep into the 
 
 jaundice 
 By being peevish? I tell thee what, An- 
 tonio — 
 I love thee, and it is my love that speaks — 
 There are a sort of men whose visages 
 Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, 
 And do a wilful stillness entertain. 
 With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion 
 Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit. 
 As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle, 
 And when I 02)e my lips let no dog bark ! ' 
 my Antonio, I do know of these 
 That therefore only are reputed wise 
 For saying nothing when, I am very sure, 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 If they should speak, would alm'ost damn 
 
 those ears 
 Which, hearing them, would call their 
 
 brothers fools. 
 I'll tell thee more of this another time: 
 But fish not with this melancholy bait. 
 For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. 
 Come good Loronzo. Fare ye well awhile: 
 ril end my exhortation after dinner. 
 Lor. Well, we will leave you then till 
 
 dinner-time: 
 I must be one of these same dumb wise 
 
 men. 
 For Gratiano never lets me speak. 
 
 Gra. Well, keep me company but two 
 
 years moe. 
 Thou shalt not know the sound of thine 
 
 own tongue. 
 Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for 
 
 this gear. 
 Gra. Thanks, i' faith, for silence is 
 
 only commendable 
 In a neat's tongue dried, and maid not 
 
 vendible. 
 
 \Excunt Gratiano and Lorenzo. 
 Ant. Is that anything now? 
 Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal 
 of nothing, more than any man in all 
 Venice. His reasons are as two grains 
 of wheat hid in two bushels of chafE: you 
 shall seek all day ere you find them, and 
 when you have them they are not worth 
 the search. 
 
 Ant. Well, tell me now what lady is 
 
 the same 
 To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage 
 That you to-day promised to tell me of ? 
 Bass. 'Tis not unknown to you, An- 
 tonio, 
 How much I have disabled mine estate. 
 By something showing a more swelling 
 
 port 
 Than my faint means would grant con- 
 tinuance 
 Nor do I now make moan to be abridged 
 From such a noble rate; but my chief care 
 Is to come fairly off from the great debts 
 
 Wherein my time something too prodigal 
 Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio,^^ 
 I owe the most, in money and in love. 
 And from your love I have a warranty 
 To unburden all my plots and purposes 
 How to get clear of all the debts I owe. 
 Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let 
 
 me know it; 
 And if it stand, as you yourself still do. 
 Within the eye of honor, be assured. 
 My purse, my person, my extremest 
 
 means, 
 Lie all unlock'd to your occasions. 
 Bas^. In my school-days, when I had 
 
 lost one shaft, 
 I shot his fellow of the self-same flight 
 The self-same way with more advised 
 
 watch. 
 To find the other forth, and b}' adven- 
 turing both 
 I oft found both: I urge this childhood 
 
 proof. 
 Because what follows is pure innocence. 
 I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth. 
 That which I owe is lost; but if you please 
 To shoot another arrow that self way 
 Which you did shoot the first, I do not 
 
 doubt. 
 As I will watch the aim, or to find both 
 Or bring your latter hazard back again 
 And thankfully rest debtor for the first. 
 Ant. You know me well, and herein 
 
 spend but time 
 To wind about my love with circumstance; 
 And out of doubt you do me now more 
 
 wrong 
 In making question of my uttermost 
 Than if you had made waste of all I have: 
 Then do but say to me what I should do 
 That in your knowledge iiaay by me be 
 
 done. 
 And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak. 
 
 Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left; 
 And she is fair, and, fairer than that word. 
 Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her 
 
 eyes 
 I did receive fair speechless messages: 
 
 130 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OP VEOTCE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Her name is Portia; nothing undervalued 
 To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia. 
 Nor is the wide world ignorant of her 
 
 worth; 
 For the four winds blow in from every 
 
 coast 
 Renowned suitors: and her sunny locks 
 Hang on her temples like a golden fleece; 
 Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' 
 
 strand, 
 And many Jasons come in quest of her. 
 
 my Antonio, had I but the means 
 To hold a rival place with one of them, 
 
 1 have a mind presages me such thrift. 
 That I should questionless be fortunate. 
 
 Ant. Thou know'st, that all my fort- 
 unes are at sea; 
 Nor have I money, nor commodity 
 To raise a present sum: therefore go forth. 
 Try what my credit can in Venice do; 
 That shall be rack'd, even to the utter- 
 most. 
 To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. 
 Go presently inquire, and so will I, 
 Where money is; and I no question make. 
 To have it of my trust, or for my sake. 
 
 [Bxeunt. 
 
 Scene II. Belmont. A Room in 
 
 Portia's House. 
 
 Unter Portia and Nerissa. 
 
 For. By my troth, Nerissa, my little 
 body is a-M^eary of this great world. 
 
 Wer. You would be, sweet madam, if 
 your miseries were in the same abundance 
 as your good fortunes are: And yet, for 
 aught I see, they are as sick, that surfeit 
 with too much, as they that starve with 
 nothing: It is no mean happiness, there- 
 fore, to be seated in the mean; superfluity 
 comes sooner by white hairs, but com- 
 petency lives longer. 
 
 Por. Good sentences, and well pro- 
 nounced. 
 
 Ner. They would be better, if well fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Por. If to do were as easy as to know 
 what were good to do, chapels had been 
 churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' 
 palaces. It is a good divine that follows 
 his own instructions: I can easier teach 
 twenty what were good to be done, than 
 be one of the twenty to follow mine own 
 teaching. But this reasoning is not in 
 the fashion to choose me a husband: — 
 me, the word choose! I may neither 
 choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I 
 dislike; so is the will of a living daughter 
 curb'd by the will of a dead father: — Is it 
 not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose 
 one, nor refuse none? 
 
 Ne?-. Your father was ever virtuous; 
 and holy men, at their death, have good 
 inspirations; therefore, the lottery, that 
 he hath devised in these three chests, of 
 gold, silver, and lead, (whereof who 
 chooses his meaning, chooses you,) will, 
 no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly, 
 but one who you shall rightly love. But 
 what warmth is there in your affection to- 
 wards any of these princely suitors that 
 are already come? 
 
 Por. I pray thee, over-name them; 
 and as thou namest them, I will describe 
 them; and, according to my description, 
 level at my affection. 
 
 ]^er. First, there is the Neapolitan 
 prince. 
 
 Por. Ay, that's a colt, indeed, for he 
 doth nothing but talk of his horse; and 
 he makes it a great appropriation to his 
 own good parts, that he can shoe him him- 
 self. 
 
 iVer. Then, is there the county Pala- 
 tine. 
 
 Por. He doth nothing but frown; as 
 who should say. As if you toill not have 
 me, choose; he hears merry tales, and 
 smiles not: I fear he will prove the weep- 
 ing philosopher when he grows old, being 
 so full of unmannerly sadness in his 
 youth. I had rather be married to a 
 death's head with a bone in his mouth. 
 
 131 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE MEKCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 than to either of these. Heaven defend 
 me from these two! 
 
 Ner. How say you by the French lord. 
 Monsieur Le Bon? 
 
 For. Heaven made him, and therefore 
 let him pass for a man. In truth, I know 
 it is a sin to be a mocker: But, he! why, 
 he hath a horse better than the Neapol- 
 itan's; abetter bad habit of frowning than 
 the count Palatine: he is every man in 
 no man: if a throstle sing, he falls straight 
 a capering; he will fence with his own 
 shadow: If I should marry him, I should 
 marry twenty husbands: If he would de- 
 spise me, I vi'ould forgive him; for if he 
 love me to madness, I shall never requite 
 him, 
 
 Ner. What say you then to Faulcon- 
 bridge, the young baron of England? 
 
 Por. You know, I say nothing to him ; 
 for he understands not me, nor I him : he 
 hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian ; 
 and you will come into the court and 
 swear that I have a poor pennyworth in 
 the English. He is a proper man's picture; 
 but, alas I who can converse with a dumb 
 show ? How oddly he is suited! I think 
 he bought his doublet in Italy, his round 
 hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, 
 and his behavior everywhere- 
 
 Ne,r. What think you of the Scottifh 
 lord, his neighbor? 
 
 Por. That ne hath a neighborly char- 
 ity in him ; for he borrowed a box of the 
 ear of the Englishman, and swore he would 
 pay him again, when he was able : I 
 think, the Frenchman became his surety, 
 and sealed under for another. 
 
 Ner. How like you the young German, 
 the Duke of Saxony's nephew? 
 
 Por. Very vilely in the morning, when 
 he is sober ; and most vilely in the after- 
 noon, when he is drunk : when he is best, 
 he is a little worse than a man; and when 
 he is worst, he is little better than a beast: 
 an the worst fall that ever fell, I hope, I 
 shall make shift to go without him. 
 
 Ner. If he should offer to choose, and 
 choose the right casket, you should refuse 
 to perform your father's will, if you should 
 refuse to accept him. 
 
 Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, 
 I pray thee, set a dee]) glass of Rhenish 
 wine on the contrary casket; for, if the 
 devil be within, and that temptation with- 
 out, I know he will choose it. I will do any 
 thing, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a 
 spunge. 
 
 Ner. You need not fear, lad}', the hav- 
 ing any of these lords ; they have ac- 
 quainted me with their determinations : 
 which is indeed, to return to their home, 
 and to trouble you with no more suit ; 
 unless you may be won by some other sort 
 than your father's imposition, depending 
 on the caskets. 
 
 Por. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I 
 will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be 
 obtained by the manner of my father's 
 will : I am glad this parcel of wooers are 
 so reasonable; for there is not one among 
 them but I dote on his very absence, and 
 I wish them a fair departure. 
 
 Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in 
 your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar, 
 and a soldier, that came hither in company 
 of the Marquis of Montferrat? 
 
 Por. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio ; as I 
 think, so was he called. 
 
 Ner. True, madam ; he of all the men 
 that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was 
 the best deserving a fair lady. 
 
 Por. I remember him well ; and I re- 
 member him worthy of thy praise. — How 
 now! what news? 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Serv. The four strangers seek for you, 
 madam, to take their leave ; and there is a 
 fore-runner come from a fifth, the Prince 
 of Morocco ; who brings word, the prince, 
 his master, will be here to-night. 
 
 Por. If I could bid the fifth welcome 
 with so good heart as I can bid the other 
 four farewell, I should be glad of his ap- 
 
 132 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 proach : if he have the condition of a saint 
 and the complexion of a devil, I had rather 
 he should shrive me than wive me. Come, 
 Nerissa. — Sirrah, go before. — Whiles we 
 shut the gate upon one wooer, another 
 knocks at the door. [^Exeunt. 
 
 ScEKE III, Venice. A Public Place. 
 Enter Bassanio and Shtlock. 
 
 Shy. Three thousand ducats, — well. 
 
 Bass. Ay, sir, for three months. 
 
 Shy. For three months, — well. 
 
 Bass. For the which, as I told you, 
 Antonio shall be bound. 
 
 Shy. Antonio shall become bound, — 
 well. 
 
 Bass. May you stead me? Will you 
 pleasure me? Shall I know your answer? 
 
 Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three 
 months, and Antonio bound. 
 
 Bass. Your answer to that. 
 
 Shy. Antonio is a good man. 
 
 Bass. Have you heard any imputation 
 to the contrary? 
 
 Shy. Ho, no, no, no, no; — my mean- 
 ing, in saying he is a good man, is to have 
 you understand me, that he is sufficient : 
 yet his means are in supposition : he hath 
 an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to 
 the Indies ; I understand moreover upon 
 the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a 
 
 fourth for England, and other ventures 
 
 he hath, squandered abroad : But ships 
 are but boards, sailors but men: there be 
 land rats, and water rats, water thieves, 
 and land thieves ; I mean, pirates ; and 
 then, there is the peril of waters, winds, 
 and rocks: The man is, nothwithstand- 
 ing, sufficient; — three thousand ducats; 
 — I think I may take his bond. 
 
 Bass. Be assured you may. 
 
 Shy. I will be assured, I may; and, 
 that I may be assured, I will bethink me: 
 May I speak with Antonio? 
 
 Bass. If it please you to dine with us. 
 
 Shy. Yes to smell pork : I will buy 
 
 with you, sell with you, talk with you, 
 walk with you, and so following; but I 
 will not eat with you, drink with you, 
 nor pray with you. What news on the 
 Rialto? — Who is he comes here? 
 
 E7iter Antokio. 
 
 Bass. This is Siguier Antonio. 
 Shy. [Aside.'\ How like a fawning 
 publican he looks! 
 I hate him for he is a Christian: 
 But more, for that, in low simplicity. 
 He lends out money gratis, and brings 
 
 down 
 The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 
 If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
 I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear 
 
 him. 
 He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 
 Even there where merchants most do con- 
 gregate. 
 On me, my bargains, and my well won 
 
 thrift, 
 Which he calls interest : Cursed be my 
 
 tribe, 
 If I forgive him! 
 Bass. Shylock, do you hear? 
 
 Shy. I am debating of my present 
 
 store ; 
 And, by the near guess of my memory, 
 I cannot instantly rise up the gross 
 Of full three thousand ducats! What of 
 
 that? 
 Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, 
 Will furnish me : But soft; How many 
 
 months 
 Do you desire? — Rest you fair, good 
 
 oignior; 
 
 [To Antonio. 
 Your worship was the last man in our 
 
 mouths, 
 Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor 
 
 borrow. 
 By taking, nor by giving of excess. 
 Yet to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 
 I'll break a custom: — Is he yet possess'd. 
 How much you would? 
 
 133 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VEOTCE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. 
 
 Ant. And for three months. 
 
 Shy. I had forgot, — three months, you 
 
 told me so. 
 When then, your bond; and, let me see, 
 
 But hear you; 
 
 Methought, you said, you neither lend nor 
 
 borrow. 
 Upon advantage. 
 
 Ant. I do never use it. 
 
 Shy. Three thousand ducats, — 'tis a 
 
 good round sum. 
 Three months from twelve, then let me 
 
 see the rate. 
 Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be be- 
 holden to you? 
 Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time 
 
 and oft. 
 In the Rialto you have rated me 
 About my monies, and my usances: 
 Still have I borne it with a patient shrug; 
 For sufferance is the badge of all our 
 
 tribe: 
 You call me — misbeliever, cut-throat dog. 
 And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. 
 And all for use of that which is mine own. 
 Well then, it now appears, you need my 
 
 help: 
 Go to then; you come to me, and you say, 
 ShylocJc, toe toould have monies; You say 
 
 so: 
 Yon, that did void your rheum upon my 
 
 beard. 
 And foot me, as yoi; spurn a stranger cur 
 Over your threshold; monies is your suit. 
 What shoiild I say to you? Should I not 
 
 say. 
 Hath a dog money? is it possible, 
 A cur can lend three thonsand ducats? or 
 Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key. 
 With 'bated breath, and whispering hum- 
 bleness. 
 
 Say this, 
 
 Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday 
 
 last; 
 You spurn'd me such a day; another tiine 
 
 To2i calTdme — dog; and for these courtesies 
 I'll lend you thus much monies. 
 
 Ant. I am as like to call the 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 friend 
 
 ship take 
 A breed for barren metal of his friend?) 
 But lend it rather to thine enemy; 
 Who if he break, thou may'st with better 
 
 face 
 Exact the penalty. 
 
 Shy. Why, look you, how you storm ! 
 I would be friends with you, and have 
 
 your love, 
 Forget the shames that you have stain'd 
 
 me with. 
 Supply your 2:)resent wants, and take no 
 
 doit 
 Of usance for my monies, and you'll not 
 
 hear me: 
 This is kind I oifer. 
 
 Ant. This were kindness. 
 Stiy. 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, in faith; I'll seal to such 
 
 a bond 
 And say, there is much kindness in the 
 
 Jew. 
 Bass. You shall not seal to sych a bond 
 
 for me, 
 I'll rather dwell in my necessity. 
 
 Ant. Why, fear not, man: I will not 
 
 forfeit it; 
 Within these two months, that's a month 
 
 before 
 This bond expires, I do expect return 
 Of thrice three times the value of this 
 
 bond. 
 
 134 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Sky. father Abraham, what these 
 
 Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto 
 
 Christians are; 
 
 this bond. 
 
 Whose own hard dealings teaches them 
 
 Shi/. Then meet me forthwith at the 
 
 suspect . 
 
 notary's; 
 
 The thoughts of others I Pray you, tell 
 
 Give him direction for this merry bond. 
 
 ine this; 
 
 And I will go and purse the ducats 
 
 If he should break his day, what should 
 
 straight; 
 
 I gain 
 
 See to my house, left in the fearful guard 
 
 By the exaction of the forfeiture? 
 
 Of an unthrifty knave; and presently 
 
 A pound of man's flesh, taken from a 
 
 I will be with you. [Exit. 
 
 man, 
 
 Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. 
 
 Is not so estimable, profitable neither. 
 
 This Hebrew will turn Christian; he 
 
 As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I 
 
 grows kind. 
 
 say 
 
 Bass. I like not fair terms, and a vil- 
 
 To buy his favor, I extend this friend- 
 
 lain's mind. 
 
 ship: 
 
 Ant. Come on: in this there can be 
 
 If he will take it, so; if not, adieu; 
 
 no dismay. 
 
 And, for my love, I pray you, wrong me 
 
 My ships come home a month before the 
 
 not. 
 
 day. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. Belmont. A Room in Portia's 
 
 House. 
 Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince 
 of Morocco and his Train; Portia, 
 Nerissa, and other of her Attendants. 
 Mor. Mislike me not for my com- 
 plexion. 
 The shadow'd livery of the biirnish'd 
 
 sun. 
 To wliom I am a neighbor, and near 
 
 bred . 
 Bring me the fairest creature northward 
 
 born. 
 Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the 
 
 icicles. 
 And let us make incision for your love. 
 To prove whose blood is reddest, his, or 
 
 mine, 
 I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 
 Hath fear'd the valiant; by my love, I 
 
 swear. 
 The best regarded virgins of our clime 
 Have lov'd it too: I would not change 
 
 this hue. 
 
 Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle 
 
 queen. 
 Par. In terms of choice I am not 
 
 solely led 
 By nice direction of a maiden's eyes: 
 Besides, the lottery of my destiny 
 Bars me the right of voluntary choosing: 
 But, if my father had not scanted mo, 
 And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield my- 
 self 
 His wife, who wins me by that means I 
 
 told you, 
 Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as 
 
 fair, 
 As any comer I have look'd on yet. 
 For my affection. 
 
 Mor. Even for that I thank you; 
 
 Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the 
 
 caskets. 
 To try my fortune. By this scimitar, — 
 Tluxt slew the Sophy, and a Persian 
 
 prince. 
 That won three fields of sultan Solyman, — 
 
 135 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 I would out-stare the sternest eyes that 
 
 look^ 
 Out-brave the heart most daring on the 
 
 earth. 
 Pluck the young sucking cubs from the 
 
 she bear, 
 Yea, mock the lion when he roars for 
 
 prey, 
 To win thee, lady: But, alas the while! 
 If Hercules, and Lichas, play at dice 
 "Which is the better man, the greater 
 
 throw 
 May turn by fortune from the weaker 
 
 hand: 
 So is Alcides beaten by his page; 
 And so may I, blind fortune leading me, 
 Miss that which one unworthier may 
 
 attain. 
 And die with grieving. 
 
 Por. You must take your chance; 
 
 And either not attempt to choose at all. 
 Or swear, before you choose, — if you 
 
 choose wrong, 
 Never to speak to lady afterward 
 In way of marriage; therefore be advis'd. 
 Mor. Nor will not; come, bring me 
 
 unto my chance. 
 Por. First, forward to the temple; 
 
 after dinner 
 Your hazard shall be made. 
 
 Mor. Good fortune then! \_Co7'nets. 
 
 To make me bless't or cursed'st among 
 
 men. \^Exeunt. 
 
 ScEifE II. A^enice. A Street. 
 Enter Laustcelet Gobbo. 
 
 Laun. Certainly my conscience will 
 serve me to run from this Jew, my mas- 
 ter: The fiend is at my elbow; and 
 tempts me, saying to me, Goibo, Launce- 
 lot Gohbo, good Launcelot, or good Gohbo, 
 or good Launcelot Gobbo, use yoicr legs, 
 take the start, run away: My conscience 
 says, — no; tahe heed, honest Latmcelot; 
 take heed, honest Gobbo; or, as aforesaid, 
 honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; 
 
 scorn rtmning with thy heels: Well, the 
 most courageous fiend bids me pack; via! 
 says the fiend; aioay! says the fiend; 
 rouse up a brave mind, says the fiend, and 
 run. "Well, my conscience, hanging 
 about the neck of my heart, saj's very 
 wisely to me, — my honest friend Launce- 
 lot, being an honest man's son, budge not; 
 budge, says the fiend; budge not, says my 
 conscience: Conscience, say I, you coun- 
 sel well; fiend, say I, you counsel well: 
 to be ruled by my conscience, I should 
 stay with the Jew my master, who is a 
 kind of devil; and, to run away from the 
 Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, 
 saving your reverence, is the devil him- 
 self: Certainly, the Jew is the very devil 
 incarnation; and, in my conscience, my 
 conscience is but a kind of hard con- 
 science, to offer to counsel me to stay 
 with the Jew: The fiend gives the more 
 friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my 
 heels are at your commandment, I will 
 run. 
 
 Enter old Gobbo, ivith a Basket. 
 
 Gob. Master, young man, you, I pray 
 you; which is the way to master Jew's? 
 
 Laun. [Aside.'\ heavens, this is my 
 true-begotten father! who, being more 
 than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, 
 knows me not: — I will try conclusions 
 with him. 
 
 Gob. Master, young gentleman, I pray 
 you, which is the way to Master Jew's? 
 
 Laun. Turn up on your right hand, 
 at the nest turning, but, at the nest 
 turning of all, on your left; marry, at 
 the very nest turning, turn of no hand, 
 but turn down indirectly to the Jew's 
 house. 
 
 Gob. "Twill be a hard way to hit. Can 
 you tell me whether one Launcelot, that 
 dwells with him, dwell with him, or no? 
 
 Laun. Talk you of young master 
 Launcelot? — Mark me now; [Aside.l now 
 
 136 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 will I raise the waters: — Talk you of 
 young master Launcelot? 
 
 Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man's 
 son; his father, though I say it, is an 
 honest exceeding poor man, and, God be 
 thanked, well to live. 
 
 Luun. Well, let his father be what he 
 will, we talk of young master Launcelot. 
 
 Goh. Your worship's friend, and 
 Launcelot, sir. 
 
 LoAin. But I pray you ergo, old man, 
 ergo, I beseech you; Talk you of young 
 master Launcelot? 
 
 Qol). Of Launcelot, an't please your 
 mastership. 
 
 Laun. Ergo, master Launcelot; talk 
 not of master Launcelot, father; for the 
 young gentleman (according to fates and 
 destinies, and such odd sayings, the sis- 
 ters three, and such branches of learn- 
 ing,) is indeed deceased. 
 
 Gob. Marry, God forbid! the boy was 
 the very staff of my age, my very prop. 
 
 Laun. Do I look like a cudgel, or a 
 hovel-post, a staff, or a prop? — Do you 
 know me, father? 
 
 Gob. Alack the day, I know you not, 
 young gentleman; but, I pray you, tell 
 me, is my boy alive or dead? 
 
 Laun. Do you not know me, father? 
 
 Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I 
 know you not. 
 
 Laun. Nay, indeed, if you had your 
 eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: 
 it is a wise father, that knows his own 
 child. Well, old man, I will tell you 
 news of your son: Give me your blessing: 
 truth will come to light; murder cannot 
 be hid long, a man's son may; but, in the 
 end, truth will out. 
 
 Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am 
 sure, you are not Launcelot, my boy. 
 
 Laxoi. Pray you, let's have no more 
 fooling about it, but give me your bless- 
 ing; 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. I know not what I shall think 
 of that: but I am Launcelot, the Jew's 
 man; and, I am sure, Margery, your wife, 
 is my mother. 
 
 Gob. Her name is Margery, indeed: 
 I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou 
 art mine own flesh and blood. What a 
 beard hast thou got! thou hast got more 
 hair on they chin, than Dobbin my thill- 
 horse has on his tail. 
 
 Laun. It should seem, then, that 
 Dobbin's tail grows backward; I am sure 
 he had more hair on his tail, than I have 
 on my face, when I last saw him. 
 
 Gob. Lord, how art thou changed! 
 How dost thou and thy master agree? I 
 have brought him a present; How 'gree 
 you now? 
 
 Laun. Well, well; but for mine own 
 part, as I have set up my rest to run 
 away, so I will not rest till I have run 
 some ground: my master's a very Jew: 
 Give him a present! give him a halter: I 
 am famish'd in his service; you may tell 
 every finger I have with my ribs. Father, 
 I am glad you are come; give me your 
 present to one master Bassanio, who, 
 indeed, gives rare new liveries; if I serve 
 not him, I will run as far as there is any 
 ground. — rare fortune! here comes the 
 man, — to him, father; for I am a Jew, if 
 I serve the Jew any longer. 
 
 Enter Bassanio, iviih Leonardo, and 
 other Followers. 
 
 Bass. You may do so; — but let it be 
 so hasted, that supper be ready at the 
 farthest by five of the clock: See these 
 letters deliver'd; put the liveries to mak- 
 ing; and desire Gratiano to come anon to 
 my lodging. \_Exit a Servant. 
 
 Laun. To him, father — 
 
 Oob. God bless your worship! 
 
 Bass. Gramercy; Wouldst thou aught 
 with me? 
 
 Gob. Here's my son, sir, a poor 
 boy, 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Laun. Not a poor boy, sir, but the 
 rich Jew's man; that would, sir, as my 
 father shall specify, 
 
 Gob. He hath a great infection, sir, 
 as one would say, to serve 
 
 Laun. Indeed, the short and the long 
 is, I serve the Jew, and I have a desire, 
 
 as my father shall specify, 
 
 Gob. His master and he, (saving your 
 worship's reverence,) are scarce cater- 
 cousins: 
 
 Laun. To be brief, the very truth is, 
 that the Jew having done me wrong, doth 
 cause me, as my father, being I hope an 
 
 old man, shall f ratify unto you, 
 
 Gob. I have here a dish of doves, that 
 I would bestow upon your worship; and 
 
 my suit is, 
 
 Laun. In very brief, the suit is im- 
 pertinent to myself, as your worship shall 
 know by this honest old man; and, 
 though I say it, though an old man, yet, 
 poor man, my father. 
 
 Bass. One speak for both; — What 
 would you? 
 
 Laun. Serve you, sir. 
 Gob. This is the very defect of the 
 matter, sir. 
 
 Bass. I know thee well,- thou hast 
 obtain'd thy suit: 
 Shylock, thy master, spoke with me this 
 
 day. 
 And hath preferr'd thee, if it be prefer- 
 ment. 
 To leave a rich Jew's service, to become 
 The followers of so poor a gentleman, 
 
 Laun. The old proverb is very well 
 parted between my master Shylock and 
 you, sir; you have grace, sir, and he hath 
 enough. 
 
 Bass. Thou speak'st it well: Go, 
 father, with thy son: — 
 Take leave of thy old master, and en- 
 quire 
 My lodging out: — Give him a livery 
 
 [To Ms Followers. 
 
 More guarded than his fellows': See it 
 
 done. 
 Laun. Father, in: — I caunpt get a 
 service, no; — I have ne'er a tongue in my 
 head. — Well, father, come; I'll take my 
 leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an 
 eye. \Exeunt Launcelot and old Gobbo. 
 Bass. I pray thee, good Leonardo, 
 
 think on this; 
 These things being bought, and orderly 
 
 bestow'd, * 
 
 Return in haste, for I do feast to-night 
 My best-esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, 
 
 go- 
 Leon. My best endeavors shall be done 
 herein. 
 
 Enter Gratiano. 
 Gra. Where is your master? 
 Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. 
 
 [Eo-it Leonardo. 
 
 Gra. Signior Bassanio, 
 
 Bass. Gratiano ! 
 Gra. I have a suit to you, 
 Bass. You have obtain'd it, 
 
 Gra. You must not deny me ; I must 
 go with you to Belmont. 
 
 Bass. Why, then you must; — But 
 hear thee, Gratiano ; 
 Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of 
 
 voice ; — 
 Parts, that become thee happily enough, 
 And in such eyes as ours appear not faults ; 
 But where thou art not known, why, there 
 
 they show 
 Something too liberal ; — pray thee take 
 
 pain 
 To allay with some cold dro23S of modesty 
 Thy skipping spirit ; lest, through thy 
 
 wild behavior, 
 I be misconstrued in the place I go to, 
 And ^ose my hopes. 
 
 Gra. Signior Bassanio, hear me : 
 
 If I do not put on a sober habit, 
 Tlak with respect, and swear but now 
 
 and then. 
 Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look 
 demurely; 
 
 138 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Nay more, while grace is saying, hood 
 
 mine eyes 
 Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say, 
 
 amen; 
 Use all the observance of civility. 
 Like one well studied in a sad ostent 
 To please his grandam, never trust me 
 more. 
 Bass. Well, we shall see your bearing. 
 (?r«. Nay, but I bar to-night ; you shall 
 not gage me 
 By what we do to-night. 
 
 Bass. No, that were pity ; 
 
 I would entreat you rather to put on 
 Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have 
 
 friends 
 That purpose merriment : But fare you 
 
 well, 
 I have some business. 
 
 Gra. And I must to Lorenzo, and the 
 rest ; 
 But we will visit you at supper-time. 
 
 [Bxeunt. 
 
 Scene III. A Room in Shylock's House. 
 Enter Jessica and Launcelot. 
 
 Jes. I am sorry, thou wilt leave my 
 
 father so ; 
 Our house is sad, but thou, a merry devil. 
 Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness : 
 But fare the well ; there is a ducat for 
 
 thee. 
 And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou 
 
 see 
 Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest: 
 Give him this letter ; do it secretly, 
 And so farewell ; I would not have my 
 
 father 
 See me talk with thee. 
 
 Laun. Adieu ! — tears exhibit my 
 
 tongue. — 
 Most beautiful pagan, — most sweet Jew ! 
 If a Christian do not play the knave, and 
 get thee, I am much deceived : But, adieu ! 
 these foolish drops do somewhat drown 
 my manly spirit ; adieu ! \_Exit. 
 
 Jes. Farewell, good Launcelot. — 
 Alack, what heinous sin it is in me 
 To be asham'd to be my father's child ! 
 But though I am a daughter to his blood, 
 I am not to his manners : Lorenzo, 
 If thou keep promise, I shall end this 
 
 strife : 
 Become a Christian, and thy loving wife. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. A Street. 
 
 Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, 
 and Salanio. 
 
 Lor. Nay, we will slink away in sup- 
 per time ; 
 Disguise us at my lodging, and return 
 All in an hour. 
 
 Ora. We have not made good prepara- 
 tion. 
 Salar. We have not spoke us yet of 
 
 torch-barrers. 
 Salan. 'Tis vile, unless it may be 
 quaintly order'd. 
 And better, in my mind, not undertook. 
 Lor. 'Tis now but four o'clock ; we 
 have two hours 
 To furnish us : — 
 
 Ejiter Lavncelot, with a Letter. 
 
 Friend Launcelot, what's the news ? 
 Lairn. An it shall please you to break 
 
 up this, it shall seem to signify. 
 Lor. I know the hand : in faith, 'tis 
 a fair hand 
 And whiter than the paper it writ on. 
 Is the fair hand that writ. 
 
 Gra. Love-news, in faith. 
 
 Laun. By your leave, sir. 
 Lor. Whither goest thou ? 
 Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old mas- 
 ter the Jew to snp to-night with my new 
 master the Christian. 
 
 Lor. Hold here, take this: — tell 
 gentle Jessica, 
 I will not fail her : — speak it pi'ivately ; 
 
 139 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEXE V. 
 
 Gentlemen, [Exit Launcelot. 
 
 Will you prepare you for this masque to- 
 night ? 
 I am provided of a torch-bearer. 
 
 Salar. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it 
 
 straight, 
 Solan. And so will I. 
 Lor. Meet me, and Gratiano, 
 
 At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence. 
 Salar. 'Tis good we do so. 
 
 [Exeunt Salar. and Salan. 
 Gra. Was not that letter from fair 
 
 Jessica ? 
 Lor. I must needs tell thee all : She 
 has directed. 
 How I shall take her from her father's 
 
 house ; 
 What gold, and jewels, she is furnish'd 
 
 with; 
 What page's suit she hath in readiness. 
 Come, go with me ; peruse this, as thou 
 
 dost : 
 Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. Before Shylock's House. 
 
 Enter Shtlock and Laustcelot. 
 
 Shy. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes 
 shall be thy judge. 
 The difference of old Shylock and Bas- 
 
 sanio : — 
 What, Jessica! — thou shalt not gorman- 
 dize. 
 As thou hast done with me: — What, 
 
 Jessica ! — 
 And sleep and snore, and rend apparel 
 
 out ; — 
 Why, Jessica, I say ! 
 
 Laun. Why, Jessica ! 
 
 Shy. Who bids thee call ? I do not 
 
 bid thee call. 
 Latin. Your worship was wont to tell 
 I could do nothing without bidding. 
 
 Enter Jessica, 
 
 Jes. Call you ? What is your will ? 
 Shy. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica; 
 
 There are my keys: — But wherefore 
 
 should I go ? 
 I am not bid for love ; they flatter me : 
 But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon 
 The prodigal Christian. — Jessica, my 
 
 Look to my house : — I am right loth to 
 
 go; 
 
 There is some ill a brewing towards my 
 
 rest. 
 For I did dream of money-bags to-night. 
 Laun. I beseech you, sir, go ; my 
 young master doth except your reproach. 
 Shy. So do I his. 
 
 Laun. And they have conspired to- 
 gether, — I will not say, you shall see a 
 masque ; but if you do, then it was not for 
 nothing that my nose fell a bleeding on 
 Black-Monday last, at six o'clock i' the 
 morning. 
 
 Shy. What ! are there masques ? Hear 
 you me, Jessica : 
 Lock up my doors; and when you hear the 
 
 drum, 
 And the vile squeaking of the wry-neck'd 
 
 fife. 
 Clamber not you up to the casements 
 
 then. 
 Nor thrust your head into the public 
 
 street, 
 To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd 
 
 faces : 
 But stop my house's ears, I mean my 
 
 casements ; 
 Let not the sound of shallow foppery 
 
 enter. 
 My sober house. — By Jacob's staff, I 
 
 swear 
 I have no mind of feasting forth to-night: 
 But I will go. — Go you before me, sir- 
 rah ; 
 Say, I will come. 
 
 Laun. I will go before, sir. — 
 
 Mistress, look out at window, for all this; 
 There will come a Christian by. 
 Will be worth a Jewess' eye, 
 
 [Exit Laun. 
 
 140 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Shy, What says the fool of Hagar's ofE- 
 
 spring ha ? 
 Jes. His words were. Farewell, mis- 
 tress ; nothing else. 
 Shy. The patch is kind enough; but a 
 huge feeder. 
 Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day 
 More than the wild-cat ; drones hive not 
 
 with me ; 
 Therefore I part with him ; and part with 
 
 him 
 To one that I would have him help to 
 
 waste 
 His borrow'd purse. — Well, Jessica, go 
 
 in; 
 Perhaps, I will return immediately; 
 Do as I bid you, 
 Shut doors after you : Fast bind, fast 
 
 find ; 
 A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Jes. Farewell : and if my fortune be 
 not crost, 
 I have a father, you a daughter, lost. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Scene VI. The Same. 
 
 Enter Gratiano and Salaeino, mashed. 
 
 Gra. This is the pent-house, under 
 which Lorenzo 
 Desir'd us to make stand. 
 
 Salar. His hour is almost past. 
 
 Gra. And it is marvel he out-dwells 
 his hour. 
 For lovers ever run before the clock. 
 Salar- 0, ten miles faster Venus 
 pigeons fly 
 To seal love's bonds new made, than they 
 
 are wont. 
 To keep obliged faith unforfeited ! 
 
 Gra. That ever holds : Who riseth 
 from a feast, 
 With that keen appetite that he sits down? 
 Where is the horse that doth untread 
 
 again 
 His tedious measures with the unbated fire 
 
 That he did place them first ? All things 
 
 that are. 
 Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. 
 How like a younker, or a prodigal. 
 The scarfed bark puts from her native 
 
 bay. 
 How like the prodigal doth she return ; 
 With out-weather'd ribs, and ragged sails. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo. 
 
 Salar. Here comes Lorenzo ; — more 
 
 of this hereafter. 
 Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for 
 my long abode ; 
 
 Not I, but my affairs, have made you 
 wait ; 
 
 When you shall please to play the thieves 
 for wives, 
 
 I'll watch as long for you then. — Ap- 
 proach ; 
 
 Here dwells my father Jew : — Ho ! who's 
 within ? 
 
 Enter Jessica, above, in Boy's clothes. 
 
 Jes. Who are you ? Tell me, for more 
 certainty. 
 Albeit I'll swear that I do know your 
 tongue. 
 Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love. 
 Jes. Lorenzo, certain ; and my love, 
 indeed ; 
 For who love I so much ? And now who 
 
 knows. 
 But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours ? 
 Lor. Heaven, and thy thoughts, are 
 
 witness that thou art. 
 Jes. Here, catch this casket, it is 
 worth the pains. 
 I am glad 'tis nigh*-, you do not look on 
 
 me. 
 For I am much asham'd of my exchange : 
 But love is blind, and lovers cannot see 
 The pretty follies that themselves commit : 
 For if they could, Cupid himself would 
 
 blush 
 To see me thus transformed to a boy. 
 
 i« 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene VIL 
 
 Lor. Descend, for you must be my 
 
 torch- bearer. 
 Jes. What, must I hold a candle to my 
 shames ? 
 They in themselves, good sooth, are too 
 
 too light. 
 Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love ; 
 And I should be obscur'd. 
 
 Lo7\ So are you, sweet, 
 
 Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. 
 But come at once ; 
 
 For the close night doth play the run- 
 away. 
 And we are staid for at Bassanio's feast. 
 Jes. I will make fast the doors, and 
 join you straight. 
 
 [Exit, from above. 
 Gra. Now, by my hood, a Gentile, 
 
 and no Jew. 
 Lor. Beshrew me, but I love her hear- 
 tily: 
 For she is wise, if I can judge of her ; 
 And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true ; 
 And true she is, as she hath prov'd her- 
 self ; 
 And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and 
 
 true. 
 Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 
 
 Enter Jessica, below. 
 What, art thou come ? — On, gentlemen, 
 
 away; 
 Our masquing mates by this time for us 
 stay. 
 
 \Exitxoitli Jessica and Salarino. 
 Enter Axtojs^io. 
 Ant. Who's there ? 
 Gra. Signior Antonio ? 
 Ant. Fye, fye, Gratiano ! where are 
 all the rest ? 
 'Tis nine o'clock : our friends all stay for 
 
 you : — 
 No masque to-night ; the wind is come 
 
 about, 
 Bassanio presently will go aboard : 
 I have sent twenty out to seek for you. 
 Gra. I am glad on't ; I desire no more 
 delight. 
 
 Than to be under sail, and gone to-night. 
 
 [Exeutii. 
 
 Scene VII. Belmont. A Room in 
 Portia's House. 
 
 Flourish of Cornets. Enter Poetia, vm7i 
 the Prince of Morocco, a^icl both their 
 Trains. 
 
 Por. Go, draw aside the curtains, and 
 
 discover 
 The several caskets to this noble prince — 
 Now make your choice. 
 
 Mor. The first, of gold, who this in- 
 scription bears ; — 
 Who chooseth me, shall gain ivhat many 
 
 men desire. 
 The second ; silver, which this promise 
 
 carries ; — 
 Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he 
 
 deserves. 
 This third, dull lead, with warning all as 
 
 blunt ; — 
 Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all 
 
 he hath. 
 How shall I know if I do choose the right ? 
 Por. The one of them contains my 
 
 picture, prince ; 
 If you choose that, then I am yours 
 
 withal. 
 Mor. Some god direct my judgment ! 
 
 Let me see, 
 I will survey the inscriptions back again : 
 What says this leaden casket ? 
 Who chooseth me, must give and hazard 
 
 all lie hath, 
 Must give — For what ? for lead ? hazard 
 
 for lead ? 
 This casket threatens ; Men, that hazard 
 
 all. 
 Do it in hoj^e of fair advantages : 
 A golden mind stoops not to shows of 
 
 dross ; 
 I'll then nor give, nor hazard, aught for 
 
 lead. 
 What says the silver, with her virgin 
 
 hue ? 
 
 142 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Who chooseih me, shall get as much as he 
 
 deserves. 
 As mucli as he deserves? — Pause there, 
 
 Morocco. 
 And weigh thy vahie with an even hand : 
 If thou be'st rated by thy estimation, 
 Thou dost deserve enouah ; and yet 
 
 enough 
 May not extend so far as to the lady ; 
 And yet to be afeard of my deserving, 
 Were but a weak disabling of myself. 
 As much as I deserve ! — Why, that's the 
 
 lady : 
 I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, 
 In graces, and in qualities of breeding ; 
 But more than these, in love I do deserve. 
 What if I stray'd no further, but chose 
 
 her? — 
 Let's see once more this saying grav'd in 
 
 gold : 
 Who chooseth me, shall gain lohat many 
 
 men desire. 
 Why, that's the lady ; all the world desires 
 
 her : 
 From the four corners of the earth they 
 
 come. 
 To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing 
 
 saint. 
 The Hyrcanian deserts, and the vasty 
 
 wilds 
 Of wide Arabia, are as through-fares now, 
 For princes to come view fair Portia: 
 The watery kingdom, whose ambitious 
 
 head 
 Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar 
 To stop the foreign spirits; but they 
 
 come. 
 As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia. 
 One of these three contains her heavenly 
 
 picture. 
 Is't like, that lead contains her ? 'Twere a 
 
 sin 
 To think so base a thought; it were too 
 
 gross 
 To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. 
 Or shall I think, in silver she's immur'd. 
 
 Being ten times undervalued to try'd 
 
 gold ? 
 sinful thought! Never so rich a gem 
 Was set in worse than gold. They have 
 
 in England 
 A coin that bears the figure of .an angel 
 Stamped in gold ; but that's insculp'd 
 
 upon; 
 But here an angel in a golden bed 
 Lies all within. — Deliver me the key ; 
 Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! 
 Por. There, take it, prince, and if 
 
 my form lie there. 
 Then I am yours. \_He unlocks the golden 
 
 casket. 
 Mor. What have we here ? 
 
 A carrion death, within whose empty eye 
 There is a written scroll ? I'll read the 
 
 writing 
 
 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 tornbs do ivorms infold. 
 Had you been as wise as bold. 
 Young in limbs, in judgment old. 
 Your ansioer had not been inscroVd : 
 Fare you well ; your suit is cold. 
 
 Cold, indeed ; and labor lost: 
 Then, farewell, heat; and, welcome, 
 frost. — 
 Portia, adieu ! I have too griev'd a heart 
 To take a tedious leave : thus losers part. 
 
 [Bxit. 
 
 Por. A gentle riddance : ■ 
 the curtains go ; 
 
 Draw 
 
 Let all of his complexion choose me so. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VIII. Venice. A Street. 
 
 Enter Salarino and Salanio. 
 
 Salar. Why, man, I saw Bassanio un- 
 der sail ; 
 
 With him is Gratiano gone along ; 
 
 And in their ship, I am sure, Lorenzo is 
 not. 
 
 143 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 Solan. The villain Jew •with outcries 
 rais'd the duke ; 
 Who went with him to search Bassanio^s 
 ship. 
 Solar. He came too late, the ship was 
 under sail ; 
 But there the duke was given to under- 
 stand, 
 That in a gondola were seen together 
 Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica : 
 Besides, Antonio certify'd the duke, 
 They were not with Bassanio in his ship. 
 Solan. I never heard a passion so 
 confus'd. 
 So strange, outrageous, and so variable. 
 As the dog Jew did utter in the streets : 
 My daughter I my ducats ; — my 
 
 daughter ! 
 Fled with a Christian? — my christian 
 
 dMcais — 
 Justice! the laxo I my ducats, and my 
 
 daughter ! 
 A sealed hag, two sealed bags of ducats, 
 Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my 
 
 daughter! 
 And j excels ; a stone, a rich and precious 
 
 stone, 
 Stol'fi by my daughter! — Justice! find 
 
 the girl ! 
 She hath the stone ujjon her, and the 
 ducats ! 
 Solar. Why, all the boys in Venice 
 follow him. 
 Crying, — his stone, his daughter, and his 
 ducats. 
 Salon. Let good Antonio look he keep 
 his day. 
 Or he 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. 
 
 Solan. You were best to tell Antonio 
 
 what you hear ; 
 Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve 
 
 him. 
 Salar. A kinder gentleman treads not 
 
 the earth. 
 I saw Bassanio and Antonio part : 
 Bassanio told him, he would make some 
 
 speed 
 Of his return; he answer'd — Do not so. 
 Slubber not business for my sake, Bas- 
 sanio, 
 But stay the very riping of the time ; 
 And for the Jeto's bond, which he hath of 
 
 me, 
 Let it not enter in your mind of love : 
 Be merry; and employ your chief est 
 
 thoughts 
 To courtship, and such fair ostents of 
 
 love 
 As shall conveniently become you there : 
 And even there, his eye being big with 
 
 tears. 
 Turning his face, he put his hand behind 
 
 him, 
 And with affection wondrous sensible 
 He wrung Bassanio's hand, and so they 
 
 parted. 
 Solan. I think he only loves the world 
 
 for him. 
 I pray thee, let us go, and find him out, 
 And quicken hi-s embraced heaviness 
 With some delight or other. 
 
 Solar. Do we so. [JSxeutit. 
 
 Scene IX. Belmont. A Eoom in 
 Portia^s House. 
 
 Enter Nbrissa, with a Servant. 
 
 Xer. Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw 
 the curtain straight ; 
 The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his 
 
 oath, 
 And comes to his election presently. 
 
 144 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of 
 Arragon, Poktia, and their Trains. 
 
 For. Behold, there stand the caskets, 
 
 noble prince : 
 If you choose that ^vherein I am con- 
 
 tain'd, 
 Straight shall our nuptial rites be sol- 
 
 emniz'd ; 
 But if you fail, without more speecli, my 
 
 lord, 
 You must be gone from hence immedi- 
 ately. 
 Ar. I am enjoin'd by oath to observe 
 
 three things: 
 First, never to unfold t«o any one 
 Which casket ^twas I chose ; next, if I fail 
 Of the right casket, never in my life 
 To Avoo a maid in way of marriage; 
 
 lastly, 
 If I do fail in fortune of my choice, 
 Immediately to leave you and be gone. 
 For. To these injunctions every one 
 
 doth swear. 
 That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 
 Ar. And so have I addressed 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 ? ha ! let me 
 
 see : — 
 Who chooseth me, shall gain what many 
 
 men desire. 
 What many men desire. — That many 
 
 may be meant 
 By the fool multitude, that choose by 
 
 show, 
 Xot learning more than the fond eye doth 
 
 teach : 
 Which pries not to the interior, but, like 
 
 the martlet. 
 Builds in the weather on the outward wall. 
 Even in the force and road of casualty. 
 
 I will not choose what many men desire. 
 Because I will not jump with common 
 
 spirits. 
 And rank me with the barbarous multi- 
 tudes. 
 Wh}', then to thee, thou silver treasure 
 
 house ; 
 Tell me once more what title thou dost 
 
 bear : 
 Who chooseth me shall get as much as he 
 
 deserves ; 
 And well said too ; For who shall go 
 
 about 
 To cozen fortune, and be honorable 
 Without the stamp of merit ? Let none 
 
 presume 
 To wear an undeserved dignity. 
 0, that estates, degrees, and offices, 
 Were not deriv'd corruptly ! and that 
 
 clear honor 
 Were purchas'd by the merit of the 
 
 wearer ! 
 IIow many then should cover that stand 
 
 bare ? 
 IIow many be commanded, that com- 
 mand ? 
 How much low peasantry would then be 
 
 glean'd 
 From the true seed of honor ? and liow 
 
 much honor 
 Pick'd from the chafE and ruin of the 
 
 times, 
 To be new varnish 'd ? Well, but to my 
 
 choice : 
 If 7/0 chooseth me shall get as much as lie 
 
 deserves : 
 I will assume desert ; — Give me a key for 
 
 this. 
 And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 
 For. Too long a pause for that which 
 
 you find there. 
 Ar. What's here ? the portrait of a 
 
 blinking idiot. 
 Presenting me a schedule I I will read it. 
 How much unlike art thou to Portia I 
 How much unlike my hopes, and my 
 
 deservinsfs ! 
 
 1-45 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE MEECHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEXE IX. 
 
 Wlio cliooseth me shall have as much as he 
 
 deserves. 
 Did I deserve no more than a f oors head ? 
 Is that my prize ,^ are my deserts no 
 
 better ? 
 Po7'. To ofiend, and Judge, are distinct 
 
 offices, 
 And of opposed natures. 
 
 Ar. What is here? 
 
 Tliefire seven times tried this : 
 Seven times tried that judgment is, 
 Thai did never choose a7niss : 
 Some there he, that shadoivs kiss: 
 Such have tut a shadoio's hliss : 
 TJiere befools alive, I wis. 
 Silver' d o'er ; and so was this. 
 Take what wife you will to bed, 
 I tvill ever be your head : 
 So begone, sir, 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'll kee^J my oath, 
 Patiently to bear my wroth. 
 
 \_Exeu7it Arragon, and Train. 
 For. Thus hath the candle sing'd the 
 
 moth. 
 these deliberate fools ! when they do 
 
 choose. 
 
 They have the wisdom by their wit to 
 lose. 
 Ner. ■ The ancient saying is no 
 heresy ; — 
 Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. 
 Por. Come, draw the curtain, ISTerissa. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Serv. Where is my lady ? 
 Por. Here ; what would my lord ? 
 
 Sero. Madam, there is alighted at 
 your gate 
 A young Venetian, one that comes before 
 To signify the approaching of his lord : 
 From whom he bringeth sensible regrets ; 
 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 Ajiril never came so sweet. 
 To show how costly summer was at hand. 
 As this fore-spurrer comes before his 
 lord. 
 Por. ISTo 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 jirais- 
 
 iug him — 
 Come, come, Xerissa; for I long to see 
 Quick Cupid's post, that comes so man- 
 nerly. \^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I Venice. A Street. 
 Enter Salanio and Salakiko. 
 
 Salan. Xow, what news on the 
 Eialto ? 
 
 Salar. Why, yet it lives there un- 
 check'd, that Antonio hath a ship of rich 
 lading wreck'd on the narrow seas; the 
 Goodwins, I think they call the place ; a 
 very dangerous fiat, and fatal, where the 
 carcases of many a tall ship lie buried, as 
 they say, if my gossip report be an honest 
 woman of her word. 
 
 Salan. I would she were as lying a 
 gossip in that as ever knapp'd ginger, or 
 made her neighbors believe she wept for 
 the death of a third husband : But it is 
 true, — without any slips of prolixitj', or 
 crossing the plain high-way of talk, — 
 that the good Antonio, the honest Anto- 
 nio, that I had a title good enough 
 
 to keep his name company I — 
 
 Solar. Come, the full stop. 
 
 Salan. Ha, — what say'st thou ? — Why 
 the end is, he hath lost a ship. 
 
 Salar. I would it might prove the end 
 of his losses ! 
 
 146 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE MEECHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Salan. Let me say amen betimes, lest 
 the devil cross my jjrayer ; for here he 
 comes in the likeness of a Jew. — 
 
 Enter Shylock. 
 
 How now, Shylock ? what news among 
 the merchants ? 
 
 Shy. You knew, none so well, none so 
 well as you, of my daughters" flight. 
 
 Salar. That's certain ; I, for my part, 
 Tcnew the tailor that made the wings she 
 flew withal. 
 
 Salan. And Shylock, for his own part, 
 knew the bird was fledg'd. 
 
 Shy. My own flesh and blood- to rebel ! 
 
 Salar. There is more difference be- 
 tween thy flesh and hers, than between 
 jet and ivory; more between your bloods, 
 than there is between red wine and 
 Rhenish: — But tell us, do you hear 
 whether Antonio have had any loss at sea 
 or no ? 
 
 Shy. There I have another bad match : 
 a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce 
 show his head on the Eialto ; — a beggar, 
 that used to come so smug upon the 
 mart ; — let him look to his bond : he was 
 want to call me usurer ; — let him look to 
 his bond : he was want to lend money for 
 a Christian courtesy; — let him look to 
 his bond. 
 
 Salar. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, 
 thou wilt not take his flesh ; What's that 
 good for ? 
 
 Shy. To bait fish withal : if it will feed 
 nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He 
 hath disgraced me, and hindered me half 
 a million ; laughed at my losses, mocked 
 at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted 
 my bargains, cooled my friends, heated 
 mine enemies ; and what's his reason ? I 
 am a Jew : Hath not a Jew eyes ? hath 
 not a Jew hands, organs; 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, shall we not revenge ? if we are 
 like you in the rest, we will resemble you 
 in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, 
 what is his humility ? revenge ; If a Chris- 
 tian wrong a Jew, what should his suffer- 
 ance be by Christian example ? why, 
 revenge. The villainy you teach me, I 
 will execute ; and it shall go hard, but I 
 will better the instruction. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Serv. Gentlemen, my master Antonio 
 is at his house, and desires to speak with 
 you both. 
 
 Salar. We have been up and down to 
 seek him. 
 
 Filter Tubal. 
 
 Salan. Here comes another of the 
 tribe ; a third cannot be matched, unless 
 the devil himself turn Jew. 
 
 \^Exeunt Salan., Salar., and Servant. 
 
 Shy. How now. Tubal, what news from 
 Genoa ? hast thou found my daughter ? 
 
 Tub. 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 wei'e dead 
 at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! 
 'would she were hears'd at my foot, and 
 the ducats in her coffin! No news of 
 them? — Why, so: — and I know not what's 
 spent in the search: Wliy, thou loss upon 
 loss! the thief gone with so much, and so 
 much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, 
 no revenge: nor no ill luck stirring, but 
 what lights o' my shoulders; no sighs, but 
 o' my breathing; no tears, but o' my shed- 
 ding. 
 
 147 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF YEXICE. 
 
 SCE>s"E 11. 
 
 Tiih. Yes, other men have ill luck too; 
 Antonio, as I heard in Genoa, — 
 
 Sliy. "What, what, what? ill luck, ill 
 
 luck? 
 Tub. — hath an argosy cast away, com- 
 ing from Tripolis. 
 
 Shy. Is it true? is it true? 
 Tul. I sjDoke with some of the sailors 
 that escaped the wreck. 
 
 Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal; — Good 
 news, good news: ha I ha I — "Where? in 
 Genoa? 
 
 Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, 
 as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats. 
 
 Shy. Thou stick'st a dagger in me: 
 1 shall never see my gold again : Four- 
 score ducats at a sitting! fourscore ducats. 
 Tub. There came divers of Antonio's 
 creditors in my company to Yenice, that 
 swear he cannot choose but break. 
 
 Shy. I am very glad of it: I'll plague 
 him; Fll torture him; I am glad of it. 
 
 Tub. One of them showed me a ring, 
 that he had of your daughter for a mon- 
 key. 
 
 Sliy. Out upon her! Thou torturest 
 me. Tubal; it was my torquois; I had it 
 of Leah, when I was a bachelor: I would 
 not have given it for a wilderness of mon- 
 keys. 
 
 Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone. 
 Shy. Nay, that's true, that's very true: 
 Go, Tubal, fee me an officer, bespeak him 
 a fortnight before: I will have the heart 
 of him, if he forfeit; for were he out of 
 Yenice, I can make what merchandise I 
 will; Go, go. Tubal, and meet me at our 
 synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our syna- 
 gogue. Tubal. \^Exeunt. 
 
 ScE:NrE II. Belmont. A room in Portia's 
 
 House. 
 Enter Bassaxio, Portia, Gratiaxo, 
 Nerissa, and Attendatits. The caskets 
 are set out. 
 
 For. I pray you, tarry; pause a day or 
 two, 
 
 Before your hazard ; for in choosing wrong. 
 
 Hose your company; therefore, forbear a 
 while: 
 
 There's something tells me, (but it is not 
 love,) 
 
 I would not lose you; and you know your- 
 self. 
 
 Hate counsels not in such a quality: 
 
 But lest you should not understand me 
 well, 
 
 (And yet a maiden hath no tongue but 
 thought,) 
 
 I would detain you here some month or 
 two, 
 
 Before you venture for me. I could teach 
 
 you. 
 
 How to choose right, but then I am for- 
 sworn; 
 So will I never be: Beshrew your eyes. 
 They have o'er-looked 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: 0! these naughty times 
 Put bars between the owners and their 
 
 rights; 
 And so, though yours, not yours. — Prove 
 
 it so 
 Let fortune bear the blame of it,— not I. 
 I speak too long: but 'tis to peize the 
 
 time; 
 To eke it, and draw it out in length. 
 To stay you from election. 
 
 Bass. Let me choose; 
 
 For, as I am, I live upon the rack. 
 
 For. Upon the rack, Bassanio? then 
 
 confess 
 "What treason there is mingled with your 
 
 love. 
 Bass. None, but that ugly treason of 
 
 mistrust, 
 "Which makes me fear the enjoying of my 
 
 love: 
 There may as well be amity and life 
 'Tween snow and tire, as treason and my 
 love. 
 
 148 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEN'E II. 
 
 For. Ay, but, I fear, you speak upon 
 the rack, 
 AVhere men enforced do speak any thing. 
 Bass. Promise me life, and I'll con- 
 fess the truth. 
 For. Well then, confess and live. 
 Bass. Confess and love. 
 
 Had been the very sum of my confession: 
 
 happy torment, when my torturer 
 Doth teach me answers for deliverance! 
 Bat let me to my fortune and the caskets. 
 
 For. Away then: I am lock'd in one 
 
 of them; 
 If you do love me, you will find me out. — 
 Nerissa, and the rest, stand all aloof. — 
 Let music sound while he doth make his 
 
 choice. 
 Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like 
 
 end. 
 Fading in music: that the comparison 
 May stand more proper, my eye shall be 
 
 the stream. 
 And wat'ry death-bed for him: He may 
 
 win; 
 And what is music then? then music is 
 Even as the flourish when true subjects 
 
 bow 
 To a new-crowned monarch: such it is. 
 As are those dulcet sounds in break of 
 
 day. 
 That creep into the dreaming bride- 
 groom's ear. 
 And summon him to marriage. Now he 
 
 goes. 
 With no less presence, but with much 
 
 more love. 
 Than young Alcides, when he did redeem 
 The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 
 To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice. 
 The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, 
 With bleared visages, come forth to view 
 The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules! 
 Live thou, I live: — With much, much more 
 
 dismay 
 
 1 view the fight, than thou that mak'st 
 
 the fray. 
 
 Music, whilst Bassanio comments u)i the 
 caskets to himself. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. Tell me, where is fancy bred, 
 Or in the heart or in the head? 
 How begot, how nourished! 
 
 Eeply. 2. It is engendered in the eyes. 
 
 With gazing fed; and fancy die 
 In the cradle zvhere it lies : 
 
 Let us all ring fancy' s knell; 
 I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, hell. 
 All. Ding, dong, bell. 
 
 Bass. So may the outward shows be 
 
 least themselves; 
 The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. 
 In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt. 
 But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, 
 Obscures the show of evil ? In religion, 
 What dangerous error, but some sober 
 
 brow 
 Will bless it, and approve it with a text. 
 Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? 
 There is no vice so simple, but assumes 
 Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. 
 How many cowards, whose hearts are all 
 
 as false 
 As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their 
 
 chins 
 The beards of Hercules, and frowning 
 
 Mars ; 
 Who, inward search'd, have livers M-hite 
 
 as milk ? 
 And these assume but valor's counte- 
 nance, 
 To render them redoubted. Look on 
 
 beauty. 
 And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the 
 
 weight; 
 Which therein works a miracle in nature, 
 Making them lighest that wear most of it: 
 So are these crisped snaky, golden locks. 
 Which make such wanton gambols with 
 
 the wind. 
 Upon supposed fairness, often known 
 To be the dowry of a second head, 
 
 119 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 The skull that bred them, in the sepulchre, 
 Thusornameut is but the guiled shore 
 To a most dangerous sea ; the beauteous 
 
 scarf 
 Veiling an Indian beauty ; in a word. 
 The seeming truth which cunning times 
 
 put on 
 To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou 
 
 gaudy gold. 
 Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee: 
 Nor none of thee, thou pale and common 
 
 drudge 
 'Tween man and man : but thou, thou 
 
 meagre lead. 
 Which rather threat'nest than dost prom- 
 ise aught, 
 Thy plainness moves me more than elo- 
 quence. 
 And here choose I : Joy be the conse- 
 
 quence 
 
 Por. How all the other passions fleet 
 to air. 
 As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd 
 
 despair. 
 And shudd'ring fear and green-ey'd jeal- 
 ousy. 
 
 love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy. 
 In measure rein thy joy, scant this excess; 
 
 1 feel too much thy blessing, make it less. 
 For fear I surfeit! 
 
 Bass. What find I here ? 
 
 [Opening the leaden casket. 
 Fair Portia's counterfeit ? What demi- 
 god 
 Hath come so near creation ? Move these 
 
 eyes ? 
 Or whether, riding on the balls of mine. 
 Seem they in motion ? Here are sever'd 
 
 lips. 
 Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar 
 Should sunder such sweet friends : Here 
 
 in her hairs 
 The painter plays the spider ; and hath 
 
 woven 
 A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of 
 
 men. 
 Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her 
 
 eyes, — 
 
 How could he see to do them ? having- 
 
 made one, 
 Methinks, it should have power to steal 
 
 both his. 
 And leave itself unf urnish'd : Yet look, 
 
 how far 
 The substance of my praise doth wrong 
 
 this shadow • 
 In underprizing it, so far this shadow 
 Doth limj:) behind the substance, — Here's 
 
 the scroll. 
 The continent and summary of my for- 
 tune. 
 You that choose not ly the vietv, 
 Chance as fair and choose as true! 
 Since this fortune falls to you, 
 Be content and seek no new. 
 If you he well pleas' d luith tliis, 
 And hold your fortune for your hliss, 
 Titrn you where your lady is, 
 And claim her luith a loving kiss. 
 A gentle scroll; — Fair lady, by your 
 leave ; 
 
 [JTissinff her. 
 I come by note, to give and to receive. 
 Like one of two contending in a prize. 
 That thinks he hath done well in people's 
 
 eyes. 
 Hearing applause and universal shout. 
 Giddy in spirit, still gazing, in a doubt 
 Whether those peals of praise be his or 
 
 no: 
 So, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so; 
 As doubtful whether what I see be true. 
 Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you. 
 Por. You see me, lord Bassanio, where 
 I stand. 
 Such as I am: though, for myself alone, 
 I would not be ambitious in my wish. 
 To wish myself much better; yet, for 
 
 you, 
 I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
 A thousand times more fair, ten thousand 
 
 times 
 More rich: 
 That only to stand high on your account. 
 
 150 
 
Act hi. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEIfE II, 
 
 I might in virtues, beauties, livings, 
 
 frieuds, 
 Exceed account: but the full sum of me 
 Is sum of something; which, to term in 
 
 gross, 
 Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unprac- 
 
 tic'd: 
 Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
 But she may learn; and happier than 
 
 this, 
 She is not bred so dull but she can learn; 
 Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit 
 Commits itself to yours to be directed. 
 As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
 Myself and what is mine, to you, and 
 
 yours 
 Is now converted: but now I was the lord 
 Of this fair mansion, master of my ser- 
 vants. 
 Queen o'er myself; and even now, but 
 
 now, 
 This house, these servants, and this same 
 
 myself. 
 Are yours, my lord; I give them with 
 
 this ring; 
 Which when you part from, lose, or give 
 
 away. 
 Let it presage the ruin of your love, 
 And be my vantage to exclaim on you. 
 Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of 
 
 all words, 
 Only my blood speaks to you in my veins: 
 And there is such confusion in my powers. 
 As, after some oration fairly sjioke 
 By a beloved prince, there doth appear 
 Among the buzzing pleased multitude; 
 Where every something, being blent 
 
 together. 
 Turns to a wild of nothing, save of jo}^ 
 Expressed and not express'd: But when 
 
 this ring 
 Parts from this finger, then parts life 
 
 from hence; 
 0, then be bold to say, Bassanio's dead. 
 Xcr. My lord and lady, it is -now our 
 
 time. 
 
 That have stood by, and seen our wishes 
 
 prosper. 
 To cry, good joy; Good joy, my lord and 
 
 lady! 
 Gra. My lord Bassanio, and my gen- 
 tle lady, 
 I wish you all the joy that you can wish ; 
 For, I am sure, you can wish none from 
 
 me; 
 And, when your honors mean to solemnize 
 The bargain of your faith, I do beseech 
 
 you, 
 Even at that time I may be married too. 
 Bass. With all my heart, so thou 
 
 canst get a wife. 
 Ora. I thank your lordship; you have 
 
 got me one. 
 My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as 
 
 yours : 
 You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid; 
 You lov'd, I lov'd; for intermission 
 No more pertains to me, my lord, than 
 
 you. 
 Your fortune stood upon the caskets 
 
 there; 
 And so did mine too, as the matter falls: 
 For wooing here, until I sweat again; 
 And swearing, till my very roof was dry 
 With oaths of love; at last, — if promise 
 
 last, — 
 I got a promise of this fair one here. 
 To have her love, provided that your 
 
 fortune 
 Achiev'd her mistress. 
 
 For. Is this true, Nerissa ? 
 
 Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd 
 
 withal. 
 Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean 
 
 good faith ? 
 Gra. Yes, 'faith, my lord. 
 Bass. Our feast shall be much hon- 
 
 or'd in your marriage. 
 Gra. But who comes here ? Lorenzo, 
 
 and his infidel. 
 What, my old Venetian friend, Salerio ? 
 
 151 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF TENICE. 
 
 Scene IL 
 
 Enter Lokexzo, Jessica, and Salerio. 
 
 Bass. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome 
 hither ; 
 If that the youth of my new interest 
 
 here 
 Have power to bid you welcome : — By 
 
 your leave, 
 I bid my very friends and countrymen, 
 Sweet Portia, welcome. 
 
 Por. So do I, my lord ; 
 
 They are entirely welcome. 
 
 Lor. I thank your honor : — For my 
 part, my lord. 
 My purpose was not to have seen you 
 
 here ; 
 But meeting with Salerio by the way. 
 He did entreat me, past all saying nay. 
 To come with him along. 
 
 Sale. I did, my lord. 
 
 And I have reason for it. Signior An- 
 tonio 
 Commends him to you. 
 
 [ Gives Bassanio a letter. 
 Bass. . Ere I ope this letter, 
 
 I pray you, tell me how my good friend 
 doth. 
 Sale. Not sick, my lord, unless it be 
 in mind ; 
 Nor well unless in mind : his letter 
 
 there 
 Will show you his estate. 
 
 Gra. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger ; 
 bid her welcome. 
 Your hand, Salerio : What's the news 
 
 from Venice ? 
 How doth that roj'al merchant, good 
 
 Antonio ? 
 I know, he will be glad of our success ; 
 We are the Jasons, we have won the 
 fleece. 
 Sale. Would you had won the fleece 
 
 that he hath lost ! 
 Por. There are some shrewd contents 
 in yon' same paper. 
 That steal the color from Bassanio's 
 cheek : 
 
 Some dear friend dead ; else nothing in 
 
 the world 
 Could turn so much the constitution 
 Of any constant man. What, worse and 
 
 worse ? — 
 With leave, Bassanio ; I am half your- 
 self. 
 And I must freely have the half of any- 
 thing 
 That this same paper brings you. 
 
 Bass. sweet Portia, 
 
 Here are a few of the iinpleasant'st words. 
 That ever blotted paper ! Gentle lad}-. 
 When I did first impart my love to you, 
 i freely told you, all the wealth I had 
 Pan in my veins, I was a gentleman ; 
 And then I told you true : and yet, dear 
 
 lady. 
 Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 
 How much I was a braggart : When I 
 
 told you 
 My state was nothing, I should then have 
 
 told 3'ou 
 That I was worse than nothing ; for, 
 
 indeed, 
 I have engag'd myself to a dear friend, 
 Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy. 
 To feed my means. Here is a letter, 
 
 lady; 
 The paper as the body of my friend. 
 And every word in it a gaping wound. 
 Issuing life-blood. — But is it true, 
 
 Salerio ? 
 Have all his ventures fail'd ? What, not 
 
 one hit ? 
 From Tripolis, from Mexico, and Eng- 
 land, 
 From Lisbon, Barbary, and India ? 
 And not one vessel 'scape the dreadful 
 
 touch 
 Of merchant-marring rocks ? 
 
 Sale. Not one, my lord. 
 
 Besides, it should apjiear, that if he had 
 The present money to discharge the Jew, 
 He would not take it : never did I know 
 A creature, that did bear the shape of 
 man, 
 
 152 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 So keen and greedy to confound a man : 
 He plies the duke at morning, and at 
 
 night ; 
 And doth impeach the freedom of the 
 
 state, 
 If they deny him justice: twenty mer- 
 chants, 
 The duke himself, and the magnificoes 
 Of greatest port, have all persuaded with 
 
 him ; 
 But none can drive him from the envious 
 
 plea 
 Of forfeiture, cf justice, and his bond. 
 Jes. "When I was with him, I have 
 
 heard him swear. 
 To Tubal, and to Chus, his countrymen. 
 That he would rather have Antonio's 
 
 flesh. 
 Than twenty times the value of the 
 
 sum 
 That he did owe him : and I know, my 
 
 lord, 
 If law, authority, and power deny not. 
 It will go hard with poor Antonio. 
 
 Por. Is it your dear friend, that is 
 
 thus in trouble ? 
 Bass. The dearest friend to me, the 
 
 kindest man. 
 The best condition'd and unwearied 
 
 spirit 
 In doing courtesies ; and one in whom 
 The ancient Roman honor more aj^pears. 
 Than an}^ that draws breath in Italy. 
 Por. What sum owes he the Jew ? 
 Bass. For me, three thousand ducats. 
 Por. What, no more ? 
 
 Pay him sis thousand, and deface the 
 
 bond ; 
 Double six thousand, and then treble 
 
 that. 
 Before a friend of this descrijition 
 Shall lose a hair through my Bassanio's 
 
 fault. 
 First, go with me to church, and call me 
 
 wife : 
 And then away to Venice to your friend ; 
 For never shall you lie by Portia's side 
 
 With an unquiet soul. You shall have 
 
 gold 
 To pay the petty debt twenty times over; 
 When it is paid, bring your true friend 
 
 along : 
 My maid Nerissa, and myself, mean 
 
 time, 
 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 
 shij^s have all miscarried, my creditors 
 (jroiu cruel, my estate is very low, my hond 
 to the Jew is forfeit ; and since, inj)ayi>ig 
 it, it is impossible I should live, all debts 
 are cleared between you and I, if I might 
 hut see you at my death : nottvitlistand- 
 ing, use your pleasure: if your love do 
 not persuade you to come, let not my 
 letter. 
 
 Por. love, despatch 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. Venice. A street. 
 
 ^?i^er Shylock, Salaxio, Axtonio, and 
 
 Gaoler. 
 
 Shy. Gaoler, look to him; — Tell not 
 
 me of mercy ; 
 
 This is the fool that lent out money 
 
 gratis ; — 
 Gaoler, look to him. 
 Ant. Hear me yet, good Shylock. 
 
 Shy. I'll have my bond ; speak not 
 against my bond : 
 
 153 
 
Act III, 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 I have sworn an oath, that I will have my 
 
 bond : 
 Thou call'st me dog, before thou hadst a 
 
 cause : 
 But, since I am dog, beware my fangs: 
 The duke shall grant me justice. — I do 
 
 wonder. 
 Thou naughty 'gaoler, that thou art so 
 
 'fond 
 To come abroad with him at liis request. 
 Ant. I ]oray thee, hear me speak. 
 81iy. I'll have my bond; I will not 
 
 hear thee speak : 
 I'll have my bond; and therefore speak 
 
 no more. 
 I'll not be made a soft and dull-ey'd fool. 
 To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and 
 
 yield 
 To Christian intercessors. Follow not; 
 I'll have no speaking; I'll have my bond. 
 
 l^Exit SJiylock. 
 Solan. It is the most imjoenetrable 
 
 cur. 
 That ever kept with men. 
 
 Ant. Let him alone; 
 
 I'll 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. 
 
 Solan. I am sure the duke 
 
 Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. 
 
 Ant. The duke cannot deny the course 
 
 of law; 
 For the commodity that strangers have 
 With us in Venice, if it be denied. 
 Will much impeach the justice of the 
 
 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 shall hardly spare a pound of flesh 
 To-morrow to my bloody creditor. 
 
 Well, gaoler, on: — Pray God, Bassanio 
 
 come 
 To see me pay his debt, and then I care 
 
 not! [Fxeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. Belmont. A Room in Por- 
 tia's House. 
 
 Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jes- 
 sica, a)id Balthazar. 
 
 Lor. Madam, although I speak it in 
 your presence, 
 You have a noble and a true conceit 
 Of god-like amity; which appears most 
 
 strongly 
 In bearing thus the absence of your lord. 
 But if you knew to whom you show this 
 
 honor. 
 How true a gentleman you send relief. 
 How dear a lover of my lord your hus- 
 band, 
 I know, you would be prouder of the 
 
 work. 
 Than customary bounty can enforce you. 
 For. 1 never did repent for doing 
 good. 
 Nor shall not now: for iii companions 
 That do converse and waste the time 
 
 together 
 Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of 
 
 love. 
 There must be needs a like proportion 
 Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit; 
 Which makes me think, that this Antonio, 
 Being the bosom lover of my lord. 
 Must needs be like my lord: If it be so. 
 How little is the cost I have bestow'd. 
 In purchasing the semblance of my soul 
 From out the state of hellish cruelty? 
 This comes too near the praising of my- 
 self; 
 Therefore, no more of it: hear other. 
 
 things. — 
 Lorenzo, I comit into your hands 
 The husbandry and manage of my house. 
 Until my lord's return; for mine own 
 part. 
 
 154 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 ScE^-E IV. 
 
 I have toward heaven breath'd a secret 
 
 vow, 
 To live in prayer and contemplation. 
 Only attended by Nerissa here. 
 Until her husband and my lord's return: 
 There is a monastery two miles off, 
 And there we will abide. I do desire you, 
 Not to deny this imposition; 
 The which my love, and some necessity. 
 Now lays upon you. 
 
 Lor. Madam, with all my heart; 
 
 I shall obey you in all fair commands. 
 For. My people do already know my 
 
 mind, 
 And all acknowledge you and Jessica 
 In place of lord Bassanio and myself. 
 So fare you well, until we shall meet 
 
 again. 
 Lor. Fair thoughts, and happy hours, 
 
 attend on you. 
 Jes. I wish yoyr ladyship all heart's 
 
 content. 
 For. I thank you for your wish, and 
 
 am well pleas'd 
 To wish it back on you: fare you well, 
 
 Jessica. — 
 
 \Exeunt Jessica mid Lorenzo. 
 Now, Balthazar, 
 
 As I have ever found thee honest, true. 
 So let me find thee still: Take this same 
 
 letter. 
 And use thou all the endeavor of a man. 
 In speed to Padua; see thou render this 
 Into my cousin's hand. Doctor Bellario; 
 And, look what notes and garments he 
 
 doth give thee, 
 Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd 
 
 speed 
 Unto the tranect, to the common ferry 
 Which trades to Venice: — waste no time 
 
 in words, 
 But get thee gone ; I shall be there 
 
 before thee. 
 Balth. Madama, I go with all conven- 
 ient speed. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 For. Come on, Nerissa; I have work 
 
 in hand. 
 That you yet know not of : we'll see our 
 
 husbands. 
 Before they think of us. 
 
 Ner. Shall they see us? 
 
 For. They shall, Nerissa; but in such 
 
 a habit. 
 That they shall think we are accom- 
 plished 
 With what we lack. I'll hold thee any 
 
 wager. 
 When we are both accoutred like young 
 
 men, 
 I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two. 
 And wear my dagger with the braver 
 
 grace; 
 And speak, between the change of man 
 
 and boy. 
 But come, I'll tell thee all my whole 
 
 device. 
 When I am in my coach, which stays 
 
 for us 
 At the park gate; and therefore haste 
 
 away. 
 For we must measure twenty miles to-day. 
 
 \Exeunt, 
 
 Scene A^. A G-arden. 
 Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Laun- 
 
 CELOT. 
 
 Lor. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare 
 
 for dinner. 
 Latin. That is done sir; they have all 
 
 stomachs. 
 Lor. What a wit-snapper are you I 
 
 then bid them prepare for dinner. 
 Laim. That is done too sir; only, 
 
 cover is the word. 
 Lor. Will you cover then, sir? 
 Laun. Not so, sir, neither; I know 
 
 my duty. 
 Lor. Yet more quarrelling with occa- 
 sion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth 
 of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee, 
 understand a plain man in his plain 
 
 155 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE MERCHA2s"T OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEXE Y, 
 
 meaning: go to thy fellows; bid tliem 
 cover the table, serve in the meat, and 
 we will come in to dinner. 
 
 Laun. For the table, sir, it shall be 
 served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be 
 covered; for yonr coming in to dinner, 
 sir, why, let it be as humors and conceits 
 shall govern. \^Exit Launcelot. 
 
 Lor. dear discretion, how his words 
 
 are suited! 
 The fool hath planted in his memory 
 An army of good words; And I do know 
 A many fools, that stand in better place. 
 Garnished like him, that for a tricksy 
 
 word 
 Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, 
 
 Jessica? 
 And now, good sweet, say thy opinion. 
 How dost thou like the lord Bassanio's 
 
 wife? 
 Jes. Past all expressing: It is very 
 
 meet. 
 The lord Bassanio live an upright life; 
 For, having such a blessing in his lady, 
 He finds the joys of heaven here on earth; 
 
 And, if on earth he do not mean it, it 
 Is reason he should never come to heaven. 
 "Why, if two gods should play some 
 
 heavenly match, 
 And on the wager lay two earthly women. 
 And Portia one, there must be something 
 
 else 
 Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude 
 
 world 
 Hath not her fellow. 
 
 Lor. Even such a husband 
 
 Hast thou or me, as she is for a wife. 
 Jes. Nay, but ask my opinion too of 
 
 that. 
 Lor. I will anon; first, let us go to 
 
 dinner. 
 Je.s-. Nay, let me praise you, while I 
 
 have a stomach. 
 Lor. No, pray thee, let it serve for 
 table-talk; 
 Then, howsoe'er thoii speak'st, ^mong 
 
 other things 
 I shall digest it. 
 Jes. "Well, I'll set you forth. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. Venice. A Court of Justice. 
 
 Enter the Duke, tlie Magnificoes ; Anto- 
 1^10, Bassak^io, Gkatiano, Salarino, 
 Salanio, and others. 
 
 DuTce. "What, is Antonio here? 
 Ayit. Ready, so please your grace. 
 Duke. I am sorry for thee; thou art 
 come to answer 
 A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
 Uncapable of pity, void and empty 
 From any dram of mercy. 
 
 Ant. I have heard. 
 
 Your grace hath ta'en great pains to 
 
 qualify 
 His rigorous course; but since he stands 
 
 obdurate. 
 And that no lawful means can carry me 
 Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose 
 
 My patience to his fury; and am arm'd 
 To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 
 The very tp-anny and rage of his. 
 
 Diihe. Go one, and call the Jew into 
 
 the court. 
 Solan. He's ready at the door: he 
 comes, my lord. 
 
 Enter Shylock. 
 
 Duke. Make room, and let him stand 
 
 before our face. — 
 Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so 
 
 too, 
 That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy 
 
 malice 
 To the last hour of act; and then, 'tis 
 
 thought, 
 Thou'lt show thy mercy, and remorse, 
 
 more strange 
 
 156 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Than is thy strange apparent cruelty: 
 And where thou now exact'st the penalty, 
 (Which is a pound of this poor merchant's 
 
 flesh,) 
 Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture. 
 But touch'd with human gentleness and 
 
 love. 
 Forgive a moity of the principal; 
 Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 
 That have of late so huddled on his back; 
 Enough to press a royal merchant down. 
 And pluck commiseration of his state 
 From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of 
 
 flint. 
 From stubborn Turks, and Tartars, never 
 
 train'd 
 To offices of tender courtesy. 
 We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 
 Shy. I have possessed your grace of 
 
 what I purpose; 
 And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn, 
 To have the due and forfeit of my bond: 
 If you deny it, let the danger light 
 Upon your charter, and your city's free- 
 dom. 
 You'll ask me, why I rather choose to 
 
 have 
 A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive 
 Three thousand ducats: I'll not answer 
 
 that : 
 But, say, it is my humor: Is it answer'd? 
 Wliat if my house be troubled with a rat, 
 And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand 
 
 ducats 
 To have it baned? What, are you answer'd 
 
 yet? 
 
 Some men there are, love not a gaping 
 
 pig; 
 
 Some, that are mad, if they behold a 
 
 cat; — 
 As there is no firm reason to be render'd, 
 AVhy he cannot abide in a gaping pig ; 
 Why, he, a harmless necessary cat; 
 So can I give no reason, nor I will not. 
 More than a lodg'd hate, and a certain 
 
 loathing, 
 I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 
 
 A losing suit against him. Are you 
 
 answer'd? 
 Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeel- 
 ing man. 
 To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 
 Shy. I am not bound to jilease thee 
 
 with my answer. 
 Bass. Do all men kill the things they 
 
 do not love? 
 Shy. Hates any man the thing he 
 
 would not kill? 
 Bass. Every, offense is not a hate at 
 
 first. 
 Shy. What, would'st thou have a ser- 
 pent sting thee twice? 
 Ant. I pray you, think you question 
 
 with the Jew: 
 You may as well go stand ujoon the 
 
 beach. 
 And bid the main flood bate his usual 
 
 height; 
 You may as well use question with the 
 
 wolf. 
 Why he had made the ewe bleat for the 
 
 lamb; 
 You may as well forbid the mountain 
 
 pines 
 To wag their higli tops, and to make no 
 
 noise. 
 When they are fretted with the gusts of 
 
 heaven; 
 You may as well do any thing most hard. 
 As seek to soften that (than which what's 
 
 harder?) 
 His Jewish heart: — Therefore, I do be- 
 seech you. 
 Make no more offers, use no further means. 
 But, with all brief and plain conveniency. 
 Let me have Judgment and the Jew his 
 
 will. 
 Bass. For thy three thousand ducats 
 
 here are six. 
 Shy. If every ducat in six thousand 
 
 ducats 
 Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
 I would not draw them, I would have my 
 
 bond. 
 
 157 
 
Act 1A' . 
 
 THE MEECHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEIs'E I. 
 
 Duke. How slialt thou hope for mercy, 
 
 rend'ring none? 
 Shy. What judgment shall I dread, 
 
 doing no wrong? 
 You have among you many a purchas'd 
 
 slave. 
 Which, like your asses, and your dogs, 
 
 and mules. 
 You use in abject and in slavish parts. 
 Because you bought them : — Shall I say 
 
 to you, 
 Let them be free, marry them to your 
 
 heirs? 
 Why sweat they under burdens? let their 
 
 beds 
 13e made as soft as yours, and let their 
 
 palates 
 Be season'd with such viands? You will 
 
 answer. 
 The slaves are ours: — So do I answer you 
 The pound of flesh, which I demand of 
 
 him. 
 Is dearly bought, is mine, and I will have 
 
 it: 
 If you deny me, fye upon your law! 
 There is no force in the decrees of Venice: 
 I stand for judgment: answer; shall I 
 
 have it ? 
 Duke. Upon my power, I may dismiss 
 
 this court. 
 Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 
 Whom I have sent for to determine this. 
 Come here to-day. 
 
 Salar. My lord, here stays without 
 A messenger with letters from the doctor, 
 JN"ew come from Padua. 
 
 Duke. Bring us the letters: Call the 
 
 messe;ager. 
 Bass. Good cheer, Antonio! What, 
 
 man ? courage yet! 
 The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, 
 
 bones, and all, 
 lEre thou shalt lose for me one drop of 
 
 blood. 
 Ant. I am a tainted wether of the 
 
 flock. 
 
 Meetest for death; the weakest kind of 
 
 fruit 
 Drops earliest to the ground, and so let 
 
 me: 
 You cannot better be employed, Bassanio, 
 Than to live still, and write my epitaph. 
 
 Enter Nekissa, dressed like a Lmvijer's 
 Clerk. 
 
 Duke. Came you from Padua, from 
 
 Bellario? 
 Ner. From both, my lord: Bellario 
 greets your grace. 
 
 [Presents a letter. 
 Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife 
 
 so earnestly? 
 Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that 
 
 bankrupt there. 
 Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, 
 harsh Jew, 
 Thou mak'st thy knife keen: but no metal 
 
 can. 
 No, not the hangman^s ax, bear half the 
 
 keenness 
 Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers 
 pierce thee? 
 Shy. No, none that thou hast wit 
 
 enough to make. 
 Gra. 0, be thou curst, inexorable dog! 
 And for thy life let justice be accus'd. 
 Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith. 
 To hold oj^inion with Pythagoras, 
 That souls of animals infuse themselves 
 Into the trunks of men : thy currish 
 
 spirit 
 Governed a wolf, who hang'd for human 
 
 slaughter. 
 Even from the gallows did his fell soul 
 
 fleet. 
 And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd 
 
 * dam, 
 Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desires 
 Are wolflsh, bloody, starv'd, and raven- 
 ous. 
 Shy. Till thou can'st rail the seal 
 from off my bond. 
 
 158 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE MEECHANT OF VENICE, 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Thou but offend'st thy luugs to speak so 
 
 loud: 
 Kepair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 
 To curless ruiu. — I staud here for law. 
 Biihe. This letter from Bellario doth 
 
 commend 
 A young and learned doctor to our 
 
 court : — 
 "Where is he? 
 
 Ner. He attendeth here hard by, 
 
 To know your answer, whether you'll ad- 
 mit him. 
 Duhe. "With all my heart : — some three 
 
 or four of you, 
 Go give him courteous conduct to this 
 
 place. — 
 -Mean time, the court shall hear Bellario's 
 
 letter. 
 [Clerk reads.'\ Your grace shall un- 
 derstand, that at the receijjt of your letter, 
 I am very sick: but in the instant that 
 1/our messenycr came, in loving visitation 
 was with me a young doctor of Rome; 
 his name is Balthasar: I acquainted him 
 with the cause in controversy hetween the 
 Jeio and Antonio the merchant: ive turned 
 o'er many boolcs together; he is furnish'd 
 with my opinion; which, bctter'd with his 
 oiun learning, {the greatness tvhereof I can- 
 not enough commend,) comes luith him, at 
 my imjwrtiaiity, to fill xip your grace's 
 request in my stead. I beseech you, let his 
 lack of years he no impediment to let him 
 lack a reverend estimation; for I never 
 knexu so young a body with so old a head. 
 Heave him to your gracious acceptance, 
 whose trial shall better publish his com- 
 mendation. 
 
 Duke. You hear the learn'd Bellario, 
 
 what he writes: 
 And here, I take it, is the doctor come. — 
 
 Enter Poetia, dressed like a Doctor of 
 Laios. 
 
 ■Give me your hand: Came you from old 
 Bellario? 
 Por. I did, my lord. 
 
 Duke. You are welcome: take your 
 place 
 Are you acquainted Avith the difPerence 
 That holds this present question in the 
 court? 
 Por. I am informed thoroughly of the 
 cause. 
 Which is the merchant here, and which 
 the Jew? 
 Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both 
 
 stand forth. 
 Por. Is your name Shylock ? 
 Shy. Shylock is my name. 
 
 Por. Of a strange nature is the suit 
 you follow; 
 Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 
 Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed. — 
 You stand within his danger, do you not? 
 
 YTo Antonio. 
 Ant. Ay, so he says. 
 Por. Do you confess the bond? 
 
 Ant. I do. 
 
 Por. Then must the Jew be merci- 
 ful. 
 Shy. On what compulsion must I ? tell 
 
 me that. 
 Por. The quality of mercy is not 
 strain'd; 
 It droppeth, as the gentle rain from 
 
 heaven, 
 Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that 
 
 takes: 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his 
 
 crown: 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal 
 
 power. 
 The attribute to awe and majesty. 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of 
 
 kings; 
 But mercy is above his scepter'd sway, 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. 
 It is an attribute to God himself; 
 And earthly power doth then show likest 
 God's 
 
 159 
 
Act TV 
 
 THE MEECHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEIfE I. 
 
 When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, 
 
 Jew, 
 Though justice be thy plea, consider 
 
 this, — 
 That, in the course of justice, none of us 
 Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to 
 
 render 
 The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus 
 
 much. 
 To mitigate the justice of thy plea; 
 Which, if thou follow, this strict court of 
 
 Venice 
 Must needs give sentence 'gainst the 
 
 merchant there. 
 Shy. My deeds upon my head! I crave 
 
 the law. 
 The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 
 Po7\ Ts he not able to discharge the 
 
 money? 
 Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in 
 
 the court: 
 Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice, 
 I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er. 
 On forfeit of my hands, my head, my 
 
 heart : 
 If this will not suffice, it must appear 
 That malice bears down truth. And I 
 
 beseech you, 
 "Wrest once the law to your authority: 
 To do a great right, do a little wrong: 
 And curb this cruel devil of his will. 
 Por. It must not be; there is no power 
 
 in Venice 
 Can alter a decree established: 
 'Twill be recorded for a jDrecedent; 
 And many an error, by the same example. 
 Will I'ush into the state: it cannot be. 
 iShy. A Daniel come to judgment I yea 
 
 a Daniel! — 
 wise young judge, how do I honor 
 
 thee! 
 Por. I pray you, let me look upon the 
 
 bond. 
 iShy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, 
 
 here it is. 
 
 Po}\ Shylock, there's thrice thy money 
 
 offer'd thee. 
 Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath 
 in heaven: 
 Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? 
 No, not for Venice. 
 
 Por. Why, this bond is forfeit; 
 
 And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
 A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
 Nearest the merchant's heart: — Be merci- 
 ful; 
 Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the 
 bond. 
 Shy. When it is paid according to the 
 tenor. — 
 It doth appear, you are a worthy judge; 
 You know the law, your exposition 
 Hath been most sound: I charge you by 
 
 the law. 
 Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 
 Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear. 
 There is no power in the tongue of man 
 To alter me: I staj^ here on my bond. 
 Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the 
 court 
 To give the judgment. 
 
 Por. Why then, thus it is. 
 
 You must prepare your bosom for his 
 knife: 
 Shy. noble judge! excellent young 
 
 man ! 
 Por. For the intent and purpose of the 
 law 
 Hath full relation to the penalty, 
 Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 
 Shy. 'Tis very true: wise and up- 
 right judge! 
 How much more elder art thou than thy 
 looks! 
 Por. 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. 
 Por. It is so. Are there balance here, 
 to weigh 
 The flesh. 
 
 IGO 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Shy. I have tliem ready. 
 
 For. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, 
 
 on your charge, 
 To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to 
 
 death. 
 Slit/. Is it so nominated in the bond? 
 Por. It is not so express'd: But what 
 
 of that? 
 'Twere good you do so much for charity. 
 Shy. I cannot find it; ''tis iwt in the 
 
 bond. 
 Po7\ Come, merchant, have you any- 
 thing to say? 
 Aiit. But little 5 I am arm'd, and well 
 
 prepared. — 
 Give me your hand, Bassanio; fare you 
 
 well! 
 Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you; 
 For herein fortune shows herself more 
 
 kind 
 Than is her custom: it is still her use, 
 To let the wretched man out-live his 
 
 wealth 
 To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled 
 
 brow. 
 An age of poverty; from which lingering 
 
 penance 
 Of such a misery doth she cut me off. 
 Commend me to your honorable wife: 
 Tell her the process of Antonio's end, 
 Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in 
 
 death; 
 And, when the tale is told, bid her be 
 
 judge, 
 Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
 Repent not you that you shall lose your 
 
 friend. 
 And he repents not that he pays your 
 
 debt; 
 For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
 I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. 
 
 Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife, 
 Which is as dear to me as life itself; 
 But life itself, my wife, and all the world, 
 Are not with me esteem'd above thy life: 
 I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
 Here to this devil, to deliver you. 
 
 Por. Your wife would give you littlo 
 thanks for that, 
 If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 
 Ora. I have a wife, whom, I protest, 
 I love; 
 I would she were in heaven, so she could 
 Entreat some power to change this currish 
 Jew. 
 JVer. 'Tis well you offer it behind her 
 back; 
 The wish would make else an unquiet 
 house. 
 Shy. These be the Christian husbands: 
 I have a daughter; 
 'Would any of the stock of Barrabas 
 Had been her husband, rather than a 
 Christian! 
 
 [Aside. 
 We trifle time; I pray thee, pursue sent- 
 ence. 
 Por. A pound of that same merchant's 
 flesh is thine; 
 The court awards it, and the law doth give 
 it. 
 Shy. Most rightful judge! 
 Por. And you must cut this flesh from 
 off his breast; 
 The law allows it, and the court awards it. 
 Shy. Most learned judge! — A sentence; 
 
 come, prepare. 
 Por. Tarry a little; — there is some- 
 thing else. 
 This bond doth give thee here no jot of 
 
 blood; 
 The words expressly are a pound of flesli : 
 Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound 
 
 of flesh; 
 But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
 One drop of Christian blood, thy lands 
 
 and goods 
 Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
 Unto the state of Venice. 
 
 Gra. upright judge! — Mark, Jew; 
 
 — learned judge! 
 Shy. Is that the law? 
 Por. Thyself shall see the act: 
 
 For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd. 
 
 161 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Thou shalt Lave justice, more than thou 
 desir'st. 
 Gra. learned judge! — Mark, Jew; 
 
 — a learned judge! 
 Shy. I take this offer then; — pay the 
 bond thrice. 
 And let the Christian go. 
 
 Bass. Here is the money. 
 
 Por. Soft; 
 The Jew shall have all justice; — soft! — no 
 
 haste; — 
 He shall have nothing but the penalty. 
 Gra. Jew! an upright judge, a 
 
 learned judge! 
 Por. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off 
 the flesh. 
 Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less, 
 
 nor more. 
 But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak'st 
 
 more. 
 Or less, than a just pound, — be it but so 
 
 niu ch 
 As makes it light, or heavy, in the sub- 
 stance. 
 Or the division of the twentieth part 
 Of one poor scruple; nay, if the scale do 
 
 turn 
 But in the estimation of a hair, — 
 Thou diest, and all thy goods are confis- 
 cate. 
 Gra. A second Daniel! a Daniel, Jew! 
 Now, infidel, I have tliee on the hip. 
 Por. Why doth the Jew pause? take 
 
 thy forfeiture. 
 Shy. Give me my principal, and let 
 
 me go. 
 Bass. I have it ready for thee; here it 
 
 is. 
 Por. He hath refused it in the open 
 court; 
 He shall have merely justice, and his 
 bond. 
 Gra. A Daniel, still say I; a second 
 Daniel — 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that 
 word. 
 
 SJiy. Shall I not have barely my prin- 
 cipal? 
 Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the 
 forfeiture. 
 To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 
 
 Shy. Why then the devil give him good 
 of it! 
 ril stay no longer question. 
 
 Por. Tarry, Jew; 
 
 The law hath yet another hold on you. 
 It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — 
 If it be prov'd against an alien. 
 That by direct, or indirect attempts. 
 He seek the life of any citizen, 
 The party, 'gainst the M'hich he doth 
 
 contrive, 
 Shall seize one half his goods; the other 
 
 half 
 Comes to the privy coffer of the state; 
 And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
 Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
 In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st: 
 For it appears by manifest proceeding, 
 That, indirectly, and directly too. 
 Thou hast contriv'd against the very life 
 Of the defendant: and thou hast incurr'd 
 The danger formerly by me i-ebcars'd. 
 Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the 
 duke. 
 Gra. Beg, that thou mayst have leave 
 to hang thyself: 
 And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the 
 
 state. 
 Thou hast not left the value of a cord; 
 Therefore thou must be hang'd at the 
 state's charge. 
 Duke. That thou shalt see the differ- 
 ence of our spirit, 
 I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it: 
 For half thy wealth, it is Antonio''s: 
 The other half comes to the general state, 
 Which humbleness may drive into a fine. 
 Por. Ay, for the state; not for 
 
 Antonio. 
 Shy. Nay, take my life and all, pardon 
 not that: 
 
 163 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE iMERCHANT OP VENICE. 
 
 SCE^TE I. 
 
 You take my house, when you do take the 
 
 pro}) 
 That cloth sustain my house: you take my 
 
 life. 
 When you do take the means whereby I 
 live. 
 For. What mercy can you render him, 
 
 Antonio? 
 Gra. A halter gratis; nothing else, I 
 
 hoj^e. 
 Ant. So please my lord the duke, and 
 all the court. 
 To quit the fine for one half of his goods; 
 I am content, so he will let me have 
 The other half in use, — to render it. 
 Upon his death, anto the gentleman 
 That lately stole his daughter: 
 Provided, that he do record a gift, 
 Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd. 
 Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter. 
 Duke. He shall do this; or else I do 
 recant 
 The pardon that I late pronounced here. 
 For. Art thou contented, Jew, what 
 
 dost thou say? 
 Shy. I am content. 
 For. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 
 
 Shy. I pray you, give me leave to go 
 from hence: 
 I am not well; send the deed after me. 
 And I will sign it. 
 
 Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 
 
 lExit Shylock. 
 Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. 
 For. I humbly do desire your grace of 
 pardon ; 
 I must away this night toward Padua, 
 And it is meet, I presently set forth. 
 Duke. I am sorry that your leisure 
 serves you not. 
 Antonio, gratify this gentleman ; 
 For, in my mjnd, you are much bound to 
 him. 
 
 [Fxetmt Dicke, Magnificoes, and Train. 
 Bass. Most worthy gentleman, I and 
 my friend. 
 
 Have by your wisdom been this day ac- 
 quitted 
 Of grievous penalties ; in lieu whereof, 
 Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, 
 We freely cope your courteous pains 
 
 withal. 
 Ant. And stand indebted, over and 
 
 above. 
 In love and service to j^ou evermore. 
 For. He is well paid, that is well 
 
 satisfied ; 
 And I, delivering you, am satisfied. 
 And therein do account myself well paid : 
 My mind was never yet more mercenary. 
 I pray you, know me, when we meet 
 
 again ; 
 I wish you well, and so I take my leave. 
 ' Bass. Dear sir, of force I must attempt 
 
 you further ; 
 Take some remembrance of us, as a 
 
 tribute, 
 Not as a fee ; grant me two things, I pray 
 
 you. 
 Not to deny me, and to pardon me. 
 For. You press me far, and therefore 
 
 I will yield. 
 Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for 
 
 your sake ; 
 And, for your love, I'll take this ring 
 
 from you : — 
 Do not draw back your hand ; I'll take no 
 
 more ; 
 And you in love shall not deny me this. 
 Bass. This ring, good sir, — alas, it is 
 
 a trifle ; 
 I will not shame myself to give you this. 
 For. I will have nothing else but only 
 
 this ; 
 And now, methinks, I have a mind to it. 
 Bass. There's more depends on this, 
 
 than on the value. 
 The dearest ring in Venice will I give you. 
 And find it out by proclamation ; 
 Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. 
 
 For. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers : 
 You taught me first to beg; and now, 
 
 methinks, 
 
 lt)3 
 
Act IV 
 
 THE MEECHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEIS'E II. 
 
 You teach me how a beggar should be 
 
 answer'd. 
 Bass. Good sir, this ring was given 
 
 me by my wife : 
 And, when she put it on, she made me 
 
 TOW, 
 
 That I should neither sell, nor give, nor 
 lose it. 
 For. That 'scuse serves many men to 
 save their gifts ; , 
 
 An if your wife be not a mad woman. 
 And know how well I have deserv'd this 
 
 ring. 
 She would not hold out enemy for ever. 
 For giving it to me. Well, peace be with 
 you ! 
 
 [Bxeunt Poi'tia and Xerissa. 
 Ant. My lord Bassanio, let him have 
 the ring ; 
 Let his deservings, and my love withal, 
 Be valued 'gainst your wife's command- 
 ment. 
 Bass. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake 
 him. 
 Give him the ring ; and bring him if thou 
 
 canst. 
 Unto Antonio's house: — away, make 
 haste. 
 
 \_Exit Gratiano. 
 Come, you and I will thither joresently ; 
 And in the morning early will we both 
 Fly toward Belmont : Come, Antonio. 
 
 {^Exeunt. 
 
 ScEN"E II, A Street. 
 Enter Portia and Neeissa. 
 For. Inquire the Jew's house out, give 
 him this deed. 
 And let him sign it : we'll away to-night. 
 And be a day before our husbands home : 
 This deed will be well welcome to Lor- 
 enzo. 
 
 Enter Gratiano. 
 Gra. Fair sir, you are well overtaken : 
 My lord Bassanio, upon more advice. 
 Hath sent you here this ring ; and doth 
 
 entreat 
 Your company at dinner. 
 
 For. That cannot be : 
 
 This ring I do accept most thankfully, 
 And so, I pray you tell him : Further- 
 more, 
 I pray yon show my youth old Shylock's 
 house. 
 Gra. That will I do. 
 Ner. Sir, I would speak with 
 
 you : — 
 I'll see if I can get my husband's ring, 
 
 [To Portia. 
 
 Which I did make him swear to keep for 
 
 ever. 
 
 For. Thou mayst, I warrant: We shall 
 
 have old swearing. 
 
 That they did give the rings away to men ; 
 
 But we'll out face them, and outswear 
 
 them too. 
 Away, make haste ; thou know'st where 
 I will tarry. 
 Ner. Come, good sir, will you show me 
 to this house ? '\^Exexint. 
 
 ScEKE I. Belmont. Avenue to Portia's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lorexzo and Jessica. 
 Lor. The moon shines bright: — In 
 
 such a night as this, 
 When the sweet wind did gently kiss the 
 
 trees. 
 And they did make no noise ; in such a 
 
 night. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan 
 
 walls, 
 And sigh'd his soul towards the Grecian 
 
 tents, 
 Where Cressid lay that night. 
 
 Jes. In such a night. 
 
 Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew ; 
 And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, 
 And ran dismay'd away. 
 
 164 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OP YEXICE. 
 
 SCE^S'E I. 
 
 Lor. In such a night. 
 
 Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
 Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav'd her 
 
 love 
 To come again to Carthage. 
 
 Jes. In such a night, 
 
 Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs 
 That did renew old ^son. 
 
 Lor. In such a night. 
 
 Did Jessica steal from the wealthy 3QVf ; 
 And with an unthrift love did run from 
 
 Venice, 
 As far as Belmont. 
 
 Jes. And 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. And in such a night. 
 
 Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew. 
 Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 
 Jes. I would out-night you, did no 
 body come : 
 But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. 
 Enter Stephano. 
 Lor, Who comes so fast in silence of 
 
 the night? 
 Steph. A friend. 
 Lor. A friend? what friend? your 
 
 name, I pray you, friend? 
 
 Sfeph. 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. None, but a holy hermit, and 
 her maid. 
 I pray you, is my master yet return'd? 
 Lor. He is not, nor we have not heard 
 from him. — 
 But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica/ 
 And ceremoniously let us prepare 
 Some welcome for the mistress of the 
 house. 
 
 165 
 
 Enter Launcelot. 
 
 Laun. Sola, sola, wo ha, ho, sola, sola ! 
 Lor. Who calls? 
 
 Laun. Sola ! did you see master 
 Lorenzo, and mistress Lorenzo I sola, sola ! 
 Lor. Leave hollaing, man ; here. 
 Laun. Sola ! where ? where ? 
 Lor. Here. 
 
 Laun. Tell him, there's a post- come 
 from my master, with his horn full of 
 good news ; my master will be here ere 
 morning. {^Ezit. 
 
 Lor. Sweet soul, let's in, and there 
 expect their coming. 
 And yet no matter ; — Why should we go 
 
 in? 
 My friend Stephano; signif}", I pray you. 
 Within the house, your mistress is at 
 
 hand ; 
 And bring your music forth into the 
 air. — YExit Stephano. 
 
 How sweet the moon-light sleeps upon 
 
 this bank ! 
 Here will we sit, and let the sounds of 
 
 music 
 Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the 
 
 night, 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 Sit, Jessica : Look, how the floor of 
 
 heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patinesof 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-ey'd cherubius : 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear 
 it.— 
 
 Enter Musicians. 
 Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn; 
 With sweetest touches pierce your mis- 
 tress' ear, 
 And draw her home with music. 
 
 Jes. I am never merry, when I hear 
 sweet music. \^Music. 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VEXICE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Lor. The reason is, your spirits are 
 
 attentive: 
 For do bat note a wild and wanton herd, 
 Or race of youthful, and unhandled colts, 
 Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and 
 
 neighing loud. 
 Which is the hot condition of their blood; 
 If they but hear perchance a trumpet 
 
 sound, 
 Or any air of music touch their ears. 
 You shall see them make a mutual stand, 
 Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze. 
 By the sweet power of music: Therefore, 
 
 the i^oet 
 Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, 
 
 and floods; 
 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 mov'd 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 H ekiss a., ai a distayice. 
 Par. 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 3.oth an island brook 
 Into the main of waters. Music! hark! 
 Ner. It is your music, madam, of the 
 
 house. 
 Por. Nothing is good, I see, without 
 respect; 
 Methinks, it sounds much sweeter than 
 by day. 
 
 A'e?-. Silence bestows that virtue on it, 
 
 madam. 
 Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as 
 the lark. 
 When neither is attended; and, I think, 
 The nightingale, if she should sing by 
 
 day. 
 When every goose is cackling, would be 
 
 thought 
 No better a musician than the wren. 
 How many things by season season'd are 
 To their right praise and true perfec- 
 tion ! — 
 Peace, hoa! the moon sleeps with Endy- 
 
 mion 
 And would not be awak'd! [Mtcsic ceases. 
 
 Lor. That is the voice, 
 
 Or I am much deceiv'd, of Portia. 
 
 Por. He knows me, as the blind man 
 knows the cuckoo. 
 By the bad voice. 
 
 Lor. Dear lady, welcome home. 
 
 Por. We have been praying for our 
 husbands' welfare. 
 Which speed, we hope, the better for our 
 
 words; 
 Are they returned? 
 
 Lor. Madam, they are not yet; 
 
 But there is come a messenger before. 
 To signify their coming. 
 
 Por. Go in, Nerissa, 
 
 Give order to my servants, that they take 
 No note at all of our being absent hence; 
 Nor you, Lorenzo; — Jessica, nor you. 
 
 [A tucket sounds. 
 Lor. Your husband is at hand, I hear 
 his trumpet: 
 We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not. 
 Por. This night, methinks, is but the 
 day-light sick, 
 It looks a little paler; 'tis a day, 
 Such as the day is when the sun is hid. 
 
 Enter Bassastio, Antonio, Gratiano, 
 and their Folloioers. 
 
 Bass. We should hold clay with the 
 Antipodes, 
 
 l.J6 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OP VENTOE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 If we would walk in absence of the sun. 
 For. Let me give light, but let me not 
 be light; 
 For a light wife doth make a heavy hus- 
 band, 
 And never be Bassanio so for me; 
 You are welcome home, my lord. 
 
 Bass. I thank you, madam: give wel- 
 come to my friend. — 
 This is the man, this is Antonio, 
 To whom I am so infinitely bound. 
 
 Por. You should in all sense be much 
 bound to him. 
 For, as I hear, he was much bound for 
 you. 
 Ant. No more thm I am well acquit- 
 ted of. 
 Por. Sir, you are very welcome to our 
 house: 
 It must appear in other ways than words, 
 Therefore, I scant this breathing cour- 
 tesy. 
 
 [Gkatiano and Nerissa seem to 
 talk apart. 
 Gra. By yonder moon, I swear, you 
 do me wrong ; 
 In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk. 
 Por. A quarrel, ho, already ? what's 
 
 the matter ? 
 Gra. About a hoop of gold, a paltry 
 ring 
 That she did give me ; whose posy was 
 For all the world, like cutler's poetry 
 Upon a knife, love me, and leave me not. 
 Ner. What talk you of the posy, or 
 the value ? 
 You swore to me, when I did give it you, 
 That you would wear it till your hour of 
 
 death ; 
 And that it should lie with you in your 
 
 grave : 
 Though not for me, yet for your vehe- 
 ment oaths. 
 You should have been respective, and 
 
 have kept it. 
 Gave it a judge's clerk! — but well I 
 know, 
 
 The clerk will ne'er wear hair on his face, 
 that had it. 
 Gra. He will, and 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 J) rating boy, that begg'd it as a fee ; 
 I could not for my heart deny it him. 
 Por. You were to blame, I must be 
 plain with you. 
 To part so slightlv with your wife's first 
 
 gift; 
 A thing stuck on with oaths upon your 
 
 finger, 
 And riveted so with faith upon your flesh. 
 I gave my love a ring, and made him 
 
 swear 
 Never to part with it ; and here he 
 
 stands ; 
 I dare be sworn for him, he would not 
 
 leave it. 
 Nor pluck it from his finger, for the 
 
 wealth 
 That the world masters. Now, in faith, 
 
 Gratiano, 
 You give your wife too unkind a cause of 
 
 grief; 
 An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it. 
 Bass. Why, I were best to cut my left 
 hand off. 
 And swear, I lost the ring defending it. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Gra. My lord Bassanio gave his ring 
 away 
 Unto the judge that begg'd it, and 
 
 indeed, 
 Deserv'd it too; and then the boy his 
 
 clerk, 
 That took some pains in writing, he 
 
 begg'd mine : 
 Arid neither man, nor master, would take 
 
 aught 
 But the two rings. 
 
 lo: 
 
Act A' 
 
 THE MEECHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEXE I 
 
 Por. What ring gave you, my lord ? 
 K'ot that, I hope, which you receiv'd of 
 
 ine. 
 Bass. If I could add a lie uuto a fault, 
 I would deny it ; but you see my finger 
 Hath not the ring upon it, it is gone. 
 Por. Even so void is your false heart 
 
 of truth. 
 By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed 
 Until I see the ring. 
 
 Ner. Nor I in yours. 
 
 Till I again see mine. 
 
 Bass. Sweet Portia, 
 
 If you did know to whom I gave the ring, 
 If you did know for whom I gave the 
 
 ring. 
 And would conceive for what I gave the 
 
 ring. 
 And how unwillingly I left the ring. 
 When nought would be accepted but the 
 
 ring. 
 You would abate the strength of your dis- 
 pleasure. 
 Por. If you had known the virtue of 
 
 the ring. 
 Or half her worthiness that gave the 
 
 ring. 
 Or your own honor to contain the ring. 
 You would not then have parted with the 
 
 ring. 
 What man is there so much unreasonable. 
 If you had pleas'd to have defended it 
 With any terms of zeal, wanted the mod- 
 esty 
 To urge the thing held as a ceremony ? 
 Nerissa teaches me what to believe; 
 I'll die for't, but some woman had the 
 
 ring. 
 Bass. No, by mine honor, madam, by 
 
 my soul. 
 No woman had, but a civil doctor. 
 Which did refuse three thousand ducats 
 
 of me. 
 And begg'd the ring; the which I did 
 
 deny him. 
 And suffer'd him to go displeas'd away; 
 Even he that had held up the very life 
 
 Of my dear friend. What should I say,. 
 
 sweet lady? 
 I was enforced to send it after him; 
 I was beset with shame and courtesy; 
 My honor would not let ingratitude 
 So much besmear it : Pardon me, good 
 
 lady; 
 For, by these blessed candles of the night,. 
 Had you been there, I think, you would 
 
 have begg'd 
 The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. 
 Por. Let not that doctor e'er come 
 
 near my house : 
 Since he hath got the jewel that I lov'd. 
 And that which you did swear to keep for 
 
 me, 
 I will become as liberal as you : 
 I'll not deny him any thing I have. 
 Know him I shall, I am well sure of it : 
 Lie not a night from home; watch me, 
 
 like Argus, 
 If you do not, if I be left alone. 
 Now, by mine honor, which is yet my 
 
 own, 
 I'll have that doctor for my bedfellow. 
 Ner. And I his clerk; therefore be 
 
 well advis'd, 
 How you do leave me to mine own pro- 
 tection. 
 Gra. Well, do you so: let not me take 
 
 him then. 
 Ant. I am the unhappy subject of 
 
 these quarrels. 
 Por. Sir, grieve not you; You are 
 
 welcome notwithstanding. 
 Bass. Portia forgive me this enforced 
 
 wrong; 
 And in the hearing of these many friends, 
 I swear to thee, even by thine own fair 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Wherein I see myself, 
 
 Por. Mark you but that I 
 
 In both mine eyes he doubly sees himself: 
 In each eye, one : — swear by your double 
 
 self. 
 And there's an oath of credit. 
 
 168 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Sci:KE I. 
 
 Bass. ^^y, but hear me : 
 
 Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear, 
 I never more will break an oath with 
 thee. 
 Ant. I once did lend my body for his 
 wealth : 
 "Which, but for him that had your hus- 
 band's ring, 
 
 [To Portia. 
 
 Had quite miscarried : I dare be bound 
 
 again. 
 My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord 
 Will never more break faith advisedly. 
 Por. Then you shall be his surety: 
 
 Give him this; 
 And bid him keep it better than the 
 
 other. 
 A7it. Here, lord Bassanio; swear to 
 
 keep this ring. 
 Bass. By heaven, it is the same I gave 
 
 the doctor; 
 Por. I had it of him. — You are all 
 
 amaz'd : 
 Here's a letter, read it at your leisure; 
 It comes from Padua, from Bellario : 
 There you shall find, that Portia was the 
 
 doctor; 
 Nerissa there, her clerk : Lorenzo here 
 Shall witness, I set forth as soon as you. 
 And but even nowreturn'd; I have not yet 
 Enter'd my house. — Antonio, your wel- 
 come; 
 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 harbor suddenly : 
 You shall not know by what strange ac- 
 cident 
 I chanced on this letter. 
 
 Ant. I am dumb. 
 
 Bass. AVhere you the doctor, and I 
 
 knew you not? 
 Gra. AYere you the clerk, that is to 
 
 make me cuckold? 
 Ker. Ay; but the clerk that never 
 means to do it. 
 Unless he live to be a man. 
 
 Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my 
 bed-fellow; 
 When I am absent, then lie with my wife. 
 Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me 
 life, and living; 
 For here I read for certain, that my sliijis 
 Are safely come to road. 
 
 Por. How now, Lorenzo ? 
 
 My clerk hath some good comforts too 
 for you. 
 Ner. Ay, and I'll give them him with- 
 out a fee. — 
 There do I give to you, and Jessica, 
 From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift. 
 After his death, of all he dies possess'd of. 
 Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in 
 the way 
 Of starved people. 
 
 Por. 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 iuter'gatories. 
 And we will answer all things faithfully. 
 
 [E.verint. 
 
 169 
 
Familiar Quotations from Shakespeare. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 AXTOXIO, 
 
 T liold the world but as the world. Gratiano; 
 
 A stage, where every man must play a 
 
 part, 
 
 And mine a sad one. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 1, I. 76. 
 
 Grati.vxo. 
 
 Let me play the fool ; 
 
 With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles 
 
 come. 
 And let my liver rather heat with wine 
 Than my heart cool with mortifying 
 
 groans. 
 Why should a man, whose blood is Avarm 
 
 within. 
 Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? 
 Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the 
 
 jaundice 
 By being peevish ? I tell thee what, 
 
 Antonio, — 
 I love thee, and ib is my love that 
 
 speaks, — 
 There are a sort of men, whose visages 
 Do cream and mantle like a standing pond. 
 And do a willful stillness entertain, 
 With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion 
 Of wislom, gravity, profound conceit. 
 As who should say, "I am Sir Oracle, 
 And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark I " 
 O ! my Antonio, I do know of these 
 That therefore only are reputed wise 
 For saying nothing, when, I am very sure. 
 If they should speak, would almost dam 
 
 those ears. 
 
 Which, hearing them, would call their 
 
 brothers fools. 
 
 Act\, .Sc. 1, I. 79. 
 
 Bassaxio. 
 
 Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing. 
 
 Act \, Sc.l, I. 114. 
 
 Portia. 
 
 By my troth, Xerissa, my little body is 
 aweary of this great world. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 2, I. 1. 
 Portia. 
 
 If to do were as easy as to know what 
 were good to do, chape.s had been 
 churches, and poor men's cottages 
 princes' palaces. It is a good devine that 
 follows his own instructions : 1 can easier 
 teach twenty what were good to be done, 
 than be one of twenty to follow mine 
 own teaching. The brain may devise 
 laws for the blood ; but a hot temper leaps 
 o'er a cold decree : such a hare is madness, 
 the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good 
 
 counsel, the cripple. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 2, I. 13 
 
 Portia. 
 God made him, and therefore let him 
 
 pass for a man. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 2, I. 54. 
 
 Shtlock, 
 
 Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key, 
 With bated breath, and whispering hum- 
 bleness. 
 
 Say this? 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 3, I. 123. 
 
 Morocco. 
 Mislike me not for my complexion. 
 The shadow'd livery of the burnished sun. 
 
 Ad 2, Sc. 1,1.1. 
 
 Launcelot. 
 
 It is a wise father that knows his own 
 
 child. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 2, I. 75. 
 
 Jessica. 
 Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, 
 Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 3, I. 2. 
 
 ITO 
 
FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS. 
 
 Gratiano. 
 That ever holds; who riseth from a feast 
 With that keen appetite that he sits down? 
 Where is the horse that doth untread 
 
 again 
 His tedious measures with the unbated 
 
 fire 
 That he did pace them first. All things 
 
 that are. 
 Are with more spirit chased than enjoy 'd. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 6, I. 8. 
 
 Jessica. 
 But love is blind, and lovers conuot see 
 The pretty follies that themselves commit. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 6, i. 36. 
 
 Arragok. 
 
 Let none presume 
 To wear an undeserved dignity. 
 0! that estates, degrees, and offices, 
 Were not deriv'd corruptly! and that clear 
 
 honor 
 Were purchas'd by the merit of the 
 
 wearer ! 
 How many then should cover, that stand 
 
 bare ! 
 How many be commanded, that command ! 
 How much low peasantry would then be 
 
 glean'd 
 From the true seed of honor; and how 
 
 much honor 
 Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the 
 
 times, 
 To be new-varnish'd ! 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 9, 1. 37. 
 
 Nerissa. 
 
 Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. 
 
 Act2,Sc. 9, I. 81. 
 
 Servitok. 
 A day in April never came so sweet. 
 To show how costly summer was at hand. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 9, I. 91. 
 
 SlIYLOCK. 
 Hath not a Jew eyes ? hath not a Jew 
 hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affec- 
 tions, jjassions ? 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 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 u.?, shall we 
 not revenge ? If we are like you in the 
 rest, we will resemble you in that. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 1, I. 56. 
 
 Bassanio. 
 The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. 
 In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt. 
 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. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 1, I. 73. 
 
 Bassanio. 
 How many cowards, whose hearts are all 
 
 as false 
 As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their 
 
 chins 
 The beai'ds of Hercules and frowning 
 
 Mars, 
 Who, inward search'd, have livers white 
 
 as milk ; 
 And these assume but valor's excrement. 
 To render them redoubted ! 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 83. 
 
 Portia. 
 
 love! be moderate; allay thy ecstacy ; 
 In measure rain thy joy ; scant this ex- 
 cess ; 
 
 1 feel too much thy blessing; make it less. 
 For fear I surfeit! 
 
 Acts, S'-,. 2, I. 111. 
 
 Portia. 
 You see me. Lord Bassanio, where I stand. 
 Such as I am : though for myself alone 
 I would be ambitious in my wish. 
 To wish myself much better ; yet for you 
 I would be trebled twenty times myself ; 
 
 171 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 A thousand times more fair, ten thousand 
 
 times more rich ; 
 That only to stand high in your account, 
 I might in virtues, beauties, livings, 
 
 friends, 
 Exceed account ; but the full sum of me 
 Is sum of nothing; which to term in gross. 
 Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, un- 
 
 practis'd: 
 Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
 But she may learn; happier than this. 
 She is not bred so dull but she can learn; 
 Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit 
 Commits itself to yours to be directed. 
 As from her lord, her governer, her king. 
 Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 150. 
 
 Bassanio. 
 Madam, you have bereft me of all words; 
 Only my blood speaks to you in my veins. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 3, 1. 175. 
 
 Bassan"io. 
 
 Gentle lady, 
 "When I did first impart my love to you, 
 I freely told you, all the wealth I had 
 Ran in my veins, — I was a gentleman. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 2, 251. 
 
 Bassaxio. 
 The dearest friend to me, the kindest 
 
 man. 
 The best-condition'd and unwearied spirit 
 In doing courtesies, and one in whom 
 The ancient Roman honor more appears. 
 Than any that draws breath in Italy. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 293. 
 
 Bassa:s^io. 
 Notwithstanding, use your pleasure: if 
 your love do not persuade you to come, 
 let not my letter. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 319. 
 
 LOREXZb. 
 
 How every fool can play upon that 
 word I I think the best grace of wit will 
 shortly turn into silence, and discourse 
 grow commendable only in parrots. 
 
 Act. 3, Sc. 5, I. 40. 
 
 Jessica. 
 Why, if two gods should play some 
 
 heavenly match. 
 And on the wager lay two earthly women. 
 And Portia one, there must be something 
 
 else 
 Pawn'd with the other, for the poor rude 
 
 world 
 Hath not her fellow. 
 
 Act. 3, Sc. 5, I. 75. 
 
 Aktoxio. 
 
 You may as well go stand upon the beach, 
 And bid the main flood bate his usual 
 
 height; 
 You may as well use question with the 
 
 wolf. 
 Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the 
 
 lamb; 
 You may as well forbid the mountain 
 
 pines 
 To wag their high tops and to make no 
 
 noise. 
 When they are fretted with the gusts of 
 
 heaven ; 
 You may as well do anything most hard 
 As seek to soften that than which what 's 
 harder? his Jewish heart. 
 
 Act 4, ScA, I. 70. 
 
 Portia. 
 
 The quality of mercy is not strain'd. 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
 Upon the place beneath; it is twice blest: 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that 
 
 takes. 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his 
 
 crown : 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal 
 
 power. 
 The attribute to awe and majesty. 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of 
 
 kings ; 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. 
 It is an attribute to God himself; 
 
 172 
 
FAMILIAR QUOTATIOXS. 
 
 And earthly power doth then show likest 
 
 God's 
 When mercy seasons justice. 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, I. 184. 
 
 Shylock. 
 A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a 
 Daniel ! 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, 1.217. 
 
 Portia. 
 Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound 
 of flesh. 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, I. 303. 
 
 Shylock. 
 Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not 
 
 that ; 
 You take my house, when you do take 
 
 the prop 
 That doth sustain my house ; you take my 
 
 life. 
 When you do take the means whereby I 
 
 live. 
 
 Act A, Sc. 1, I. 3T4. 
 
 LOREKZO. 
 The moon shines bright. — In such a night 
 
 as this, 
 When the sweet wind did gently kiss the 
 
 trees. 
 And they did make no noise, in such a 
 
 night, 
 Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan 
 
 walls. 
 And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian 
 
 tents 
 Where Cressid lay that night. 
 
 Act 5, Sc.l, l.l. 
 
 LOREKZO. 
 
 In such a night 
 
 Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
 
 Upon the wild sea-banks, and Avav'd her 
 
 love 
 To come again to Carthage. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 9. 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 The man that hath no music in himself, 
 Nor is not mov'd Avith 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. 
 
 Act 5. Sc. 1, Z. 83 
 
 Portia. 
 How far that little candle throws his 
 
 beams! 
 So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 90. 
 
 Portia. 
 The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark, 
 When neither is attended; and, I think. 
 The nightingale, if she should sing by 
 
 day. 
 When every goose is cackling, would be 
 
 thought 
 No better a musician than the wren. 
 How many things by season season'd are 
 To their right praise and true perfection! 
 
 Act. 5, Sc.l, I. 102. 
 
 Orlando. 
 0! how bitter a thing it is to look into 
 happiness through another man's eyes ! 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 2, I- 42. 
 
 173 
 
As You Like It. 
 
 DURING- the time that France was divided into provinces (or dukedoms as they 
 were called), there reigned in one of these j^rovinces a usurper Mho Lad 
 deposed and banished his elder brother, the lawful duke. 
 
 The duke, who was thus driving from his dominions, retired with a few faithful 
 followers to the forest of Arden ; and here the good duke lived with his loving friends, 
 who had put themselves into a voluntary exile for his sake, while their land and 
 revenues enriched the false usurper ; and custom soon made the life of careless ease 
 they led here more sweet to them than the pomp and uneasy splendor of a courtier's 
 life. Here they lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest many 
 noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet the time carelessly, as they 
 did who lived in the golden age. In the summer they lay along under the fine shade 
 of the large forest trees, marking the playful sports of the wild deer ; and so fond 
 were they of these poor dappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the 
 forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply themselves with 
 venison for their food. When the cold winds of winter made the duke feel the 
 change of his adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently and say, " These chilling 
 winds which blow upon my body are true counselors; they do not flatter, but repre- 
 sent truly to me my condition: and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing 
 like so keen as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find that, howsoever men speak 
 against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from it, like the jewel, 
 precious for medicine, which is taken from the head of the venomous and despised 
 toad." In this manner did the patient duke draw a useful moral from everything 
 that he saw ; and by the hel]) of this moralizing turn, in that life of his, remote from 
 public haunts, he could find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons 
 in stones, and good in everything. 
 
 The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom the i;surper, 
 Duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained in his court as a com- 
 panion for his own daughter Celia. A strict friendship subsisted between these 
 ladies, which the disagreement between their fathers did not in the least interrujDt, 
 Celia striving by every kindness in her power to make amends to Rosalind for the 
 injustice of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind, and whenever the 
 thoughts of her father's banishment and her own dependence on the false usurper 
 made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's whole care was to comfort and console her. 
 
 One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind manner to Rosalind, saying, 
 ''I pray you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry," a messenger entered from the 
 duke, to tell them that if they wished to see a wrestling-match, which was just going 
 to begin, they must come instantly to the court before the palace ; and Celia, thinking 
 it would amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it. 
 
 la those times wrestling, which is only practiced now by country clowns, was a 
 favorite sport even in the courts of princes, and before fair ladies and princesses. To 
 this wrestling-match therefore Celia and Rosalind went. They found it was likely 
 
 174 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 to prove a very tragical sight; for a large and powerful man, who had long been 
 practiced in the art of wrestling, and had slain many men in contests of this kind, 
 was just going to wrestle with a very young man, who, from his extreme youth and 
 inexperience in the art, the beholders all thought would certainly be kilkd. 
 
 When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, " How now, daughter and niece, 
 are you crept hither to see the wrestling ? You will take little delight in it, there is 
 such odds in the men ; in pity to this young man, I would wish to persuade him from 
 wrestling. Speak to him, ladies, and see if you can move him." 
 
 The ladies were well-pleased to perform this humane office, and first Celia 
 entreated the young stranger that he would desist from the attempt; and then 
 Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with such feeling consideration for the danger 
 he was about to undergo, that instead of being persuaded by her gentle words to 
 forego his purpose, all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his courage in 
 this lovely lady's eyes. He refused the request of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful 
 and modest words that they felt still more concern for him; he concluded his 
 refusal by saying, ''I am sorry to deny such fair and excellent ladies anything. But 
 let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein, if I be conquered, 
 there is one shamed that was never gracious; if I am killed, there is one dead that is 
 willing to die. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me; the 
 world no ipjury, for in it I have nothing; for I only fill up a place in the world Avhich 
 may be better supplied when I have made it empty." 
 
 And now the wrestling-match began. Celia wished the young stranger might 
 not be hurt; but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless state which he said he 
 was in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind think that he was, like herself, 
 unfortunate; and she pitied him so much, and so deep an interest she took in his 
 danger while he was wrestling, that she might almost be said at that moment to have 
 fallen in love with him. 
 
 The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair and noble ladies gave him 
 courage and strength, so that he performed wonders; and in the end completely con- 
 quered his antagonist, who was so much hurt that for a while he was unable to speak 
 or move. 
 
 The Duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill shown by this 
 young stranger, and desired to know his name and parentage, meaning to take him 
 under his protection. 
 
 The siranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the youngest son of 
 Sir Rowland de Boys. 
 
 Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been dead some years; but 
 when he was living, he had been a true subject and dear friend of the banished duke; 
 therefore, when Frederick heard Orlando was the son of his banished brother's friend, 
 all his liking for this brave young man was changed into displeasure, and he left the 
 place in very ill humor. Hating to hear the very name of any of his brother's friends, 
 and yet still admiring the valor of the youth, he said, as he weiit out, that he wished 
 Orlando had been the son of any other man. 
 
 Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favorite Avas the son of her father's 
 old friend; and she said to Celia, "My father loved Sir Rowland de Bois, and if I 
 had known this young man was his son, I would have added tears to my entreaties 
 before he should have ventured." 
 
 175 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 The ladies tlien went up to him : and seeing him abashed by the sudden displeas- 
 ure shown by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words to him ; and Rosalind, 
 when they were going away, turned back to speak some more civil things to the brave 
 joung son of her father's old friend ; and taking a chain from off her neck, she said, 
 '•'Gentleman, wear this for me. I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you a 
 more valuable 23resent. " 
 
 When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still of Orlando, Celia began to 
 perceive her cousin had fallen in love with the handsome young wrestler, and she said 
 to Rosalind, " Is it possible you should fall in love so suddenly ?" Rosalind rej^lied, 
 "The duke, my father, loved his father dearly." "But," said Celia, "does it there- 
 fore follow that you should love his son dearly ? for then I ought to hate him, for my 
 father hated his father ; yet I do not hate Orlando. " 
 
 Frederick being enraged at the sight of Sir Rowland de Boys' son, which reminded 
 him of the many friends the banished duke had among the nobility, and having been 
 for some time displeased with his niece, because the people praised her for her virtues 
 and pitied her for her good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against her ; 
 and while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered the room, 
 and with looks full of anger ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the place, and follow 
 her father into banishment ; telling Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that he had 
 only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her account. "I did not then," said Celia, 
 "entreat you to let her stay; for 1 was too young at that time to value her; but now that 
 I know her worth, and that we so long have slept together, rose at the same instant, 
 learned, played, and eat together, I cannot live out of her company," Frederick 
 replied, "She is too subtle for you ; her smoothness, her very silence, and her patience, 
 speak to the people, and they pity her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you will 
 seem more bright and virtuous when she is gone ; therefore open not your lips in her 
 favor, for the doom which I have passed upon her is irrevocable. " 
 
 When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let Rosalind remain 
 "with her, she generously resolved to accompany her; and, leaving her father's palace 
 that night, she went along with her friend to seek Rosalind's father, the banished 
 duke, in the forest of Arden. 
 
 Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for two young ladies 
 to travel in the rich clothes they theuAvore: she therefore proposed that they should 
 disguise their rank by dressing themselves like country maids. Rosalind said it would 
 be a still greater protection if one of them was to be dressed like a man; and so it was 
 quickly agreed on between them, that as Rosalind was the tallest, she should wear the 
 dress of a young countryman, and Celia should be habited like a country lass, and 
 that they should say they were brother and sister, and Rosalind said she would be 
 called Ganimed, and Celia chose the name of Aliena. 
 
 In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray their expenses, these 
 fair princesses set out on their long travel; for the forest of Arden was a long way off, 
 beyond the boundaries of the duke's dominions. 
 
 The Lady Rosalind (or Ganimed as she must now be called) with her manly garb 
 seemed to have put on a manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia had shown 
 in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles made the new brother, in recom- 
 pense for this true love, exert a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganimed, the 
 rustic and stout-hearted brother of the gentle village maiden, Aliena. 
 
 176 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they no longer found the con- 
 venient inns and good accommodations they had met with on the road; and being in 
 want of food and rest, Ganimed, who had so merrily cheered his sister with pleasant 
 speeches and happy remarks all the way, now owned to Aliena that he was so weary, 
 he could find it in his heart to disgrace his man's apparel, and cry like a woman; 
 and Aliena declared she could go no farther; and then again Ganimed tried to recol- 
 lect that it was a man's duty to comfort and console a woman, as the weaker vessel; 
 and to seem courageous to his new sister, he said, "Come, have a good heart, my 
 sister Aliena; we are now at the end of our travel, in the forest of Arden." But 
 feigned manliness and forced courage would no longer support them; for though 
 they were in the Forest of Arden, they knew not where to find the duke; and here the 
 travel of these weary ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for they might have 
 lost themselves, and have perished for Avant of food; but, providentially, as they 
 were sitting on the grass, almost dying with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a 
 countryman chanced to pass that way, and Ganimed once more tried to speak with a 
 manly boldness, saying, " Shepherd, if love or gold can in this desert place procure 
 us entertainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest ourselves; for this young 
 maid, my sister, is much fatigued with traveling, and faints for want of food." 
 
 The man replied, that he was only servant to a shepherd, and that his master's 
 house was just going to be sold, and therefore they would find but poor entertainment; 
 but that if they would go with him, they should be welcome to what there was. They 
 followed the man, the near prospect of relief giving them fresh strength; and bought 
 the house and sheep of the shepherd, and took the man who conducted them to the 
 shepherd's house, to wait on them; and being by this means so fortunately provided 
 with a neat cottage, and well supplied with provisions, they agreed to stay here till 
 they could learn in what part of the forest the duke dwelt. 
 
 When they were rested after the fatigue of their journey, they began to like their new 
 way of life, and almost fancied themselves the shepherd and shepherdess they feigned 
 to be ; yet sometimes Ganimed remembered he had once been the same Lady Rosalind 
 who had so dearly loved the brave Orlando, because he was the son of old Sir Rowland, 
 her father's friend ; and though Ganimed thought that Orlando was many miles dis- 
 tant, even so many weary miles as they had traveled, yet it soon appeared that 
 Orlando was also in the forest of Arden: and in this manner this strange event came 
 to pass : 
 
 Orlando was the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys, who, when he died, left 
 him (Orlando being then very young) to the care of his eldest brother, Oliver, charg- 
 ing Oliver, on his blessing, to give his brother a good education, and provide for him 
 as became the dignity of their ancient house. Oliver proved an unM'orthy brother; 
 and disregarding the commands of his dying father, he never put his brother to 
 school, but kept him at home untaught and entirely neglected. But in his nature 
 and in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled his excellent father, 
 that without any advantages of education he seemed like a youth who had been bred 
 with the utmost care; and Oliver so envied the fine person and dignified manners of 
 his untutored brother, that at last he wished to destroy him; and to effect this he set 
 on people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous wrestler, who, as has been before 
 related, had killed so many men. Now it wasthis cruel brother's neglect of him which 
 made Orlando say he wished to die, being to friendless. 
 
 177 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 When, cootrary to the wicked hoj>es he had formed, his brother proved victori- 
 ous, his envy and malice knew no bounds, and he swore he would burn the chamber 
 where Orlando slept. He was overheard making this vow by one that had been an 
 old and faithful servant to their father, and that loved Orlando because he resembled 
 Sir Kowland. This old man went out to meet him when he returned from the duke's 
 palace, and when he saw Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in made him 
 break out into these passionate exclamations: "0 my gentle master, my sweet 
 master, you memory of old Sir Eowland ! why are you virtuous ? why are you 
 gentle, strong, and valiant ? and why would you be so fond to overcome the famous 
 wrestler ? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you." Orlando, wondering 
 what all this meant, asked him what was the matter. And then the old 
 man told him how his wicked brother, envying the love all people bore him, and now 
 hearing the fame he had gained by his victory in the duke's palace, intended to 
 destroy him by setting fire to his chamber that night ; and in conclusion, advised him 
 to escape the danger he was in by instant flight ; and knowing Orlando had no money, 
 Adam (for that was the good old man's name) had brought oi;t with him his own lit- 
 tle hoard, and he said, "I have five hundred crowns, the thrifty hire I saved under 
 your father, and laid by to be provision for me when my old limbs should become 
 unfit for service ; take that, and He that doth the ravens feed be comfort to my age ! 
 Here is the gold ; all this I give to you ; let me be your servant ; though I look old, I 
 will do the service of a younger man in all your business and necessities. "0 good 
 old man !" said Orlando, " how well appears in you the constant service of the old 
 world ? You are not for the fashion of these times. We will go along together, and 
 befoi'e your youthful wages are spent I shall light upon some means for both our main- 
 tenance." 
 
 Together, then, this faithful servant and his loved master set out; and Orlando 
 and Adam traveled on, uncertain what course to pursue, till they came to the forestof 
 Arden, and there they found themselves in the same distress for want of food that 
 Ganimed and Alienahad been. They wandered on, seeking some human habitation, 
 till they were almost spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, "0 my 
 dear master, I die for want of food — I can go no farther!" He then laid himself 
 down, thinking to make that 23lace his grave, and bade his dear master farewell. 
 Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, took his old servant up in his arms, and carried 
 him under the shelter of some pleasant trees, andhesaidto him, " Cheerly, old Adam, 
 rest your weary limbs here a while, and do not talk of dying!" 
 
 Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened to arrive at that 
 part of the forest where the duke was: and he and his friends were just going to eat 
 their dinner, this royal duke being seated on the grass, under no other canopy than 
 the shady cover of some large trees. 
 
 Orlando, who hunger had made desperate, drew his sword, intending to take 
 their meat by force, and said, " Forbear, and eat no more; I must have your food !" 
 The duke asked him if distress had made him so bold, or if he were a rude despiser of 
 good manners? On this Orlando said he was dying with hunger; and then the duke 
 told him he was welcome to sit down and eat with them. Orlando, hearing him 
 sj^eak so gently, put up his sword, and blushed with shame at the rude manner in 
 which he had demanded their food. "Pardon me, I pray you," said he: "I thought 
 that all things had been savage here, and therefore I put on the countenance of stern 
 
 178 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 command; but whatever men you are, that in this desert, under the shade of melan- 
 choly boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours of time: if ever you have looked on 
 better days; if ever you have been where bells have knolled to church; if you have ever 
 eat any good man's feast; if ever from your eyelids you have wiped a tear, and know 
 what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches now move you to do roe human 
 courtesy!" The duke replied, "True it is that we are men (as you say) who have 
 seen better days, and though we have now our habitation in this wild forest, we have 
 lived in towns and cities, and have with holy bell been knolled to church, have set at 
 good men's feasts, and from our eyes have wiped the drojDS which sacred pity has 
 engendered: therefore sit ye down, and take of our refreshment as much as will min- 
 ister to your wants." " There is an old poor man," answered Orlando, '"'who has 
 limped after me many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at once with two sad 
 infirmities, age and hunger; till he be satisfied, I must not touch a bit." " Go find 
 him out, and bring him hither," said the duke; "we will forbear to eat till you 
 return." Then Orlando went like a doe to find its fawn and give it food; and pres- 
 ently returned, bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke said, "Set down your 
 venerable burden; j'ou are both welcome: " and they fed the old man, and cheered his 
 heart, and he revived, and recovered his health and strength again. 
 
 The duke inquired who Orlando was : and when he found that he was the son of 
 his old friend. Sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under his protection, and Orlando 
 and his old servant lived with the duke in the forest. 
 
 Oi'lando arrived in the forest not many days after Ganimed and Aliena came 
 there and (as has been before related) bought the shepherd's cottage. 
 
 Ganimed and Alinea were strangely surprised to find the name of Eosalind 
 carved on the trees, and love-sonnets fastene'd to them, all addressed to Eosalind: 
 and while they were wondering how this could be, they met Orlando, and they 
 perceived the chain which Rosalind had given him about his neck. 
 
 Orlando little thought that Ganimed was the fair Princess Rosalind, who, 
 by her noble condescension and favor, had so won his heart that he passed his whole 
 time in carving her name upon the trees, and writing sonnets in praise of her beauty ; 
 but being much pleased with the graceful air of this j^retty shepherd-youth, he 
 entered into conversation with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed 
 to his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none of the dignified deportment of that 
 noble lady; for Ganimed assumed the forward manners often seen in youths when 
 they are between boys and men, and with much archness and humor talked to 
 Orlando of a certain lover, " who," said he, "haunts our forest, and spoils our young 
 trees with carving Rosalind uj^on their barks; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, 
 and elegies on brambles, all praising this same Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I 
 would give him some good counsel that would soon cure him of his love." 
 
 Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, and asked 
 Ganimed to give him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganimed j^rojwsed 
 and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should come every day to the cottage 
 where he and his sister Aliena dwelt. " And then," said Ganimed, "I will feign 
 myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to court me in the same manner as you 
 would do if I were Rosalind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical 
 ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of your love ; and this is the way I 
 propose to cure you." Orlando had no great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to 
 
 179 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 come every day to Ganimed's cottage, and feign a playful courtship; and every day 
 Orlando visited Ganimed and Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Gauimed his 
 Kosalind, and every day talked over all the fine words and flattering compliments 
 which, young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. It does not 
 appear, however, that Ganimed made any progress in curing Orlando of his love for 
 Rosalind. 
 
 Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not dreaming that Gau- 
 imed was his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave him of saying all the fond 
 things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy almost as well as it did Ganimed's, who 
 enjoyed the secret jest in knowing these fine love speeches were all addressed to the 
 right person. 
 
 In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young people ; and 
 the good-natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganimed happy, let him have his own way, 
 and was diverted at the mock courtship, and did not care to remind Ganimed that 
 the Lady Rosalind had not yet made herself known to the duke her father, whose 
 place of resort in the forest they had learned from Orlando. Ganimed met the duke 
 one day, and had some talk with him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came. 
 Ganimed answered that he came of as good a parentage as he did ; which made the 
 duke smile, for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of royal lineage. 
 Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganimed was content to put off all fur- 
 ther explanation for a few days longer. 
 
 One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganimed, he saw a man lying asleep 
 on the ground, and a large green snake had twisted itself about his neck. The snake, 
 seeing Orlando approach, glided away among the bushes. Orlando went nearer, and 
 then he discovered a lioness lie couching, with her head on the ground, with a cat- 
 like watch, waiting till the sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey on 
 nothing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Providence to 
 free the man from the danger of the snake and lioness : but when Orlando looked in 
 the man's face, he perceived that the sleeper who was exposed to this double peril was 
 his own brother Oliver, who had so cruelly used him, end had threatened to destroy 
 him by fire ; and he was almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness : 
 but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature soon overcame his first anger 
 against his brother ; and he drew his sword, and attacked the lioness, and slew her, 
 and thus preserved his brother's life both from the venomous snake and from the furi- 
 ous lioness : but before Orlando could conquer the lioness, she had torn one of his 
 arms with her sharp claws. 
 
 While Orlando was engaged with the lioness Oliver awaked, and perceiving that 
 his brother Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated, was saving him from the fury 
 of a wild beast at the risk of his own life, shame and remorse at once seized him, and 
 he repented of his unworthy conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's 
 pardon for the injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so j^enitent, 
 and readily forgave him : and they embraced each other ; and from that hour Oliver 
 loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, though he had come to the forest bent 
 on his destruction. 
 
 The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, he found himself too weak 
 to go to visit Ganimed, and therefore he desired his brother to go and tell Ganimed — 
 "whom," said Orlando, " I in sport do call my Rosalind" — the accident which had 
 befallen him. i8o 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Thither, then, Oliver went, and told to Ganimed and Aliena how Orlando had 
 saved his life : and when he had finished the story of Orlando's bravery and his own 
 providential escape, he owned to them that he was Orlando's brother who had so 
 cruelly used him ; and then he told them of their reconciliation. 
 
 The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offenses made such a lively 
 impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly fell in love with him ; and 
 Oliver observing how much she pitied the distress he told her he felt for his fault, he 
 as suddenly fell in love with her. But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of 
 Aliena and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganimed, who, hearing of the danger 
 Orlando had been in, and that he was wounded by the lioness, fainted : and when he 
 recovered, he pretended he had counterfeited the swoon in the imaginar}' character of 
 Eosalind, and Ganimed said to Oliver, "Tell your brother Orlando how well I coun- 
 terfeited a swoon." But Oliver saw by the paleness of his complexion that he did 
 really faint, and much wondering at the weakness of the young man, he said, "Well, 
 if 30U did counterfeit, take a good heart and ceunterfeit to be a man." " So I do," 
 replied Ganimed, truly, "but I should have been a woman by right." 
 
 Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he returned back to his 
 brother, he had much news to tell him; for besides the account of Ganimed's fainting 
 at the hearing that Orlando was wounded, Oliver told him how he had fallen in love 
 with the fair shepherdess Aliena, and that she had lent a favorable ear to his suit, even 
 in this their first interview ; and he talked to his brother, as of a thing almost settled, 
 that he should marry Aliena, saying that he so Avell loved her that he would live here 
 as a shepherd, and settle his estate and house at home upon Orlando. 
 
 "You have my consent," said Orlando. "Let your wedding be to-morrow, and 
 I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and persuade your shepherdess to agree to 
 tills: she is now alone; for look, here comes her brother." Oliver went to Aliena; 
 and Ganimed, whom Orlando had seen approaching, came to inquire after the health 
 of his wounded friend. 
 
 When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk over the sudden love which had taken 
 place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his brother to persuade 
 his fair shepherdess to be married on the morrow, and then he added how much he 
 could wish to be married on the same day to his Rosalind. 
 
 Ganimed, who well approved of this arrangement, said that if Orlando really loved 
 Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he should have his wish : for on the morrow he 
 would engage to make Rosalind appear in her now person, and also that Rosalind 
 should be willing to marry Orlando. 
 
 This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganimed was the Lady Rosalind, he 
 could so easily perform, he pretended he would bring to pass b}' the aid of magic, 
 which he said he had learned of an uncle who was a famous magician. 
 
 The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubting what he heard, asked 
 Ganimed if he spoke in sober meaning. " By my life I do," said Ganimed; "therefore 
 put on your best clothes, and bid the duke and your friends to your wedding; for if 
 you desire to be married to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here." 
 
 The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Aliena, they came into 
 the presence of the duke, and with them also came Orlando. 
 
 They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and as yet only one 
 of the brides appearing, there was much of wondering and conjecture, but they mostly 
 thought that Ganimed was making a jest of Orlando. 
 
 1^1 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 The duke, hearing it was his own daughter that was to be brought in this strange 
 way, asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy could really do what he had 
 promised; apd while Orlando was answering that he knew not what to think, 
 Gaiiimed entered and asked the duke, if he brought his daughter, whether he would 
 consent to her marriage with Orlando. "That I would," said the duke, "if I had 
 kingdoms to give with her." Ganimed then said to Orlando, "And you say you will 
 marry her if I bring her here?" " That I would," said Orlando, "if I were king of 
 many kingdoms." 
 
 Ganimed and Aliena then went out together, and Ganimed throwing ofE his 
 male attire, and being once more dressed in woman's apparel, quickly became Eosa- 
 lind without the power of magic; and Aliena, changing her country garb for her own 
 rich clothes, was with as little trouble transformed into the Lady Celia. 
 
 While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando that he thought the shepherd 
 Ganimed very like his daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said, he also had observed the 
 resemblance. 
 
 They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosalind and Celia, in 
 their own clothes, entered; and no longer pretending that it was by the power of 
 magic that she came there, Rosalind threw herself on her knees before her father and 
 begged his blessing. It seemed so wonderful to all jiresent that she should so sud- 
 denly appear, that it might well have passed for magic: but Rosalind would no longer 
 trifle with her father, and told him the story of her banishment, and of her dwell- 
 ing in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as her sister. 
 
 The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the marriage; and Orlando 
 and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the same time. And though their 
 wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest with any of the parade or splen- 
 dor usual on such occasions, yet a happier wedding-day was never passed: and while 
 they were eating their venison under the cool shade of the trees, as if nothing should 
 be wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke and the true lovers, an unex- 
 pected messenger arrived to tell the duke the joyful news, that his dukedom was 
 restored to him. 
 
 The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and hearing that every 
 day men of great worth resorted to the forest of Arden to join the lawful duke in his 
 exile, much envying that his brother shoi;ld be so highly respected in his adversity, 
 put himself at the head of a large force, and advanced to the forest, intending to 
 seize his brother, and put him, with all his faithful followers, to the sword; but by 
 a wonderful interposition of Providence, this bad brother was converted from his evil 
 intention, for just as he entered the skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an old 
 religious man, a hermit, with whom he had much talk, and who in the end completely 
 turned his heart from his wicked design. Thenceforward he became a true peni- 
 tent, and resolved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder of his 
 days in a religious house. The first act of his newly-conceived penitence was to send 
 a messenger to his brother (as has been related) to offer to restoreto him his dukedom, 
 which he had usurped so long, and with it the lands and revenues of his friends, the 
 faithful followers of his adversity. 
 
 This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome, came opportunely to heighten 
 the festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of the princesses. Celia complimented her 
 cousin on this good fortune which had happened to the duke, Rosalind's father, and 
 
 183 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 wished her joy very sincerely, though she herself was no longer heir to the dukedom, 
 but by this restoration which her father had made, Rosalind was now the heir: so 
 completely was the love of these two cousins unmixed with anything of jealousy or 
 envy. 
 
 The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true friends who had 
 stayed with him in his banishment; and these worthy followers, though they had 
 patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to return in peace and 
 prosperity to the palace of their lawful duke. 
 
 
 
 183 
 
As Y 
 
 ou 
 
 L 
 
 IKE 
 
 T, 
 
 DBAMATIS PERSON^S. 
 
 DtjkEj living in exile. 
 
 Frederick, irother to the Dulce, and 
 
 Usurper of Ms dominions. 
 Amiens, [ Lords attending upon the Duke 
 Jaques, [ in his hanishment. 
 
 Le Beau, a Courtier attending upon Fred- 
 
 crich. 
 Charles, his Wrestler. 
 Oliver, 
 
 Jaques, \ Sons of Sir Eoivlatid de Bois. 
 Orlaistdo, 
 Adam, ) 
 
 DeK2\"IS, f 
 
 ToucHSTOKE, a Clown. 
 
 Servants to Oliver. 
 
 Sir Oliver Mar-text, a Vicar. 
 
 r, ' r Shepherds. 
 
 Sylvius, ) ^ 
 
 William, a country Fellow in love 2oith 
 
 Audrey. 
 
 A Person representing Hymen. 
 
 EosALiND, Daughter to the banished Duke. 
 Celia, Daughter to Frederick. 
 Phebe, a Shepherdess. 
 Audrey, a country Girl. 
 
 Lords helonging to the two Dukes; Pages, 
 Foresters, and other Attendants. 
 
 SCENE — Lies, first, n^ear Oliver's House; afterwards, partly in" the 
 Usurper's Court, aj^d partly ix the Forest of Arden. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. An Orchard, near Olivers 
 House. 
 
 Enter Orlando and Adam. 
 
 Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was 
 upon this fashion bequeath'd me: By will, 
 but a poor thousand crowns; and, as thou 
 say'st, charged my brother, on his bless- 
 ing, to breed me well: and there begins 
 my sadness. ]\[y brother Jaques he keeps 
 at school, and report speaks goldenly of 
 his profit: for my part, he keejjs me rus- 
 tically at home, or, to sjjeak more prop- 
 erly, stays me here at home unkept: For 
 call you that keeping for a gentleman of 
 my birth that differs not from the stalling 
 of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, 
 besides that they are fair with their feeding 
 they are taught their manage, and to that 
 
 end riders dearly hired: but I, his brother, 
 gain nothing under him but growth; for 
 the which his animals on his dunghills 
 are as much bound to him as I. Besides 
 this nothing that he so plentifully gives 
 me, the something that nature gave me, 
 his countenance seems to take from me: 
 he lets me feed from his hinds, bars me 
 the place of a brother, and, as much as in 
 him lies, mines my gentility with my edu- 
 cation. This is it, Adam, that grieves 
 me; and the spirit of my father, which I 
 think is within me, begins to mutiny 
 against this servitude: I will no longer 
 endure it, though yet I know no wise 
 remedy how to avoid it. 
 
 Enter Oliver. 
 Adam. Yonder comes my master, your 
 brother. 
 
 184 
 
Act I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene T. 
 
 Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt 
 hear how he will shake me up. 
 
 OU. TSFow, sir, what make you here? 
 
 Orl. Nothing: I am not taught to 
 make anything, 
 
 OU. What mar you then, sir? 
 
 Orl. Marry, sir, I am helping you to 
 mar that which God made, a poor un- 
 worthy brother of yours, with idleness, 
 
 OU. Marry, sir, be better employ'd, 
 and be naught awhile. 
 
 Orl. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat 
 husks with them ? What prod igal portion 
 have I spent, that I shall come to such 
 penury? 
 
 OU. Know you where you are, sir? 
 
 Orl. 0, sir, very well: here in your 
 orchard. 
 
 OU. Know you before whom, sir? 
 
 Orl. Ay, better than he I am before 
 knows me. I know, you are my eldest 
 brother; and, in the gentle condition of 
 blood, you should so know me. The cour- 
 tesy of nations allows you my better, in 
 that you are the first-born; but the same 
 tradition takes not away my blood, were 
 there twenty brothers betwixt us: I have 
 as much of my father in me, as you; 
 albeit, I confess, your coming before me is 
 nearer to his reverence, 
 
 OU. What, boy! 
 
 Orl. Come, come, elder brother, you 
 are too young in this. 
 
 on. Wilt thou lay hands on me, 
 Tillain ? 
 
 'Orl. I am no villain: I am the young- 
 est son of Sir Rowland de Bois; he was 
 my father, and he is thrice a villain, that 
 says such a father begot villains: Wert 
 thou not my brother, I would not take 
 this hand from thy throat, till this other 
 had pulled out thy tongue for saying so ; 
 thou hast railed thyself. 
 
 Adam. Sweet masters, be patient; for 
 jour father's remembrance, be at accord. 
 
 OU. Let me go I say. 
 
 Orl. I will not, till I please: you shall 
 hear me. My father charged you in his 
 will to give me good education: you 
 have trained me like a peasant, obscuring 
 and hiding from me all gentleman-like 
 qualities: the spirit of my father grows 
 strong in me, and Iwill no longer endure it; 
 therefore allow me such exercises as may 
 become a gentleman, or give me the poor 
 allottery my father left me by testament; 
 with 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 jiray 
 you, leave me. 
 
 Orl. I will no further offend j'ou than 
 becomes me for my good. 
 
 OU. Get you with him, you old dog. 
 
 Adam. Is old dog my reward? most 
 true, I have lost my teeth in your ser- 
 vice. — God be with my old master! he 
 would not have spoke such a word. 
 
 [^Exeunt Orlando and Adam. 
 
 on. Is it even so ? begin you to grow 
 upon me? I will physic your rankness, 
 and yet give no thousand crowns neither. 
 Hola, Dennis! 
 
 Enter Dennis. 
 
 Den. Calls your worship? 
 
 Oli. Was not Charles, the duke's 
 wrestler, here, to speak with me? 
 
 De7i. So please you, he is here at the 
 door, and importunes access to you. 
 
 OU. Call him in. \^Exit Dermis. 
 
 T'will be a good way; and to-morrow the 
 wrestling is. 
 
 Enter Charles. 
 
 Cha. Good morrow to your worship. 
 
 Oli. Good monsieur Charles ! — what's 
 the new news at the new court? 
 
 Cha. There's no news at the court, 'sir, 
 but the old news: that is, the old duke is 
 banished by his younger brother the new 
 duke; and three or four loving lords have 
 put themselves into voluntary exile "with 
 
 185 
 
Act I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Inm, whose lands and revenues enrich the 
 new duke; therefore he gives them good 
 leave to wander. 
 
 on. Can you tell, if Rosalind, the 
 duke's daughter, be banished with her 
 father? 
 
 Cha. 0, no; for the duke's daughter, 
 her cousin, so loves her,^ being ever from 
 their cradles bred together, — 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 live? 
 
 Cha. They say he is already in the 
 forest of Arden, and a many merry men 
 with him; and there they live like the old 
 Eobin 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. 
 
 Oh. What, you wrestle to-morrow 
 before the new duke? 
 
 Cha. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to 
 acquaint you with a matter. I am given, 
 sir, secretly to understand, that your 
 younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposi- 
 tion to come in disguis'd against me to 
 try a fall: To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for 
 my credit; and he that escapes me with- 
 out 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 
 honor, if he come in: thereforej out of 
 mv love to you, I came hither to acquaint 
 you withal; that either you might stay 
 him from his intendment, or brook such 
 disgrace well as he shall ran jnto, in that 
 it is a thing of his own search, and alto- 
 gether against my will. 
 
 OH. Charles, I thank thee for thy love 
 to me, which thou shalt find I will most 
 kindly requite. I had myself notice of 
 my brother's purpose herein, and have by 
 underhand means labored to dissuade 
 
 him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell 
 thee, Charles, — it is the stubbornest young 
 fellow of France; full of ambition, an 
 envious emulator of every man's good 
 parts, a secret and villainous contriver 
 against me his natural brother; therefore, 
 use thy discretion; I had as lief thou 
 didst break his neck as his finger: And 
 thou wert best look to't; for if thou dost 
 him any slight disgrace, or if he do not 
 mightily grace himself on thee, he will 
 practice against thee by poison, entrap thee 
 by some treacherous device, and never 
 leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by 
 some indirect means or other; for, L 
 assure thee, and almost with tears I speak 
 it, there is not one so young and so villain- 
 ous this day living, I speak but brotherly 
 of him; but should I anatomize him to 
 thee as he is, I mttst 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 his payment: If ever he go alone 
 again, I'll never wrestle for prize more: 
 and so, heaven keep your worship I 
 
 [FxiL 
 
 OIL Farewell, good Charles. — Now- 
 will I stir this gamester: I hope I shall see 
 an end of him; for my soul, yet I know 
 not why, hates nothing more than he. 
 Yet he is gentle; never school "d, and yet- 
 learned; full of noble device; of all sorts 
 enchantingly beloved; and, indeed, so 
 much in the heart of the world, and es- 
 pecially of my own people, who best know" 
 him, that I am altogether misprised: but 
 it shall not be so long; this wrestler shall 
 clear all: nothing remains, but that I 
 kindle the boy thither, which now I'll go 
 about. [Exit. 
 
 ScEXE II. A Lawn before the Duke's 
 palace. 
 E7ite7- RosALiKD a7id Celia. 
 Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my 
 coz, be merry. 
 
 186 
 
Act I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Ros. Dear Celia^ I show more mirth 
 than I am mistress of: and would you yet 
 I were merrier? Unless you could teach' 
 me to forget a banished father, you must 
 not learn me how to remember any extra- 
 ordinary pleasure. 
 
 Cel. Herein, I see, thou lovest me not 
 with the full weight that I love thee : if 
 my uncle, thy banished father, had ban- 
 ished thy uncle, the duke my father, so 
 thou hadst been still with me, I could 
 have taught my love to take thy father for 
 mine ; so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy 
 love to me were so righteously tempered as 
 mine is to thee. 
 
 Ros. Well, I will forget the condition 
 of my estate, to rejoice in yours. 
 
 Cel. You know, my father hath no 
 child but I, nor none is like to have; and, 
 truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his heir: 
 for what he hath taken away from thy 
 father perforce, I will render thee again in 
 affection ; by mine honor, I will ; and 
 when I break that oath, let me turn mon- 
 ster : therefore, my sweet Rose> my dear 
 Rose, be merry. 
 
 Ros. From henceforth I will, coz, and 
 devise sports ; let me see ; What think you 
 of falling in love ? 
 
 Cel. Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make 
 sport withal : but love no man in good 
 earnest; nor no further in sport neither, 
 than with safety of a pure blush thou 
 may'st in honor come off again. 
 
 'R.os. What shall be our sport then ? 
 
 Cel. Let us sit and mock the good 
 housewife. Fortune, from her wheel, that 
 her gifts may henceforth be bestowed 
 equally. 
 
 Ros. I would, we could do so : for her 
 benefits are mightily misplaced : and the 
 bountiful blind woman doth most mistake 
 in her gifts to women. 
 
 Cel. 'Tis true : for those, that she 
 makes fair, she scarce makes honest ; and 
 those, that she makes honest, she makes 
 very ill-fa vor'dly. 
 
 Ros. Nay, now thou goest from for- 
 tune's office to nature's : fortune reigns in 
 gifts of the world, not in the lineaments 
 of nature. 
 
 Enter Touchstone. 
 
 Cel. No ? When nature hath made a 
 fair creature, may she not by fortune fall 
 into the fire ? — Though nature hath given 
 us wit to flout at fortune, hath not fortune 
 sent in this fool to cut off the argument? 
 
 Ros. Indeed, there is fortune too hard 
 for nature ; when fortune makes nature's 
 natural the cutter off of nature's wit. 
 
 Cel. Peradventure, this is not fortune's 
 work neither, but nature's: who perceiving 
 our natural wits too dull to reason of such 
 goddesses, hath sent this natural for our 
 whetstone : for always the dullness of the 
 fool is the whetstone of his wits. — How 
 now, wit ? whither wander you ? 
 
 Touch. Mistress, you must come away 
 to your father. 
 
 Cel. Were you made the messenger ? 
 
 Touch. No, by mine honor; but I was 
 bid to come for you. 
 
 Ros. Where learned you that oath, 
 fool? 
 
 Totcch. Of a certain knight, that swore 
 by his honor they were good pancakes, 
 and swore by his honor the mustard was 
 naught : now, I'll stand to it, the pancakes 
 were naught and the mustard was good ; 
 and yet was not the knight forsworn. 
 
 Cel. How prove you that, in the great 
 heap of your knowledge ? 
 
 Ros. Ay, marry; now unmuzzle your 
 wisdom. 
 
 Touch. Stand you both forth now : 
 stroke your chins, and swear by your 
 beards that I am a knave. 
 
 Cel. By our beards, if we had them, 
 thou art. 
 
 Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, 
 then I were : but if you swear by that 
 that is not, you are not forsworn: no more 
 was this knight, swearing by his honor. 
 
 187 
 
Act I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 for he never had any; or if he had, he had 
 sworn it away, before ever he saw those 
 pancakes or that mustard. 
 
 Cel. Pr'ythee, who is't . that thou 
 means't? 
 
 Touch. One that old Frederick, your 
 father loves. 
 
 Cel. My father's love is enough to hon- 
 or him. Enough! speak no more of him; 
 you'll be whipp'd for taxation, one of 
 these days. 
 
 Touch. The more pity, that fools may 
 not speak wisely, what wise men do fool- 
 ishly. 
 
 Cel. By my troth, thou say'st true; for 
 since the little wit, that fools have, was 
 silenced, the little foolery, that wise men 
 have, makes a great show. Here comes 
 monsieur Le Beau. 
 
 Enter Le Beau. 
 
 Ros. With his mouth full of news. 
 
 Cel. Which he will put on us, as pig- 
 eons feed their young. 
 
 Ros. Then shall we be news-cramm'd. 
 
 Cel. All the better; w^e shall be the 
 more marketable. Bon jour, monsieur 
 Le Beau: What's the news? 
 
 Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost 
 much good sport. 
 
 Cel. Sport? Of what color? 
 
 Le Beau. What color, madam? How 
 shall I answer j'ou? 
 
 ^05. As wit and fortune will. 
 
 Touch. Or as the destinies decree. 
 
 Cel. Well said ; that was laid on with a 
 trowel. 
 
 Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies ; I 
 would have told you of good wrestling, 
 which you have lost the sight of. 
 
 Ros. Yet tell us the maniicr of the 
 wrestling. 
 
 Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning, 
 and, if it please your ladyships, you may 
 see the end; for the best is yet to do ; and 
 here, where you are, they are coming to 
 perform it. 
 
 Cel. Well, — the beginning, that ia 
 dead and buried. 
 
 Le Beau. There comes an old man, 
 and his three sons, 
 
 Cel. I could match this beginning with 
 an old tale. 
 
 Le Beau. Three proper young men, of 
 excellent growth and presence ; 
 
 Ros. With bills on their necks, — Be it 
 known unto all men ly tliese presents, 
 
 Le Beau. The eldest of the three 
 wrestled with Charles, the duke's wrestler; 
 which Charles in a moment threw him, 
 and broke three of his ribs, that there is 
 little hope of life in him : so he served the 
 second, and so the third: Yonder they 
 lie ; the poor old man, their father, mak- 
 ing such pitiful dole over them, that all 
 the beholders take his part with weeping. 
 
 Ros. Alas ! 
 
 Touch. But what is the sport, monsi- 
 eur, that the ladies have lost. 
 
 Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. 
 
 Touch. Thus men may grow wiser 
 every day! it is the first time that I ever 
 heard, breaking of ribs was sport for 
 ladies. 
 
 Cel. Or I, I promise thee. 
 
 Ros. But is there any else longs to see 
 this broken music in his sides ? is there 
 yet another dotes upon rib-breaking?^— 
 Shall we see this wrestling, cousin? 
 
 Le Beau. You must, if you stay here: 
 for here is the place appointed for the 
 wrestling, and they are ready to perform 
 it. 
 
 Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming: 
 Let us now stay and see it. 
 
 Flourish. Enter Dvk'e'Frbb-eb.ick, Lords, 
 Orlaxdo, Charles, a)id Attetidants. 
 
 Duke F. Come on ; since the youth 
 will not be entreated, his own peril on his 
 forwardness. 
 
 Ros. Is yonder the man? 
 
 Le Beau. Even he, madam. 
 
 188 
 
Act I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Cel. Alas, he is too young: yet he 
 looks successfully. 
 
 Duke F. How now, daughter, and 
 cousin ? are you crept hither to see the 
 wrestling. 
 
 Ros. Ay, my liege ! so please you give 
 us leave. 
 
 Dulce F. You will take little delight 
 in it, I can tell you, there is such odds in 
 the men: In pity of the challenger's 
 youth, I would fain dissuade him, but he 
 will not be entreated: Speak to him, 
 ladies; see if you can move him. 
 
 Cel. Call him hither, good monsieur 
 Le Beau. 
 
 Duhe F. Do so : I'll not be by. 
 
 [Duke ^oes apart. 
 
 Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the 
 princesses call for you. 
 
 Orl. I attend them, with all respect 
 and duty. 
 
 Ros. Young man, have you challenged 
 Charles the wrestler? 
 
 Orl. No, fair princess ; he is the gen- 
 eral challenger: I come but in, as others 
 do, to try with him the strength of my 
 youth. 
 
 Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits 
 are too bold for your years: You have 
 seen cruel proof of this man's strength; if 
 you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew 
 yourself with your judgment, the fear of 
 your adventure would counsel you to a 
 more equal enterprise. We pray you, for 
 your own sake, to embraceyour own safety, 
 and give over this attempt. 
 
 Ros. Do, young sir ; your reputation 
 shall not therefore be misprised: we will 
 make it our suit to the duke, that the 
 wrestling might not go forward. 
 
 Orl. I beseech you, punish me not 
 with your hard thoughts; wherein I con- 
 fess 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, fori 
 have none to lament me; the world no in- 
 jury: for in it I have nothing; only in the 
 world I fill up a j^lace, which may be 
 better supplied when I have made it 
 empty. 
 
 Ros. The little strength that I have, I 
 would 4t were with you. 
 
 Cel. And mine, to eke out hers. 
 
 Ros. Fare you well. Pray heaven, I 
 bo deceived in you ! 
 
 Cel. Your heart's desires be with you. 
 
 Cha. Come, where is this young gal- 
 lant, that is so desirous to lie with his 
 mother earth? 
 
 Orl. Eeady, sir. 
 
 DuTce F. You shall try but one fall. 
 
 Clia. No, I warrant your grace ; you 
 shall not entreat him to a second, that 
 have so mightily persuaded him from a 
 first. 
 
 Orl. You mean to mock me after; you 
 should not have mocked me before : but 
 come your ways. 
 
 Ros. Now, Hercules be Ihy speed, 
 young man ! 
 
 Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch 
 the strong fellow' by the leg. 
 
 \Cliarles and Orlando ivrestle. 
 
 Ros. excellent young men ! 
 
 Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine 
 eye, I can tell who should down. 
 
 [Charles is tliroion. Shout. 
 
 Dulce F. No more, no more. 
 
 Orl, Yes, I beseech your grace; I am 
 not yet well breathed. 
 
 Duke F. How dost thou, Charles? 
 
 Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord. 
 
 Duke F. Boar him away. 
 
 [Charles is home out. 
 What is tiiy name, young man? 
 
 Orl. Orlando, my liege; the youngest 
 son of sir Rowland dc Bois. 
 
 Duke F. I would thou hadst been son 
 to some man else. 
 
 189 
 
Act 1. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 The world esteem'd thy father honor- 
 able, 
 
 But I did find him still mine enemy: 
 
 Thou shonldst have better pleas'd me with 
 this deed, 
 
 Hadst thou descended from another 
 house. 
 
 But fare thee well; thou art a gallant 
 youth : 
 
 I would thou hadst told me of another 
 father. 
 [Bxetaif Duke Fred., Train, and 
 Le Beau. 
 Cel. Were 1 my father, coz, would I 
 
 do this? 
 Orl. I am more proud to be sir Eow- 
 land's son, 
 
 His youngest son ; — and Avould not change 
 that calling. 
 
 To be adopted heir to Frederick. 
 
 Ros. My father lov'd sir Rowland as 
 his soul. 
 
 And all the world was of my father's mind: 
 
 Had I before known this young man his 
 son, 
 
 I should have given him tears unto en- 
 treaties, 
 
 Hre he should thus have ventur'd. 
 
 Cel. Gentle cousin, 
 
 Xiet us go thank him, and encourage him: 
 
 My father's rough and envious disposition 
 
 Sticks me at heart. — Sir, you have well 
 deserv'd: 
 
 If you do keep your promises in love. 
 
 But justly, as you have exceeded pro- 
 mise. 
 
 Tour mistress shall be happy. 
 
 Ros. Gentleman, 
 
 \_Give him a chain from her neck. 
 
 Wear this for me ; one out of suits with 
 fortune : 
 
 That could give more, but that her hand 
 lacks means. — 
 
 Shall we go, ooz ? 
 
 Orl. Can I not say, I thank you ? My 
 better parts 
 Are all thrown down; andthat which here 
 
 stands ujj. 
 Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. 
 Ros. He calls us back: My pride fell 
 with my fortunes: 
 I'll ask him what he would: — Did you 
 
 call, sir ? — 
 Sir you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
 3Iore than your enemies. 
 
 Cel. Will you go, coz? 
 
 Ros. Have with you : — Fare you M'ell. 
 [JExennt Rosaliyid and Celia. 
 Orl. What passion hangs these weights 
 upon my tongue? 
 I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd con- 
 ference. 
 
 Re-enter Le Beau. 
 
 0, poor Orlando ! thou art overthrown ; 
 
 Or Charles, or something weaker, masters 
 thee. 
 Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship 
 counsel you 
 
 To leave this place : Albeit you have 
 deserv'd 
 
 High commendation, true ajjplause, and 
 love ; 
 
 Yet such is now the duke's condition, 
 
 That he misconstrues all that you have 
 done; 
 
 The duke is humorous ; what he is, in- 
 deed, 
 
 More suits you to conceive, than me to 
 speak of. 
 Orl. I thank you, sir : and pray you, 
 tell me this ; 
 
 Which of the two was daughter of the 
 duke, 
 
 That here was at the wrestling ? 
 
 Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we 
 judge by manners ; 
 
 But yet, indeed, the shorter is liis daugh- 
 ter : 
 
 Cel. Ay: — Fare you well, fair gentle- ' The other is daughter to the banish'd 
 man. i duke, 
 
 190 
 
Act I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Mnd here detained by her usurping uncle. 
 To keep his daughter company; whose 
 
 loves 
 .Are dearer than the natural bond of sis- 
 ters. 
 But I can tell you, that of late this duke 
 Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle 
 
 niece ; 
 Grounded upon no other argument, 
 But that the people praise her for her vir- 
 tues, 
 A.nd pity her for her good father's sake : 
 And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the 
 
 lady 
 Will suddenly break forth. — Sir, fare you 
 
 u'ell ; 
 Jlereafter, in a better world than this, 
 I shall desire more love and knowledge of 
 you. 
 Orl. I rest much bounden to you : 
 fare you well ! 
 
 [Exii Le Beav. 
 Thus must I from the smoke into the 
 
 smother ; 
 From tyrant duke, unto a tyrant bro- 
 ther : — 
 But heavenly Eosalind ! \^Exit. 
 
 Scene III. A Koom in the Palace. 
 Enter Celia and Rosalind. 
 
 Cel. Why, cousin ; why, Rosalind ; — 
 Cupid have mercy ! — Not a word ? 
 
 Ros. Not one to throw at a dog. 
 
 Cel. No, thy words are too precious to 
 be cast away upon curs, throw some of 
 them at me ; come, lame me with reasons. 
 
 Ros. Then there M^ere two cousins laid 
 up ; when the one should be lamed with 
 reasons, and the other mad without any. 
 
 Cel. But is all this for your father ? 
 
 Ros. No, some of it for my father's 
 child : 0, how full of briars is this work- 
 ing-day world ! 
 
 Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown 
 upon thee in holiday foolery ; if Ave walk 
 not in the trodden paths, our very petti- 
 coats will catch them. 
 
 Ros. I could shake them off my coat ; 
 these burs are in my heart. 
 
 Cel. Hem them away. 
 
 Ros. I would try ; if I could cry hem, 
 and have him. 
 
 Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy 
 affections. 
 
 Ros. 0, they take the part of a better 
 wrestler than myself. 
 
 Cel. 0, a good wish upon you I — But, 
 turning these jests out of service, let us 
 talk in good earnest : Is it possible, on 
 such a sudden, you should fall into so 
 strong a liking with old sir Rowland's 
 youngest son ? 
 
 Ros. The duke my father, lov'd his 
 father dearly. 
 
 Cel. Doth it therefore ensue, that you 
 should love his son dearly ? By this kind 
 of chase, I should hate him, for my father 
 hated his father dearly ; yet I hate not 
 Orlando. 
 
 Ros. No ; hate him not, for my sake. 
 
 Cel. Why should I not ? doth he not 
 deserve well ? 
 
 Ros. Let me love him for that ; and 
 do you love him, because I do : — Look, 
 here comes the duke. 
 
 Cel. With his eyes full of anger. 
 
 Eriter Duke Frederick, ?(•//// Lords. 
 
 Duke F. Mistress, despatch you with 
 your safest haste, 
 And get you from our court. 
 
 Ros. Me, uncle ? 
 
 Duke F. You, cousin ; 
 
 Within these ten days if that thou be'st 
 
 found 
 So near our public court as twenty miles, 
 Thou diest for it. 
 
 Ros. I do beseech your grace, 
 
 Let me the knowledge of my fault bear 
 
 with me : 
 If with myself I hold intelligence, 
 Or have acquaintance with mine own 
 desires ; 
 
 191 
 
Act I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 ScEJfE III. 
 
 If that I do not dream, or be not frantic, 
 (As I do trust lam not,) then, dear uncle, 
 Never, so much as in a thought unborn. 
 Did I offend your liighness. 
 
 Duke F. Thus do all traitors; 
 
 If their purgation did consist in words, 
 Thev are as innocent as grace itself ; — 
 Let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not. 
 Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make 
 
 me a traitor : 
 Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. 
 Duke F. Thou art thy father's daugh- 
 ter, there's enough. 
 Ros. So was I, when your highness 
 
 took his dukedom ; 
 So was I when your highness banish'd 
 
 him : 
 Treason is not inherited my lord ; 
 Or, if we did derive it from our friends. 
 What's that to me ? my father was no 
 
 traitor : 
 Then, good my liege, mistake me not so 
 
 much. 
 To think my poverty is treacherous. 
 Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. 
 Duke F. Ay, Celia ; we stay'd her for 
 
 your sake. 
 Else had she with her father rang'd along. 
 Cel. I did not then entreat to have her 
 
 stay. 
 It was your pleasure, and your own re- 
 morse : 
 I was too young that time to value her. 
 But now I know her ; if she be a traitor. 
 Why so am I ; we still have slept together, 
 Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat 
 
 together ; 
 And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's 
 
 swans. 
 Still we went coupled, and inseparable. 
 Duke F. She is too subtle for thee '; 
 
 and her smoothness. 
 Her very silence, and her patience. 
 Speak to the people, and they pity her. 
 Thou art a fool : she robs thee of thy 
 
 name ; 
 
 And thou wilt show more bright, and 
 
 seem more virtuous. 
 When she is gone : then open not thy lips ; 
 Firm and irrevocable is my doom 
 Which I have pass'd upon her ; she is 
 
 banish'd. 
 Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on 
 
 me, my liege ; 
 1 cannot live out of her company. 
 
 Duke F. You are a fool : — You, niece,. 
 
 provide yourself ; 
 If you out-stay the time, upon mine 
 
 honor. 
 And in the greatness of my word, you die. 
 
 \Exeu,nt Duke Frederick and Lords. 
 
 Cel. my poor Rosalind ! whither wilt 
 thou go ? 
 Wilt thou change fathers .'' I will give thee 
 
 mine. 
 I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd 
 than I am. 
 Ros. I have more cause. 
 Cel. Thou hast not, cousin ; 
 
 Pr'ythee, be cheerful : know'st thou not, 
 
 the duke 
 Hath banish'd me his daughter? 
 
 Ros. That he hath not. 
 
 Cel. No? hath not? Rosalind lacks 
 then the love 
 Which teaeheth thee that thou and I am 
 
 one : 
 Shall we be sunder'd ? shall we part, sweet 
 
 girl? 
 No ; let my father seek another heir. 
 Therefore devise Avith me, how \ve may 
 
 fly, 
 
 Whither to go, and what to bear with us : 
 And do not seek to take your change upon 
 
 you, 
 To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me 
 
 out ; 
 For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows 
 
 pale. 
 Say what thou canst, I'll go along with 
 
 thee. 
 Ros. Why, whither shall we go? 
 
 19:: 
 
Act I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Cel. To seek my uncle in the Forest of 
 
 Arden, 
 Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us, 
 Maids as we are, to travel forth so far ? 
 Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than 
 
 gold. 
 Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean 
 
 attire, 
 And with a kind of umber smirch my face; 
 The like do you ; so shall we pass along. 
 And never stir assailants. 
 
 Ros, Were it not better. 
 
 Because that I am more than common 
 
 tall, 
 That I did suit me all points like a man ? 
 A gallant curtle-ax i;pon my thigh, 
 A boar spear in my hand ; and (in my 
 
 heart 
 Lie there what hidden woman's fear there 
 
 will,) 
 We'll have a swashing and a martial out- 
 side ; 
 As many other mannish cowards have, 
 That do outface it with their semblances. 
 
 Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou 
 
 art a man ? 
 Ros. I'll have no worse a name than 
 Jove's own page, 
 And therefore look you call me, Gany- 
 mede. 
 But what Avill you be call'd ? 
 
 Cel. Something that hath a reference 
 to my state ; 
 No longer Celia, but Aliena. 
 
 Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay'd 
 to steal 
 The clownish fool out of your father's 
 
 court ? 
 Would he not be a comfort to our travel ? 
 Gel. He'll go along o'er the wide world 
 with me ; 
 Leave me alone to woo him : Let's away. 
 And get our jewels and our wealth to- 
 gether ; 
 Devise the fittest time, and safest way 
 To hide us from pursuit that will be made 
 After my flight : Now go. we in content. 
 To liberty, and not to banishment. 
 
 {^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 Scene I. The Forest of Arden. 
 Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and other 
 Lords 171 the dress of Foresters. 
 Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and 
 
 brothers in exile, 
 Hath not old custom made this life more 
 
 sweet 
 Than that of painted pomp ? Are not 
 
 these woods 
 More free from peril than the envious 
 
 court ? 
 Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, 
 The seasons' difference ; as, the icy fang, 
 And churlish chidhig of the winter's wind; 
 Which when it bites and blows upon my 
 
 body. 
 Even till 1 shrink with cold, I smile, and 
 
 say, — 
 This is no flatterv 
 
 these are counselors 
 
 That feelingly persuade me what I am. 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity ; 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous. 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; 
 And this our life, exempt from public 
 
 haunt. 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the run- 
 ning brooks. 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everv- 
 
 thing. 
 Aini. I would not change it : Happy is 
 
 your grace. 
 That can translate the stubbornness of 
 
 fortune 
 Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 
 
 Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill 
 
 us venison ? 
 And yet it irks me, the poor dappled 
 
 fools, — 
 
 193 
 
Act II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Being native burghers of this desert 
 
 city,— 
 Should in their own confines, with forked 
 
 heads 
 
 Have their round haunches gor'd. 
 
 1 Lord. Indeed, my lord, 
 
 The melancholy Jaques grieves at that ; 
 And, in that kind, swears you do more 
 usurp 
 
 Than doth your brother that hath ban- 
 
 ish'd you. 
 To-day, my lord of Amiens, and myself, 
 Did steal behind him, as he lay along 
 
 Under an oak, whose antique root peeps 
 
 out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this 
 
 M'ood : 
 
 194 
 
Act II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 To the which place a poor sequester'd 
 
 stag, 
 That from the liunter's aim had ta'en a 
 
 hurt, 
 Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my 
 
 lord, 
 The wretched animal heav'd forth such 
 
 groans. 
 That their discharge did stretch his leath- 
 ern coat 
 Almost to bursting : and the big round 
 
 tears 
 Cours'd one another down his innocent 
 
 nose 
 In piteous chase : and thus the hairy fool. 
 Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 
 Stood on the extremest verge of the swift 
 
 brook, 
 Augmenting it with tears. 
 
 DuJce S. But what said Jaques ? 
 
 Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 
 
 1 Lord. 0, yes, intoathousandsimiles. 
 First, for his weeping in the needless 
 
 stream; 
 Poor deer, quoth he, tho^^ mak'st a testa- 
 ment 
 As loorldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
 To that luhich had too much : Then, being 
 
 alone. 
 Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends; 
 'Tis right, quoth he; thus misery doth 
 
 part 
 Tlie flux of company : Anon, a careless 
 
 herd. 
 Full of the pasture, jumps along by him. 
 And never stays to greet him ; Ay, quoth 
 
 Jaques, 
 Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens j 
 'Tisjnst the fashion : Wherefore do you look 
 Upon that poor and hrohen lankrupit there? 
 Thus most invectively hei^ierceth through 
 The body of the country, city, court. 
 Yea, and of this our life : swearing, that 
 
 we 
 Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's 
 
 worse 
 To fright the animals, and to kill them up, 
 
 In their assign'd and native dwelling- 
 place . 
 Duke S. And did you leave him in tliis 
 
 contemplation ? 
 2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping 
 and commenting 
 Upon the sobbing deer. 
 
 Diike S. Show me the place ; 
 
 I love to cope him in these sullen fits. 
 For then he's full of matter. 
 
 2 Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Eoom in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Duke Feederick, Lords, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 Duke F. Can it be possible, that no 
 man saw them ? 
 It cannot be: some villains of my court 
 Are of consent and sufferance in this. 
 
 1 Lord. I cannot hear of any that did 
 
 see her. 
 The ladies, her attendants of her chamber. 
 Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early. 
 They found the bed untreasur'd of their 
 
 mistress. 
 
 2 Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at 
 
 whom so oft 
 Your grace was wont to laugh, is also miss- 
 ing. 
 Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman. 
 Confesses, that she secretly o'erheard 
 Your daughter and her cousin much com- 
 mend 
 The parts and graces of the wrestler 
 That didbut lately foil the sinewy Charles; 
 And she believes, wherever they are gone. 
 That youth is* surely in their company. 
 Duke F. Send to his brother; fetch 
 that gallant hither ; 
 If he be absent, bring his brother to me, 
 I'll make him find him: do this suddenly; 
 And let not search and inquisition quail 
 To bring again these foolish runaways. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 195 
 
Act II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Scene III. — Before Oliver's House. 
 Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting. 
 
 Orl. Who's there? 
 
 Adant. What! my young master? — 0, 
 
 my gentle master, 
 O, my sTreet master, you memory 
 Of old sir Eowland! why, what make you 
 
 here? 
 "Why are you virtuous? Why do people 
 
 love you? 
 And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and 
 
 valiant? 
 Why should you be so fond to overcome 
 The bony prizer of the humorous duke? 
 Your praise is come too swiftlyhome before 
 
 you. 
 Know you not, master, to some kind of 
 
 men 
 Their graces serve them but as enemies? 
 No more do yours; your virtues, gentle 
 
 master, 
 Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. 
 0, what a world is this, when what is 
 
 comely 
 Envenoms him that bears it? 
 Orl. Why, what's the matter? 
 Adam. unhappy youth. 
 
 Come not within these doors; within this 
 
 roof 
 The enemy of all your graces lives: 
 Your brother — (no, no brother; yet the 
 
 son — 
 Yet not the son; — I will not call him 
 
 son — 
 Of him I was about to call his father), — 
 Hath heard your praises; and this night 
 
 he means 
 To burn the lodgings where vou use to lie. 
 And you within it: if he fail of that, 
 He will have other means to cut you off: 
 I overheard him, and his practices. 
 This is no place, this house is but a butch- 
 ery 
 Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 
 
 Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst 
 
 thou have me s^o? 
 
 Adam. No matter whither, so you come 
 
 not here. 
 Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go 
 and beg my food? 
 Or, with a base and boisterous sword, en- 
 force 
 A thievish living on the conim.on road? 
 This I must do, or know not what to do: 
 Yet this I will not do, do how I can; 
 I rather will subject me to the malice 
 Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother. 
 Adam. But do not so: I have five 
 hundred crowns 
 The thrifty hire I sav'd under your fatlier. 
 Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse, 
 Wljen service should in my old limbs lie 
 
 lame, 
 And unregarded age in corners thrown: 
 Take that: and He that doth the ravens 
 
 feed. 
 Yea, providently caters for the sparrow. 
 Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold; 
 All this I give you: Let me be your serv- 
 ant; 
 Though I look old, yet I am strong and 
 
 lusty: 
 For in my youth I never did apjily 
 Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; 
 Therefore my age is as a lusty winter. 
 Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you; 
 I'll do the service of a younger man 
 In all your business and necessities. 
 Orl. good old man; how -well in 
 thee appears 
 The constant service of the antique world. 
 When service sweat for duty, not for 
 
 meed! 
 Thou artnotforthefashion of these times. 
 When none will sweat, but for promotion; 
 And having that, do choke their service up 
 Even with the having: it is not so with 
 
 thee. 
 But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten 
 
 tree, 
 That canuot so much as a blossom yield, 
 In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry: 
 
 190 
 
Act II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 But come thy ways, we'll go along to- 
 gether; 
 
 And ere we have thy youthful wages 
 spent, 
 
 We'll light upon some settled low content. 
 Adam. Master, goon; and I will follow 
 thee, 
 
 To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty, — 
 
 From seventeen years till now almost four 
 score 
 
 Here lived I, but now live here no more. 
 
 At seventeen years many their fortunes 
 seek; 
 
 But at fourscore, it is too late a week: 
 
 Yet fortune cannot recompense me better. 
 
 Than to die well, and not my master's 
 debtor. \_Exeiait. 
 
 Scene IV. The Forest of Arden. 
 
 Enter Rosalind in Boy's clothes, Celia 
 drest like a Shepherdess, and Touch- 
 stone. 
 
 Ros. Jupiter! how weary are my 
 spirits ! 
 
 Touch. 1 care not for my spirits, if my 
 legs were not weary. 
 
 Eos. 1 could find in my heart to dis- 
 grace my man's apparel, and to cry like a 
 woman: hut I must comfort the weaker 
 vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show 
 itself courageous to petticoat: therefore, 
 courage, good Aliena. 
 
 Cel. I pray you, bear with me; I can 
 go no further. 
 
 Touch. For my part, I had rather bear 
 with you, than bear you: yet I should bear 
 no cross, if I did bear you: for, I think, 
 you have no money in your purse. 
 
 Eos. Well, this is the forest of Arden. 
 
 Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden: tlie 
 more fool I; when I was at home, I was in 
 a better place; but travelers must be con- 
 tent. 
 
 Eos. Ay, be so, good Touchstone: — 
 Look you, who comes here; a young man 
 and an old, in solemn talk. 
 
 Enter Gorin and Silvius. 
 
 Cor. That is the way to make her scorn 
 
 you still. 
 Sil. Corin, that thou knew'st how 
 I do love her ! 
 Cor. I partly guess; for I have lov'd 
 ere now. 
 Sil. No, Corin, being old thou canst 
 not guess; 
 Though in thy youth thou wast as true a 
 
 lover 
 As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow: 
 But if thy love were ever like to mine, 
 (As sure I think did never man love so). 
 How many actions most ridiculous 
 Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy? 
 Cor. Into a thousand that I have for- 
 gotten. 
 Sil. 0, thou didst then ne'er love so 
 heartily: 
 If thou remember'st not the slightestfolly 
 That ever love did make thee run into. 
 Thou hast not lov'd: 
 Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, 
 Wearying thy bearer in thy mistress' 
 
 praise. 
 Thou hast not lov'd: 
 Or if thou hast not broke from company. 
 Abruptly, as my passion now makes me. 
 Thou hast not lov'd: Phebe, Phebe, 
 Phebe! 
 
 l^Exit Silvius. 
 Eos. Alas, poor shepherd! searching 
 of thy wound, I have by hard adventure 
 found my own. 
 
 Touch. And I mine: We, that are 
 true lovers, run into strange capers; but 
 as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature 
 in love mortal in folly. 
 
 Eos. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art 
 'ware of. 
 
 Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of 
 mine own wit, till I break my shins against 
 It. 
 Eos. Jove! Jove! this shepherd's pas- 
 sion 
 
 197 
 
Act II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Is much upon my fashion. 
 
 Touch. And mine; but it grows some- 
 thing stale with me. 
 Cel. I pray you, one of you question 
 youd man. 
 If he for gold will give us any food; 
 I faint almost to death. 
 
 Touch. Holla; you clown! 
 Ros. Peace, fool, he's not thy kinsman. 
 Cor. Who calls? 
 Touch. Your betters, sir. 
 Cor. Else are they very wretched. 
 Ros. Peace, I say: — 
 
 Good even to you, friend. 
 
 Cor. And to you gentle sir, and to you 
 
 all. 
 Ros. I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love, 
 or gold, 
 Can in this desert j^lace buy entertain- 
 ment. 
 Bring us where we may rest ourselves, and 
 
 feed: 
 Here's a young maid with travel much 
 
 oppress'd, 
 And faints for succor. 
 
 Cor. Fair sir, I pity her. 
 
 And wish for her sake, more than for 
 
 mine own. 
 My fortunes were more able to relieve her: 
 But I am shepherd to another man. 
 And do not shear the fleeces that I graze; 
 My master is of churlish disposition, 
 And little recks to find the way to heaven 
 By doing deeds of hospitality: 
 Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds 
 
 of feed. 
 Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote 
 
 now. 
 By reason of his absence, there is nothing 
 That you will feed on: but what is, come 
 
 see. 
 And in my voice most welcome shall you 
 be. 
 Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock 
 and pasture. 
 ' Cor. That young swain that you saw 
 here but erewhile. 
 
 That little cares for buying anything. 
 Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with 
 honesty, 
 Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the 
 
 flock, 
 And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. 
 Cel. And we will mend thy wages: I 
 like this place. 
 And willingly could waste my time in it. 
 Cor. Assuredly, the thing is to be 
 sold; 
 Go with me; if you like upon report. 
 The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, 
 I will your very faithful feeder be. 
 And buy it with j'our gold right suddenly. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene Y. The Same. 
 Enter Amiens, Jaqx'es and others. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ami. 
 
 Under the greenwood tree, 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry note, 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 Come hither, come- liitlier, come 
 hither; 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 Jaq. More, more, I pr'ythee, more. 
 Ami. It will make you melancholy, 
 monsieur Jaques. 
 
 Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, 
 more. I can suck melancholy out of a 
 song, as a weasel sucks eggs: More, I 
 pr'ythee, more. 
 
 Ami. My voice is ragged; I know, I 
 cannot please you. 
 
 Jaq. I do not desire you to please me, 
 I do desire you to sing: Come, more; an- 
 other stanza: Call you them stanzas? 
 Ajni. What you will, monsieur Jaques. 
 Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; 
 they owe me nothing: Will you sing? 
 
 Ami. More at your request, than to 
 please myself. 
 
 198 
 
Act II. 
 
 AS YOCJ LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any 
 man, I'll thank you; but that they call 
 compliment, is like the encounter of two 
 dog-apes; and when a man thanks me 
 heartily, methinks, I have given him a 
 penny, and he renders me the beggarly 
 thanks. Come, sing; and you that will 
 not, hold your tongues. 
 
 Ami. Well, I'll end the song. — Sirs, 
 cover the while; the duke will drink under 
 this tree: — he hath been all this day to 
 look you. 
 
 Jaq. And I have been all this day to 
 avoid him. He is too disputable for my 
 company: I think of as many matters as 
 he;> but I give heaven thanks, and make 
 no boast of them. Come, warble, come. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Wlio doth ambition shun, 
 
 [All together here.] 
 And loves to live i' the sun, 
 Seeking the food he eats, 
 And jileas'd loiih wliat he gets, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hitlier: 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy 
 But ivijitcr and rotigh weather. 
 Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, 
 that I made yesterday in despite of my 
 invention. 
 
 Ami. And I'll sing it. 
 Jaq. Thus it goes: — 
 
 If it do come to pass, 
 That any man turn ass, 
 Leavi)ig his toealth and case, 
 A stubborn will to 2}l6ase, 
 Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame 
 Here shall he see 
 Gross fools as he, 
 A n if he xoill come to me. 
 
 Ami. What's that ducdame ? 
 
 Jaq. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call 
 fools into a circle. I'll go sleep if I can ; 
 if I can not, I'll rail against all the first- 
 born of Egypt. 
 
 Ami. And I'll go seek the duke; his 
 banquet is prepared. 
 
 \Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene VI. The Same. 
 Enter Orlando and Adam. 
 
 Adam. Dear master, I can go no fur- 
 ther : 0, 1 die for food ! Here lie I down, 
 and measure out my grave. Farewell, 
 kind master. 
 
 Orl. Why, how now, Adam ! no 
 greater heart in thee ? Live a little; com- 
 fort a little ; cheer thyself a little : if this 
 uncouth forest yield anything savage, I 
 will either be food for it, or bring it for 
 food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death 
 than thy powers. For my sake, be com- 
 fortable ; hold death awhile at the arm's 
 end : I will here be with thee presently ; 
 and if I bring thee not something to eat, 
 I'll give thee leave to die : but if thou 
 diest before I come, thou art a mocker of 
 my labor. Well said ! thou look'st 
 cheerly : and I'll be with thee quickly. — 
 Yet thou liest in the bleak air : come, I 
 will bear thee to some shelter ; and thou 
 shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there 
 live anything in this desert. Cheerly, 
 good Adam ! ^Exeunt. 
 
 . Scene VII. The Same. 
 
 A Table set out. Enter Duke Senior, 
 Amiens, Lords, and others. 
 
 Duke S. I think he be transformed 
 into a beast ; 
 For I can no where find him like a man. 
 1 Lord. My lord, he is but even now 
 gone hence ; 
 Here was he merry, hearing of a song. 
 Dxike S. If he, compact of jars, grow 
 musical. 
 We shall have shortly discord in the 
 
 spheres : — 
 Go, seek him ; tell him, I would speak 
 with him. 
 
 199 
 
Act II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Enter Jaqltes. 
 
 1 Lord. He saves my labor by his own 
 
 approach. 
 Dulce S. Why, how now, monsieur ! 
 
 what a life is this. 
 That your poor friends must woo your 
 
 company ? 
 What ! you look merrily. 
 Jaq. A fool, a fool ! 1 met a fool 
 
 i' the forest, 
 A motley fool ; — a miserable world I — 
 As I do live by food, I met a fool ; 
 Who laid him down and basked him in 
 
 the sun, 
 And rail'd on lady Fortune in good 
 
 terms. 
 In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. 
 Good morrow, fool, quoth I : no, sir, 
 
 quoth he. 
 Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me 
 
 fortune: 
 And then he drew a dial from his poke ; 
 And looking on it with lack-lustre eye. 
 Says, very wisely. It is ten o'clock : 
 Thus may loe see, quoth he, hoio the world 
 
 wags : 
 ' Tis lut an hour ago, since it was nine ; 
 And after an hour more, 'twill he eleven ; 
 And so, from hour to hour, ive ripe and 
 
 ripe, 
 And then from hour, to hour, ive rot and 
 
 rot. 
 And thereby hangs a talc. When I did 
 
 hear 
 The motley fool thus moral on the time. 
 My lungs began to crow like chanticleer. 
 That fools should be so deep contempla- 
 tive ; 
 And I did laugh, sans intermission. 
 An hour by his dial. — noble fool ! 
 A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear. 
 Duke S. What fool is this ? 
 Jaq. worthy fool ! — One that hath 
 
 been a courtier ; 
 And says, if ladies be but young, and 
 
 fair. 
 
 They have the gift to know it : and in his 
 
 brain, — 
 Which is as dry as the remainder bisket 
 After a voyage, — he hath strange places 
 
 cramm'd 
 With observation, the which he vents 
 In mangled forms ; — 0, that I were a 
 
 fool ! 
 I am ambitious for a motley coat. 
 Duke S. Thou shalt have one. 
 Jaq. It is my only suit ; 
 
 Provided, that you weed your b'fetter judg- 
 ments 
 Of all opinion that grows rank in them, 
 That I am wise. I must have liberty 
 Withal, as large a charter as the wind, 
 j To blow on whom I please ; for so fools 
 
 have : 
 And they that are most galled with my 
 
 folly. 
 They most must laugh : And why, sir, 
 
 must they so ? 
 The luhy is plain as way to parish church : 
 He, that a fool doth very wisely hit. 
 Doth very foolishly, although he smart, 
 Not to seem senseless of the bob : if not. 
 The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd 
 Even by the squand'ring glances of the 
 
 fool. 
 Invest me in my motley ; give me leave 
 To speak my mind, and I will through 
 
 and through 
 Cleanse the foul body of the infected 
 
 world. 
 If they will patiently receive my medi- 
 cine. 
 Duke 8. Eye on thee ! I can tell what 
 
 thou would'st do. 
 Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do, 
 
 but good ? 
 Duke 8. Mast mischievous foul sin, 
 
 in chiding sin : 
 For thou thyself hast been a libertine. 
 Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride. 
 That can therein tax any private party ? 
 Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea. 
 Till that the very means do ebb ? 
 
 200 
 
Act il. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene VIL 
 
 What woman in the city do I name, 
 
 When that I say, The city-woman bears 
 
 The cost of princes on unworthy shoul- 
 ders ? 
 
 Who can come in, and say, that I mean 
 her. 
 
 When such a one as she, such is her neigh- 
 bor ? 
 
 Or what is he of basest function, 
 
 That says, his bravery is not on my cost, 
 
 (Thinking that I mean him), but therein 
 suits 
 
 His folly to the mettle of my speech ? 
 
 There then ; How, what then ? Let me 
 see wherein 
 
 My tongue hath wronged him : if it do 
 him right. 
 
 Then he hath wronged himself ; if he be 
 free. 
 
 Why then, my taxing like a wild goose 
 ilies, 
 
 Unclaim'd of any man. — But who comes 
 here ? 
 
 Enter Orlando, with his sioord drawn. 
 
 Orl. Forbear, and eat no more. 
 Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet. 
 
 Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be 
 
 serv'd. 
 Jaq. Of Avhat kind should this cock 
 
 come of ? 
 Dvke 8. Art thou thus bolden'd 
 man, by thy distress ; 
 Or else a rude despiser of good manners. 
 That in civility thou seem'st so empty ? 
 Orl. You touch'd my vein at first ; 
 the thorny point 
 Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the 
 
 show 
 Of smooth civility : yet am I inland bred. 
 And know some nurture : But forbear, I 
 
 say; 
 He dies, that touches any of this fruit. 
 Till I and my affairs are answered. 
 Jaq. An you will not be answered with 
 reason, 
 I must die. 
 
 DuJce 8. What would you have ? Your 
 
 gentleness shall force 
 More than your force move us to gentle- 
 ness. 
 Orl. I almost die for food, and let me 
 
 have it. 
 DiiTce 8. Sit down and feed, and wel- 
 come to our table. 
 Orl. Speak you so gently ? Pardon 
 
 me, I pray you, 
 I thought that all things had been savage 
 
 here; 
 And therefore put I on the countenance 
 Of stern commandment : But what'er you 
 
 are. 
 That in this desert inaccessible. 
 Under the shade of melancholy boughs, 
 Lose and neglect the creeping hours of 
 
 time ; 
 If ever you have look'd on better days ; 
 If ever been where bells have knoll'd to 
 
 church ; 
 If ever sat at any good man's feast ; 
 If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear. 
 And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied; 
 Let gentleness my strong enforcement be: 
 In the which hope, I blush, and hide my 
 
 sword. 
 Diike 8. True is it that we have seen 
 
 better days, 
 And have with holy bell been knoU'd to 
 
 church ; 
 And sat at good men's feasts ; and wip'd 
 
 our eyes 
 Of drops that sacred pity hath engen- 
 
 der'd : 
 And therefore sit you down in gentleness. 
 And take upon command what help we 
 
 have. 
 That to your wanting may be minister'd. 
 Orl. Then, but forbear your food a 
 
 little while. 
 Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn. 
 And give it food. There is an old poor 
 
 man. 
 Who after me hath many a weary step 
 
 201 
 
Act II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Limp'd in pure love; till he be first 
 
 suffic'd, — 
 Oppressed with two weak evils, age and 
 
 hunger, — 
 I will not touch a bit. 
 
 Duke S. Go find him out. 
 
 And we . will nothing waste till your 
 
 return. 
 Orl. I thank ye ; and be bless'd for 
 
 your good comfort I [Exit. 
 
 Duke S, Thou seest, we are not all 
 
 alone unhappy : 
 This wide and universal theatre 
 Presents more woeful pageants than the 
 
 scene 
 Wherein we play in. 
 
 Jaq. All the world's a stage. 
 
 And all the men and women merely 
 
 players : 
 They have their exits, and their en- 
 trances ; 
 And one man in his time plays many 
 
 part. 
 His acts being seven ages. At first, the 
 
 infant. 
 Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms! 
 And then, the whining school-boy, with 
 
 his sachel. 
 And shining morning face, creeping like 
 
 snail 
 Unwillingly to school : And then, the 
 
 lover ; 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woeful 
 
 ballad 
 Made to bis mistress' eyebrow : Then, a 
 
 soldier ; 
 Uull of strange oaths, and bearded like 
 
 the pard. 
 Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in 
 
 quarrel, 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 Even in the cannon's mouth : And then, 
 
 the justice ; 
 In fair round belly, with good capon 
 
 lin'd. 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal 
 
 cut. 
 
 Full of wise saws and modern instances. 
 And so he plays his part : The sixth age 
 
 shifts 
 Into tlie lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; 
 With spectacles on nose, and pouch on 
 
 side ; 
 His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too 
 
 wide 
 For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly 
 
 voice. 
 Turning again toward childish treble, 
 
 pipes 
 And whistles in his sound : Last scene of 
 
 all 
 That ends this strange eventful history. 
 Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans 
 
 everything. 
 
 Re-enter Orlando, tvith Ada^i. 
 
 Duke S. Welcome : set down your 
 venerable burden. 
 And let him feed. 
 
 Orl. I thank you most for him. 
 
 Adam. So had you need; 
 I scarce can speak to thank you for my- 
 self. 
 Duke S. Welcome, fall to : I will not 
 trouble you 
 As yet, to question you about your for- 
 tunes : — 
 Give us some music ; and, good cousin, 
 sing. 
 
 Amiens aings. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Blow, Mow, thou winter wind, 
 Tho^i art not so unkiiid 
 As inan's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because tlion art not seen. 
 Although thy breath be rxide. 
 Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! utito the 
 
 greeji holly : 
 Most friendsliip is feigning, most loving 
 mere folly : 
 
Act II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 TJien, heigh, ho, the holly ! 
 TJiis life is most jolly. 
 
 II. 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 That dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot : 
 Though thou the waters xvarp, 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 As friend remember' d not. 
 Heigh, ho ! sijig, heigh, ho ! etc. 
 
 Dulce 8. If that you were the good sir 
 Rowland's son, — 
 As you liave whisper'd faithfully, you 
 were ; 
 
 And as mine eye doth his effigies witness 
 Most truly limn'd, and living in your 
 
 face, — 
 Be truly welcome hither : I am the duke. 
 That loVd your father : The residue of 
 
 your fortune 
 Go to my cave and tell me. — Good old 
 
 man, 
 Thou art right welcome as thy master is : 
 Support him by the arm. — Give me your 
 
 hand. 
 And let me all your fortunes understand. 
 
 ^Exetuit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 Duke F. Not see him since? Sir, sir, 
 
 that cannot be: 
 But were I not the better part made 
 
 mercy, 
 I should not seek an absent argument 
 Of my revenge, thou present: . But look 
 
 to it; 
 Find out thy brother, wheresoever he is: 
 Seek him with candle; bring him dead or 
 
 living. 
 Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou 
 
 no more 
 To seek a living in our territory. 
 Thy lands, and all things that thou dost 
 
 call thine. 
 Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands; 
 Till thou canst quit thee by thy ])rother's 
 
 mouth. 
 Of what we think against thee. 
 
 OU. 0, that your highness knew my 
 
 heart in this! 
 I never lov'd my brother in my life. 
 Duke F. More villain thou. — Well, 
 
 push him out of doors; 
 And let mv officers of such a nature 
 
 Make an extent upon his house and lands: 
 Do this expediently, and turn him going. 
 
 \^Exeu7it. 
 
 Scene II. The Forest. 
 Eyiter Orlando, with a Paper. 
 
 Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness 
 
 of my love: 
 And thou, thrice-crowned queen of 
 night, survey 
 With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere 
 above. 
 Thy huntress' name, that my full life 
 doth sway. 
 Rosalind! these trees shall be my books. 
 And in their barks my thoughts I'll 
 character; 
 That every eye, which in this forest looks. 
 Shall see thy virtue witness'd every 
 where. 
 Run, run, Orlando; carve, on every tree. 
 The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Filter CoRiN and Touchstone. 
 Cor. And how like you this shepherd's 
 life, master Touchstone? 
 
 Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of 
 itself, it is a good life; but in respect that 
 it is a Shepherd's life, it is naught. In 
 
 203 
 
Act III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; 
 but in respect that it is private, it is a 
 very vile life. jSTow in respect it is in the 
 fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect 
 
 it is not in the court, it is tedious. 
 As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my 
 humor well; but as there is no more plenty 
 in it, it goes much against my stomach. 
 
 Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd? 
 
 Cor. !N'o more, but that I know, the 
 
 more one sickens, the worse at ease he is; 
 
 and that he that wants money, means, and 
 
 content, is without three good friends: — 
 That the property of rain is to wet, and 
 fire to burn: That good pasture makes 
 fat sheep; and that a great cause of the 
 
 204 
 
Act III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 night, is lack of the sun: That he, that 
 hath learned no wit by nature nor art, 
 may complain of good breeding, or comes 
 of a very dull kindred. 
 
 Touch. Such a one is a natural phi- 
 losopher. 
 Wast ever in court, shepherd? 
 
 Cor. No, sir; I am a true laborer; I 
 earn that I eat, get that I wear; owe no man 
 hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of 
 other men's good, content with my harm: 
 and the greatest of my pride is, to see my 
 ewes graze, and my lambs suck. — Here 
 comes young master Ganymede, my new 
 mistress's brother. 
 
 Enter Rosalind, reading a paper. 
 
 Ros. From the east to western Ind, 
 No jewel is like Rosalind. 
 Her worth being mounted on the 
 
 wind 
 Through all the world bears Rosa- 
 lind 
 All the pictures, fairest lin'd. 
 Are but black to Rosalind. 
 Let no face be kept in tnind, 
 But the fair of Rosalind. 
 Touch. I'll rhyme you so, eight years 
 together; dinners and suppers, and sleep- 
 ing hours excepted; it is the right butter- 
 woman's rank to market. 
 Ros. Out, fool! 
 
 Toiich. For a taste: 
 
 If a hart do lack a hind, 
 Let Mm seek out Rosalind. 
 If the cat will after kind. 
 So, be sure, tuill Rosalind. 
 They that reap, must sheaf and 
 
 bind; 
 Then to cart tvith Rosalind, 
 Siueetestiiut hath sourest rind, 
 Such a nut is Rosalind. 
 
 This the very false gallop of verses; AV^hy 
 do you infect yourself with them? 
 
 Ros. Peace, you dull fool; I found 
 fcliem on a tree. 
 
 Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. 
 
 Ros. I'll graff it with you, and then I 
 shall grafE it with a medlar: then it will 
 be the earliest fruit in the country: for 
 you'll be rotten e're you be half ripe, and 
 that's the right virtue of the meddler. 
 
 Touch. You have said; but whether 
 wisely or no, let the forest judge. 
 
 Enter Celia Reading a Paper. 
 
 Ros. Peace ! 
 liere comes my sister, reading; stand 
 aside. 
 Cel. Why should this desert silent be? 
 For it is unpeopled? No; 
 Tongues I'll hang on every tree, 
 That shall civil sayings shoio. 
 Some, hotv brief the life of man! 
 
 Runs his erring pilgrimage; 
 That the stretching of a span 
 Buckles in his sum of age. 
 Some, of violated vows 
 
 ' Twixt the soicls of friend and 
 friend: 
 But upon the fairest boughs 
 Or at every sentence" end. 
 Will I Rosalinda torite; 
 Teaching all that read, to 
 knoio 
 The quintessence of every sprite 
 
 Heaven ivo\ddin little show. 
 Therefore heaven nature charged 
 
 That one body shoxdd befilVd 
 With all graces wide enlarg'd: 
 
 Nature presently distill' d 
 Helen's cheek, but not her heart; 
 
 Cleopatra's majesty; 
 Atalanta's better part ; 
 
 Sad L^icretia's modesty. 
 TJnis Rosalind (f many parts 
 
 By heavenly synod was deris'd; 
 Of many faces, eyes, and hearts. 
 To have the touches dearest 
 2)riz'd. 
 Heaven would that she these gifts 
 
 should have, 
 And I to live and die Iter slave. 
 
 205 
 
Act hi. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Eos. most gentle Jupiter! — what 
 tedious homily of love have you wearied 
 your parishioners withal, and never cry'd. 
 Hare 2)atience, good people! 
 
 Cel. How now! back friends; — Shep- 
 herd, go off a little: — Go with him, sirrah. 
 
 Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make 
 an honorable retreat; though not with bag 
 and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. 
 
 \Exeunt Corin and ToucHSTOisrE. 
 
 Cel. Didst thou hear these verses? 
 
 Tios. yes, I heard them all, and more 
 too; for some of them had in them more 
 feet than the A'erses would bear. 
 
 Cel. That's no matter; the feet might 
 bear the verses. 
 
 Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and 
 could not bear themselves without the 
 verse, and therefore stood lamely in the 
 verse. 
 
 Cel. But didst thou hear, without won- 
 dering how thy name should be haug'd 
 and carved upon these trees? 
 
 Ros. I was seven of the nine days out 
 of the wonder, before you came; for look 
 here what I found on a palm-tree: I was 
 never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time, 
 that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly 
 remember. 
 
 Cel. Trow you, who hath done this? 
 
 Ros. Is it a man? 
 
 Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, 
 about his neck: Change you colour? 
 
 Ros. I pr'ythee, who? 
 
 Cel. lord, lord! it is a hard matter 
 for friends to meet: but moixntains may be 
 removed with earthquakes, and so en- 
 counter. 
 
 Ros. Xay, but who is it? 
 
 Cel. Is it possible? 
 
 Pios. Nay, I pray thee now, with most 
 petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is. 
 
 Cel. wonderful, wonderful, and most 
 ■wonderful wonderful, and yet again won- 
 derful, and after that out of all whooping! 
 
 Ros. Good my complexion! dost thou 
 
 think, though I am caparison'd like a man, 
 I have a doublet and hose in my disposi- 
 tion? One inch of delay more is a South- 
 sea-off discovery. I pr'ythee, tell me, who 
 is it? quickly, and speak apace: I would 
 thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst 
 pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, 
 as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd 
 bottle; either too much at once, or none at 
 all. I pr'ythee take the cork out of thy 
 mouth, that I may drink thy tidings. — 
 What manner of man? Is his head worth 
 a hat, or his chin worth a beard? 
 
 Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard. 
 
 Ros. Why, let me stay the growth of 
 his beard, if thou delay me not the knowl- 
 edge of his chin. 
 
 Cel. It is young Orlando; that tripp'd 
 up the wrestlers heels, and your heart, 
 both in an instant. 
 
 Ros. Nay, no mocking; speak sad 
 brow, and true maid. 
 
 Cel. Ffaith, coz, 'tis he. 
 
 Ros. Orlando? 
 
 Cel. Orlando. 
 
 Ros. Alas the day! what shall I do with 
 my doublet and hose? — What did he, 
 when thou saw'st him? What said he? 
 How look'd he? Whei*ein went he? 
 What makes he here? Did he ask for 
 me? Where remains he? How parted 
 he with thee? and when shalt thou see 
 him again? Answer me in one word. 
 
 Cel. You must borrow me Garagan- 
 tua's mouth first: 'tis a word too great for 
 any mouth of this age's size: To say, ay, 
 and no, to these particulars, is more than 
 to answer in a catechism. 
 
 Ros. But doth he know that I am in 
 this forest, and in man's apparel? Looks 
 he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled ? 
 
 Cel. It is as easy to count atomies, as 
 to resolve the propositions cf a lover: — 
 but take a taste of my finding him, and 
 relish it with a good observance, I found 
 him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn. 
 
 206 
 
Act in. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, 
 when it drops forth such fruit. 
 
 CeL Give me audience, good madam. 
 
 Ros. Proceed. 
 
 Gel. There lay he, stretch'd along like 
 a wounded knight. 
 
 Ros. Though it be pity to see such a 
 sight, it well becomes the ground. 
 
 Gel. Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I 
 pr'ythee; it curvets very unseasonably. 
 He was furnish'd like a hunter. 
 
 Ros. ominous! he comes to kill my 
 heart. 
 
 Gel. I would sing my song without a 
 burden: thou bring'st me out of tune. 
 
 Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? 
 when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say 
 on. 
 
 Enter Orlando and Jaques. 
 
 Gel. You bring me out: — Soft! comes 
 he not here? 
 
 Ros. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him, 
 \_Celia and Rosalind retire. 
 
 Jaq. I thank you for your company; 
 but, good faith, I had as lief have been 
 myself alone. 
 
 Orl. And so had I; butj'et, for fashion 
 sake, I thank you too for your society. 
 
 Jaq. Peace be with you; let's meet as 
 little as we can. 
 
 Orl. I do desire we may be better 
 strangers. 
 
 Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees 
 with writing love-songs in their barks. 
 
 Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my 
 verses with reading them ill-favoredly. 
 
 Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name? 
 
 Orl. Yes, just 
 
 Jaq. I do not like lier name. 
 
 Orl. There was no thought of pleasing 
 yon, when she was christen'd. 
 
 Jaq. What stature is she of. 
 
 Orl. .Just as high as my heart. 
 
 Jaq. You are full of pretty answers: 
 Have you not been acquainted with gold- 
 smiths' wives, and conn'd them out of 
 rings? 
 
 Orl. Not so; but I answer you right 
 painted cloth from whence you have 
 studied your questions. 
 
 Jaq. You have a nimble wit ; I think 
 it was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you 
 sit down with me? and we two will rail 
 against our mistress the world, and all 
 our misery. 
 
 Orl. I will chide no breather in the 
 world, but myself ; against whom I know 
 most faults. 
 
 Jaq. The worst fault you have, is to 
 be in love. 
 
 Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change for 
 your best virtue. I am weary of you. 
 
 Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a 
 fool, when I found you. 
 
 Orl. He is drown'd in the brook; look 
 but in, and you shall see him. 
 
 Jaq. There shall I see my own figure. 
 
 Orl. Which I take to be either a fool, 
 or a cipher. 
 
 Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you : 
 farewell, good signior love. 
 
 Orl. I am glad of your departure ; 
 adieu, good monsieur melancholy. 
 
 [Uxit Jaq lies. — Celia and Rosa- 
 lind come forward. 
 
 Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy" 
 lacquey, and under that habit play the 
 knave with him. — Do you hear, forester? 
 
 Orl. Very well ; what would you? 
 
 Ros. I pray you, what is't a clock? 
 
 Orl. You should ask me what time 
 o'day ; there's no clock in the forest. 
 
 Ros. Then there is no true lover in the 
 forest ; else sighing every minute, and 
 groaning every hour, would detect the 
 lazy foot of time, as well as a clock. 
 
 Orl. And why not the swift foot of 
 time ? had not that been as proper? 
 
 Ros. By no means, sir : Time travels 
 in divers paces with divers persons : I'll 
 tell you who time ambles withal, who 
 time trots withal, who time gallops withal, 
 and who he stands still withal. 
 
 207 
 
Act III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Orl. I pr'ythee, who dotli lie trot 
 withal ? 
 
 Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a 
 young maid, between the contract of her 
 marriage, and the day it is solemnized : if 
 the interim be but a se'nnight, time's 
 pace is so hard that it seems the length of 
 seven years. 
 
 Orl. Who ambles time withal? 
 
 Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, 
 and a rich man that hath not the gout ; 
 for the one sleeps easily, because he can 
 not study; and the other lives merrily, 
 because he feels no pain : the one lacking 
 the burden of lean and wasteful learning; 
 the other knowing no burden of heavy 
 tedious penury: These time ambles withal, 
 
 Orl. Who doth he gallop withal? 
 
 Ros. With a thief to the gallows ; for 
 though he go as softly as foot can fall, he 
 thinks himself too soon there. 
 
 Orl. Who stays it still withal? 
 
 Ros. With lawyers in the vacation ; 
 for they sleep between term and term, 
 and then they perceive not how time 
 moves. 
 
 Orl. Where dwell you pretty youth ? 
 
 Ros. With this shepherdess, my sis- 
 ter; here in the skirts of the forest. 
 
 Orl. Are you a native of this place? 
 
 Ros. As the rabbit, that you see dwell 
 where she is kindled. 
 
 Orl. Your accent is something fine^- 
 than you could purchase in so removed a 
 dwelling. 
 
 Ros. I have been told so of many: but, 
 indeed, an old religious uncle of mine 
 taught me to speak, who was in his youth 
 an in-land man; one that knew courtship 
 too well, for there he fell in love. -^I have 
 heard him read many lectures against it; 
 and I thank fortune, I am not a woman, 
 to be touch'd with so many giddy offences 
 as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex 
 withal. 
 
 Orl. Can you remember any of the 
 principal evils, that he laid to the charge 
 of women? 
 
 Ros. There were none principal; they 
 were all like one another, as half-pence 
 are: every one fault seeming monstrous, 
 till his fellow fault came to match it. 
 
 Orl. I pr'thee recount some of them. 
 
 Ros. No; I will not cast away my " 
 physic, but on those that are sick. There 
 is a man haunts the forest, that abuses 
 our young plants with carving Rosalind 
 on their barks; hangs odes upon haw- 
 thorns, and elegies on brambles; all, for- 
 sooth, deifying the name of Eosalind : if I 
 could meet that fancy-monger, I would 
 give him some good counsel, for he seems 
 to have the quotidian of love upon him. 
 
 Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked ; I 
 pray you, tell me your remedy. 
 
 Ros. There is none of my uncle's 
 marks upon you : he taught me how to 
 know a man in love ; in which cage of 
 rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner. 
 
 Orl. What were his marks ? 
 
 Ros. A lean cheek ; which you have 
 not : a blue eye, and sunken ; which you 
 have not : an unquestionable spirit ; 
 which you have not: a beard neglected; 
 which you have not : — but I jjardon you 
 for that ; for, simply, your having in 
 beard is a younger brother's revenue : — 
 Then your hose should be ungarter'd, your 
 bonnet unhanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, 
 your shoe untied, and every thing about 
 you demonstrating a careless desolation. 
 But you are no such man ; you are rather 
 point-device in your accoutrements; as 
 loving yourself, than seeming the lover of 
 any other. 
 
 Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make 
 thee believe I love. 
 
 Ros. Me believe it ? you may as soon 
 make her that you love believe it ; which, 
 I warrant, she is apter to do, than to con- 
 fess she does: that is one of the points in 
 the which women still give the lie to their 
 consciences. But, in good sooth, are you 
 he that hangs the verses on the trees, 
 wherein Eosalind is so admired? 
 
 208 
 
Act III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the 
 white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, 
 that unfortunate he. 
 
 Ros. But are you so much in love as 
 your rhymes speak ? 
 
 Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can 
 express how much. 
 
 Ros. Love is merely a madness; and, 
 I tell you, deserves as well a dark house 
 and a whip, as madmen do : and the rea- 
 son Avhy they are not so punished and 
 cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary, 
 that the whippers are in love too : Yet I 
 profess curing it by counsel. 
 
 Orl. Did you ever cure any so ? 
 
 Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. 
 He was to imagine me his love, his mis- 
 tress ; and I set him every day to woo me : 
 At which time Avould I, being but a 
 moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, 
 changeable, longing, and liking ; proud, 
 fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, 
 full of tears, full of smiles ; for every pas- 
 sion something, and for no passion truly 
 anything, as boys and women are for the 
 most part cattle of this color ; would now 
 like him, now loath him ; then entertain 
 him, then forswear him ; now weep for 
 him, then laugh at him, that I drave my 
 suitor from his mad humor of love, to a 
 living humor of madness ; which was, to 
 forswear the full stream of the world, and 
 to live in a nook merely monastic : And 
 thus I cured him ; and this way will I 
 take upon me to wash your liver as clean 
 as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall 
 not be one spot of love in't. 
 
 Orl. I would not be cured, youth. 
 
 Ros. I would cure you, if you would 
 but call me Rosalind, and come every day 
 to my cote, and woo me. 
 
 Orl. Now by the faith of my love, I 
 will ; tell me where it is. 
 
 Ros. Go with me to it, and I'll show 
 it you ; and, by the way, you shall tell me 
 where in the forest you live : Will you go? 
 
 Orl. With all my heart, good youth. 
 
 Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosa- 
 lind : — Come, sister, will you go? 
 
 \^Exeunt, 
 
 Scene III. The same. 
 
 Enter Touchstone and Audrey ; Jaques 
 at a distance, observing them. 
 
 Touch. Come apace, good Audrey : I 
 will fetch up your goats, Audrey ; And 
 how, Audrey? am I the man yet ? Doth, 
 my simple feature content you ? 
 
 Aud. Your features ! what features ? 
 
 Touch. I am here with thee and thy 
 goats, as the most capricious poet, honest 
 Ovid, was among the Goths. 
 
 Jaq. knowledge ill-inhabited ! worse 
 than Jove in a thatch'd house ! [Aside. 
 
 Touch. When a man's verses cannot 
 be understood, nor a man's good wit 
 seconded with the forward child, under- 
 standing, it strikes a man more dead than 
 a great reckoning in a little room: — 
 Truly, I would the gods had made thee 
 poetical. 
 
 Aud. I do not know what poetical is : 
 It is honest in deed, and word ? Is it a 
 true thing ? 
 
 Touch. No, truly; for the truest poetry 
 is the most feigning; and lovers are given 
 to poetry ; and what they swear iu poetry, 
 may be said, as lovers, they do feign. 
 
 Aud. Do you wish then, that the gods 
 had made me poetical ? 
 
 Touch. I do, truly; for thou swearest 
 to me, thou art honest ; now, if thou wert 
 a poet, I might have some hope thou didst 
 feign. 
 
 Aud. Would you not have me honest? 
 
 Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert 
 hard-favor'd : for honesty coupled to 
 beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar. 
 
 Jaq. A material fool ! lAside. 
 
 Aud. Well, I am not fair ; and there- 
 fore I pray the gods make me honest ! 
 
 Touch. Truly, and to cast away hon- 
 esty upon a foul slut, were to put good 
 meat into an unclean dish. 
 
 209 
 
Act III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Atid. I am not a slnt, though I thank 
 the gods I am foul. 
 
 Totich. Well^ praised be the gods for 
 thy foulness ! sluttishness may come here- 
 
 after. But be as it may be, I will marry 
 thee : and to that end, I have been with 
 sir Oliver Mar-text, the vicar of the next 
 village ; who hath promised to meet me in 
 
 ■';^*S^ 
 
 ,'/t>' '^i^^ ■yy. 
 
 this place of the forest, and to couple us. 
 Jaq. I would fain to see this meeting. 
 
 \^Aside. 
 And. Well, the gods give us joy ! 
 
 Touch. Amen. A man may, if he 
 were of a fearful heart, stagger in this at- 
 tempt ; for here we have no teoiple but 
 the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. 
 
 210 
 
Act III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 But what though ? Courage ! As horns 
 are odious, they are necessary. It is 
 said, — Many a man knows no end of his 
 goods : right ; many a man has good 
 horns, and knows no end of them. Well, 
 that is the dowry of his wife ; 'tis none of 
 
 his own getting. Horns ? Even so : 
 
 Poor men alone ; No, no ; the noblest 
 
 deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is 
 the single man therefore blessed ? 'No : as 
 a wall'd town is more worthier than a vil- 
 lage, so is the forehead of a married man 
 more honorable than the bare brow of a 
 batchelor : and by how much defence is 
 better than no skill, by so much is a horn 
 more precious than to want. 
 
 Bnter Sir Oliver Mar-text. 
 
 Here comes Sir Oliver: — Sir Oliver Mar- 
 text, you are well met : Will you despatch 
 113 here under this tree, or shall we go 
 with you to your chapel ? 
 
 Sir OH. Is there none here to give the 
 woman ? 
 
 Totich. I will not take her on gift of 
 any man. 
 
 Sir Oil. Truly, she must be given, or 
 tlie marriage is not lawful. 
 
 Jaq. \_Discovering himself .'I Proceed, 
 proceed ; I'll give her. 
 
 Touch. Good even, good master What 
 ye calVt: How do you sir? You are 
 very well met : I am very glad to see 
 you: — Eyqix a toy in hand here, sir: — 
 Nay ; pray be cover'd. 
 
 Jaq. Will you be married, motley ? 
 
 Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the 
 horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so 
 man hath his desire towards wedlock. 
 
 Jaq. And will you, being a man of 
 your breeding, be married uyder a bush, 
 like a beggar ? Get you to church, and 
 have a good priest that can tell you what 
 marriage is: this f^low will but join you 
 together as they join waistcot ; then one of 
 you will prove a shrunk panel, and like 
 green timber, warp, warp. 
 
 Touch. I am not in the mind but I 
 were better to be married of him than of 
 another : for he is not like to marry me 
 well ; and not being well married, it will 
 be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave 
 my wife. \^Aside. 
 
 Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me 
 counsel thee. 
 
 Touch. Come, sweet Audrey; 
 Farewell, good master Oliver ! 
 Not — sweet Oliver, 
 brave Oliver, 
 Leave me not behi' thee ; 
 But — Wind away. 
 Begone I say, 
 I will not to wedding wi' thee. 
 \_Exexint Jaq. Touch, and Audrey. 
 Sir on. 'Tis no matter ; ne'er a fan- 
 tastical knave of them all shall flout me 
 out of my calling. [Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. Before a Cottage. 
 Enter Eosalind and Celia. 
 
 Bos. Never talk to me, I will weep. 
 
 Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the 
 grace to consider, that tears do not become 
 a man. 
 
 Ros. But have I not cause to weep? 
 
 Cel. As good cause as one would 
 desire; therefore weep. 
 
 Bos. Why did he swear he would 
 come this morning, and comes not? 
 
 Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth 
 in him. 
 
 Bos. Do you think so? 
 
 Cel. Yes : I think he is not a pick- 
 purse, nor a horse-stealer; but for his 
 verity in love, I do think him as concave 
 as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut. 
 
 Bos. Not true in love? 
 
 Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think 
 he is not in. 
 
 Bos. You have heard him swear down- 
 right, he was. 
 
 Cel. Was is not is : besides tlie oatii 
 of a lover is no stronger than the word of 
 
 211 
 
Act III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 a tapster; they are both, the confirmers of 
 false reckonings : He attends here in the 
 forest on the duke your father. 
 
 Bos. I met the duke yesterday, and 
 had much question with him : He asked 
 me, of what parentage I was : I told him, 
 of as good as he; so he laugh'd, and let 
 me go. But what talk we of fathers, when 
 there is such a man as Orlando? 
 
 Cel. 0, that's a brave man! he writes 
 brave verses, speaks brave words, swears 
 brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, 
 quite traverse, athwart the heart of his 
 lover; as a puny tilter, that spurs his 
 horse but on one side, breaks his staff like 
 a noble goose; but all's brave, that youth 
 mounts, and folly guides: — Who comes 
 here? 
 
 Fnte?- CoEisr. 
 Co)\ Mistress, and master, you have 
 
 oft inquired 
 After the shepherd that comjilaiu'd of 
 
 love; 
 Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, 
 Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess 
 That was his mistress. 
 
 Cel. Well, and what of him? 
 
 Cor. If you will see a pageant truly 
 
 play'd, 
 Between the pale complexion of true love 
 And the red glow of scorn and proud dis- 
 dain. 
 Go hence a little, and I shall conduct 
 
 you. 
 If you will mark it. 
 
 Eos. 0, come, let us remove; 
 
 The sight of lovers feedeth those in 
 
 love : — 
 Bring us unto this sight, and you shall 
 
 say 
 I'll prove a busy actor in their play. 
 
 [Bxeunf. 
 
 ScEXE V. Another Part of the Forest. 
 Bnter Siltius a7id Phebe. 
 Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do 
 not, Phebe : 
 
 Say, that you love me not; but say not so 
 In bitterness : The common executioner. 
 Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death 
 
 makes hard. 
 Palls not the ax upon the humbled neck. 
 But first begs pardon : Will you sterner 
 
 be 
 Thaii he that dies and lives by bloody 
 
 drops? 
 
 Enter Eosalinb, Celia, and CoEiisr, at 
 a distance. 
 
 Phe. I would not be thy executioner; 
 I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. 
 Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine 
 
 eye: 
 'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable. 
 That eyes, — that are the frail'st and soft- 
 est things. 
 Who shut their coward gates on atomies, — 
 Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, mur- 
 derers! 
 Now I do frown on thee with all my heart: 
 And, if mine eyes can wound, now let 
 
 them kill thee; 
 Now counterfeit to swoon; why not fall 
 
 down; 
 Or, if you can'st not, 0, for shame, for 
 
 shame. 
 Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. 
 Now show the wound mine eye hath made 
 
 in thee : 
 Scratch thee but with a pin, and there 
 
 remains 
 Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush, 
 The cicatrice and capable impressure 
 Thy palm some moment keeps : but now 
 
 mine eyes. 
 Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee 
 
 not; 
 Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes 
 That can do hurt. 
 
 Sil. 0, dear Phebe, 
 
 If ever, (as that ever may be near), 
 You meet in some fresh cheek the power 
 
 of fancy 
 
 213 
 
Act 111. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Then shall you know the wounds in- 
 visible 
 That love's keen arrows make. 
 
 Phe. But, till that time, 
 
 Come not thou near me; and, when that 
 
 time comes. 
 Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; 
 As, till that time, I shall not pity thee. 
 Ros. And why, I pray you? [AdvaJic- 
 
 ing] Who might be yotir mother. 
 That you insult, exult, and all at once. 
 Over the wretched? What though you 
 
 have more beauty, 
 (As, by my faith, I see no more in you 
 Than without candle may go dark to bed). 
 Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? 
 AVhy, what means this? Why do you 
 
 look on me? 
 I see no more in you, than in the ordinary 
 Of nature's sale-work: — Od's mv little 
 
 life ! 
 I think, she means to tangle my eyes 
 
 too : — 
 No, faith, proud mistress, ho^De not after 
 
 it; 
 'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk 
 
 hair. 
 Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of 
 
 cream. 
 That can entame my spirits to your wor- 
 ship. — 
 You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you 
 
 follow her. 
 Like foggy south, puffing with wind and 
 
 rain? 
 You are a thousand times a properer man, 
 Than she a woman : "Tis such fools as 
 
 you, 
 That make the world full of ill-favor'd 
 
 children : 
 'Tis not her glass, but you that flatters 
 
 her; 
 And out of you she sees herself more 
 
 proper, 
 Than any of her lineaments can show 
 
 her. — 
 But, mistress, know yourself; down on 
 
 your knees, 
 
 And thank heaven, fasting, for a good 
 
 man's love : 
 For I must tell you friendly in your ear, — 
 Sell when you can; yott are not for all 
 
 markets : 
 Cry the man mercy; love him; take his 
 
 offer; 
 Foul is most foul, being foul to be a 
 
 scoffer. 
 So take her to thee, shepherd; — fare you 
 well. 
 Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a 
 year togetlier; 
 I had rather hear you chide, than this 
 man woo. 
 Pos. He's fallen in love with her foul- 
 ness, and she'll fall in love with my 
 anger : If it be so, as fast as she answers 
 thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce her 
 with bitter words. — Why look you so 
 upon me? 
 
 Phe. For no ill will I bear you. 
 Pos. I pray you, do not fall in love 
 with me. 
 For I am falser than vows made in wine : 
 Besides, I like you not : If you will know 
 
 my house, 
 'Tis at the tuft of olives, nere hard by : — 
 Will you go, sister? — Shepherd, ply her 
 
 hard : — 
 Come, sister : — Shepherdess, look on him 
 
 better, 
 And be not proud : though all the world 
 
 could see, 
 None could be so abus'd in sight as he. 
 Come to our flock. 
 
 [Exeunt PosaUnd, Celia, and Cor in. 
 Phe. Dead shepherd ! now I find thy 
 saw of might; 
 Wlw ever Inv'd, tliat lov'd, not at first 
 sight? 
 Sil. Sweet Phebe, — 
 Phe. Ha ! what say'st thou, Silvius? 
 Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. 
 Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle 
 
 Silvius. 
 Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would 
 be; 
 
Act III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEXE Y 
 
 If you do sorrow at my grief in love^ 
 By giving love, your sorrow and my grief 
 Were both extermin'd. 
 
 Plie. Tliou hast my love : Is not that 
 
 neighborly? 
 Sil. I would have you. 
 Phe. Why, that were covetousness. 
 
 Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee ; 
 And yet it is not, that I bear thee love : 
 But, since that thou canst talk of love so 
 
 well, 
 Thy company, which erst was irksome to 
 
 me, 
 I will endure; and I'll employ thee too : 
 But do not look for further recompense. 
 Than thine own gladness that thou art 
 
 employ'd. 
 Sil. So holy, and so perfect is my love. 
 And I in such a poverty of grace. 
 That I shall think it a most plenteous crop 
 To glean the broken ears after the man 
 That the main harvest reaps ; lose now 
 
 and then 
 A scattered smile, and that I'll live upon. 
 PTie. Know'st thou the youth that 
 
 spoke to me ere while? 
 Sil. Not very well, but I have met 
 
 him oft; 
 And he hath bought the cottage, and the 
 
 bounds. 
 That the old carlot once was master of. 
 Phe. Think not I love him, though I 
 
 ask for him 
 'Tis but a peevish boy : — yet he talks 
 
 well; — 
 But what care I for words? yet words do 
 
 well. 
 When he that speaks them pleases those 
 
 that hear 
 It is a pretty youth :— not very pretty : — 
 
 But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride 
 
 becomes him 
 He'll make a proper man : the best thing 
 
 in him 
 Is his complexion; and faster than his 
 
 tongue 
 Did make offense, his eye did heal it up. 
 He is not tail; yet for his years he's tall : 
 His leg is but so so; and yet ^tis well : 
 There was a pretty redness in his lip ; 
 A little riper and more lusty red 
 Than that mixed in his cheek; ''tvv-as just 
 ! the difference 
 
 i Betwixt the constant red, and mingled 
 ! damask. 
 
 There be some women, Silvius, had they 
 
 mark'd him 
 In parcels as I did, would have gone near 
 To fall in love with him : but, for my 
 
 part, 
 I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet 
 I have more cause to hate him than to 
 
 love him : 
 For what had he to do to chide at me? 
 He said, mine eyes were black, and my 
 
 hair black; 
 And, now I am remember'd, scorned at me: 
 I marvel, why I answer'd not again : 
 But that's all one; omittance is no quit- 
 tance, 
 ril write to him a very taunting letter, 
 And thou shalt bear it : Wilt thou, Sil- 
 vius? 
 Sil. Phebe, with all my heart. 
 Phe. I'll write it straight; 
 
 The matter is in my head, and in my 
 
 heart : 
 I will be bitter with him, and passing 
 
 short : 
 Go with me, Silvius. {^Exewit. 
 
 ACT lY 
 
 Scene I. The Same. 
 Enter Rosalixd, Celia, and Jaques. 
 Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me 
 be better acquainted with thee. 
 
 Ros: They say you are a melancholy 
 fellow. 
 
 Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than 
 laughing. 
 
 Ros. Those that are in extremity of 
 either, are abominable fellows; and betray 
 themselves to every modern censure, 
 worse tlian drunkards. 
 
 2U 
 
Act IV. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Jaq. Why, "tis good to be sad and say 
 nothing. 
 
 Ros. AVliy then, ^tis good to be a post. 
 
 Jaq. I have neither the scholar's 
 mehincholy, which is emulation; nor the 
 musician's, which is fantastical; nor the 
 courtier's, which is proud; nor the sol- 
 dier's, which is ambitious; nor the law- 
 yer's, which is politic ; nor the lady's, 
 which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all 
 these : but it is a melancholy of mine 
 own, compounded of many simples, ex- 
 tracted from many objects : and, indeed, 
 the sundry contemplation of my travels, 
 in which my often rumination wraps me, 
 is a most humorous sadness. 
 
 Ros. A traveler! By my faith, you 
 have great reason to be sad : I fear, you 
 have sold your own lands, to see other 
 men's; then, to have seen much, and to 
 have nothing, is to have rich eyes and 
 poor hands. 
 
 Jaq. Yes, I have gained my exper- 
 ience. 
 
 Enter Orlando. 
 
 Ros. And your experience makes you 
 sad : I had rather have a fool to make me 
 merry, than experience to make me sad; 
 and to travel for it too. 
 
 Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear 
 Rosalind! 
 
 Jaq. Nay then, farewell, an you talk 
 in blank verse. \^Exit. 
 
 Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveler : 
 Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; 
 disable all the benefits of your own coun- 
 try; be out of love with your nativity, or 
 I will scarce think you have swam in a 
 gondola. — Why, how now, Orlando! 
 where have you been allthis while ? You a 
 lover? — An you serve me such another 
 trick, never come in my sight more. 
 
 Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within 
 an hour of my promise. 
 
 Ros. Break an hour's promise in love? 
 He that will divide a minute into a thou- 
 sand parts, and break but a part of Die 
 
 thousand part of a minute in the affairs 
 of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid 
 hath clayp'd him o' the shoulder, but I 
 warrant him heart whole. 
 
 Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come 
 no more in my sight; I had as lief be 
 woo'd of a snail. 
 
 Orl. Of a snail? 
 
 Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he 
 comes slowly, he carries his house on his 
 head; a better jointure, I think, than you 
 can make a woman: Besides, he brings his 
 destiny with him. 
 
 Orl. What's that? 
 
 Ros. Why, horns. 
 
 Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my 
 Rosalind is virtuous. 
 
 Ros. And I am your Rosalind. 
 
 Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but 
 he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you. 
 
 R/)s. Come, woo me, woo me; for now 
 I am in a holiday humour, and like 
 enough to consent: What would you say 
 to me now, an I were your very very 
 Rosalind? 
 
 0)'l. I would kiss, before I spoke. 
 
 Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; 
 and when you were gravelled for lack of 
 matter, you might take occasion to kiss. 
 
 Orl. How, if the kiss be denied? 
 
 Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, 
 and there begins new matter. 
 
 Orl. Who could be out, being before 
 his beloved mistress? 
 
 Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were 
 your mistress. 
 
 Orl. What, of my suit? 
 
 Ros. Out of your suit. Am not I your 
 Rosalind? 
 
 Orl. I take some joy to say you are, 
 because I would be talking of lier. 
 
 R(is. Well, in her person, I say — I 
 will not have you. 
 
 Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die. 
 
 Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The 
 poor world is almost six thousand ^'ears 
 
 ai5 
 
Act IV 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 old, and iu all this time there was not 
 any man died in his own person, videlicet, 
 in a love cause. Troilus had his brains 
 dashed oat with a Grecian club; j'et he 
 did what he could' to die before; and he is 
 one of the patterns of love. Leander, he 
 would have lived many a fair year, though 
 Hero had turned nun, if it had not been 
 for a hot midsummer night: for, good 
 youth, he went but forth to wash him in 
 the Hellespont, and being taken with the 
 cramp, was drowned; and the foolish 
 chroniclers of that age found it was — 
 Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies; 
 men have died from time to time, and 
 worms have eaten them, but not for love. 
 
 Orl. I would not have my right Rosa- 
 lind of this mind; fo"r, I protest, her 
 frown might kill me. 
 
 Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a 
 fly: But come, now I will be your Rosa- 
 lind in a more coming-on disjDosition; and 
 ask me what you will, I will grant it. 
 
 Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. Yes, faith will I, Fridays, and 
 Saturdays, and all. 
 
 Orl. And wilt thou have me? 
 
 Ros. Ay, and twenty such. 
 
 Orl. AYhat say'st thou? 
 
 Ros. Are you not good? 
 
 Orl. I hope so. 
 
 Ros. Why then, can one desire too 
 much of a good thing? — Come, sister, you 
 shall be the priest, and marry us. — Give 
 me your hand, Orlando: — What do you 
 say, sister? 
 
 Orl. Pray thee, marry us. 
 
 Cel. I cannot say the words. 
 
 Ros. You must begin, — Will you 
 Orlando, — 
 
 Cel. Goto: — Will you, Orlando, have 
 to wife this Rosalind ? 
 
 Orl. I will. 
 
 Ros. Ay, but when? 
 
 Orl. Why now; as fast as she can 
 marry us. 
 
 Ros. Then you must say, — I take thee, 
 Rosalind, for wife. 
 
 Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. 
 
 Ros. I might ask you for your com- 
 mission; but, — I do take thee, Orlando, 
 for my husband : There a girl goes before 
 the priest; and, certainly, a woman^s 
 thought runs before her actions. 
 
 Orl. So do all thoughts; they are 
 winged. 
 
 Ros. Now tell me how long you would 
 have her, after you have married her. 
 
 Orl. For ever and a day. 
 
 Ros. Say a day, without the ever: No, 
 no, Orlando; men are April when they 
 woo, December when they wed: maids are 
 May when they are maids, but the sky 
 changes when they are wives. I will- be 
 more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock- 
 pigeon over his hen; more clamorous than 
 a parrot against rain; more new-fangled 
 than an ape; more giddy than a monkey: 
 I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the 
 fountain, and I will do that when you are 
 disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a 
 hyen, and that when thou art inclined to 
 sleep. 
 
 Orl. But will my Rosalind do so? 
 
 Ros. By my like, she will do as I do. 
 
 Orl. 0, but she is wise. 
 
 Ros. Or else she could not have the 
 wit to do this: the wiser, the way warder: 
 Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and 
 it will out at the casement; shut that, 
 and "twill out at the key hole; stop that, 
 'twill fly with the smoke out at the 
 chimney. 
 
 Or. A man that had a wife with such 
 a wit, he might say, — Wit whither wilt? 
 
 Ros. You shall never take her without 
 her answer, unless you take her without 
 her tongue. 
 
 Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I 
 will leave thee. 
 
 Ros. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack the 
 two hours. 
 
 816 
 
Act IV. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEXK II. 
 
 Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner; 
 by two o'clock I will be with thee again. 
 
 Ros, Ay, go your ways, go your ways ; — 
 I knew what you would prove; my friends 
 told me' as much, and I thought no less: — 
 that flattering tongue of yours won me: — 
 'tis but oue cast away, and so, — come, 
 death. — Two o'clock is your hour? 
 
 Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, 
 and by all pretty oaths that are not dan- 
 gerous, if you break one jot of your prom- 
 ise, or come one minute behind your hour, 
 I will think you the most pathetical break- 
 promise, and the most hollow lover, and 
 the most unworthy of her you call Eosa- 
 lind, that may be chosen out of the gross 
 band of the unfaithful: therefore, beware 
 my censure, aud keep your promise. 
 
 Orl. With no less religion, than if 
 thou wert indeed my Eosalind: So adieu. 
 
 Ros. Well, time is the old justice that 
 examines all such offenders, and let time 
 try: Adieu. \^Exit Orlando. 
 
 Gel. You have simply misus'd our 
 sex in your love-prate: we must have your 
 doublet and hose plucked over your head. 
 
 Ros. coz, coz, coz, my pretty little 
 coz, that thou didst know how many 
 fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot 
 be sounded; my afiection hath an un- 
 known bottom, like the bay of Portugal. 
 
 Cel. Or rather, bottomless; that as fast 
 as you pour affection in, it runs out. 
 
 Ros. No, that same wicked boy of 
 Venus, that was begot of thought, con- 
 ceived of spleen, and born of madness; 
 that blind rascally boy, that abuses every 
 one's eyes, because his own are out, let 
 him be judge, how deep I am in love: — 
 I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of 
 the sight of Orlando: I'll go find a shadow, 
 and sigh till he come. 
 
 Cel. And I'll sleep. ^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. Another Part of the Forest. 
 
 Enter Jaques and Lords in the habit of 
 
 Foresters. 
 
 Jaq. Which is he that killed the deer? 
 
 1 Lord. Sir, it was I. 
 
 Jaq. Let's present him to the duke, 
 like a Roman conqueror; and it would do 
 well to set the deer's horns upon his head, 
 for a branch of victory: — Have you no 
 song, forester, for this purpose? 
 
 2 Lord. Yes, sir. 
 
 Jaq. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be 
 in tune, so it make noise enough. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. What shall he have that Mlled the 
 
 deer ? 
 
 2. His leather shin and horns to loear. 
 
 1. Then sing Mm home: 
 Take thou no scorn, to loear the horn^ 
 It tvas a crest ere thou wast born. 
 
 1. Thy fathers father toore it: 
 
 2. And thy father hore it; 
 
 All. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn, 
 Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. The Forest. 
 
 E7iter Rosalind and Celia. 
 
 Ros. How say you now? Isit not past 
 two o'clock? and here much Orlando! 
 
 Cel. I warrant you, with pure love, 
 and troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow 
 and arrows, and is gone forth — to sleep: 
 Look, who comes here. 
 
 Enter SiLvius. 
 
 Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth; — 
 My gentle Phebe bid me give you this; 
 
 [Giving a letter. 
 I know not the contents; but, as I guess, 
 By the stern brow, and waspish action 
 Which she did use as she was writing of 
 
 it. 
 It bears an angry tenor: pardon me, 
 I am but as a guiltless messenger. 
 
 21- 
 
Act IV. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Ros. Patience herself would startle at 
 this letter. 
 
 And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear 
 all: 
 
 She says, I am not fair; that I lack man- 
 ners; 
 
 She calls me proud; and, that she could 
 not love me 
 
 Were man as rare as phoenix; Od's mj' 
 will ! 
 
 Her love is not the hare that I do hunt: 
 
 Why writes she so to me? — Well, shep- 
 herd, well, 
 
 This is a letter of your own device. 
 
 Sil. No, I protest, I know not the con- 
 tents; Phebe did Avrite it. 
 
 Ros. Come, come, you are a fool. 
 
 And turn'd into the extremity of love 
 
 I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand, 
 
 A freestone-color'd hand; I verily did 
 think 
 
 That her old gloves were on, but t'was her 
 hands; 
 
 She has a huswife's hand: but that's no 
 matter: 
 
 I say, she never did invent this letter; 
 
 This is a man's invention, and his hand. 
 Sil. Sure, it is hers. 
 Ros. Why, 'tis a boisterous and cruel 
 style, 
 
 A style for challengers; why she defies 
 me, 
 
 Like Turk to Christian: woman's gentle 
 brain 
 
 Could not drop forth such giant-rude in- 
 vention, 
 
 Such Ethiop Avords, blacker in their 
 effect 
 
 Than in their countenance: — Will you 
 hear the letter? 
 Sil. So please you, for I never heard 
 it yet; 
 
 Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty. 
 Ros. She Phebes me: Mark how the 
 tyrant writes. [Reads. 
 
 Art thou god to sheplierd turivd, 
 Tliat a maiden's heart hath biirn'd? — 
 
 Can a woman rail thus? 
 Sil. Call you this railing? 
 Ros. Why, thy godhead laid apart, 
 Warr'st thou ivith aivoman's heart? 
 Did you ever hear such railing? — 
 
 Wliiles the eye of man did woo me, 
 That could do no vengeance to mc. — 
 Meaning me a beast. — 
 
 If the scorn of your bright eyne 
 Have poioer to raise siich love in mine. 
 AlacTc, in me tvhat strange effect 
 Would they work in mild aspect? 
 Wliiles you chid me, I did love; 
 Hoio then might your prayers move? 
 He, that brings his love to thee, 
 Little hnoxos this love in me: 
 And by him seal up thy mind; 
 Whether that thy yotcth and kind. 
 Will the faith fd offer take 
 Of me, and all that I can make; 
 Or else by him my love deny. 
 And then I'll study hoiu to die. 
 Sil. Call you this chiding? 
 Cel. Alas, poor shepherd! 
 Ros. Do you pity him? no, he deserves 
 no pity. — Wilt thou love such a woman? — 
 What, to make thee an instrument, and 
 play false strains upon thee! not to be 
 endured! — Well, go your way to her, 
 (for I see, love hath, made thee a tame 
 snake), and say this to her: — That if she 
 loves me, I charge her to love thee: if 
 she will not, I will never have her, unless 
 thou entreat for her. — If you be a true 
 lover, hence, and not a word: for here 
 comes more company. \^Exit Silvius. 
 
 Enter Oliver. 
 Oli. Good morrow, fair ones: Pray 
 you, if you know 
 Where, in the purlins of this forest, 
 
 stands 
 A sheep-cote, fenc'd about with olive- 
 trees? 
 Cel. West of this place, down in the 
 neighbor bottom. 
 The rank of osiers, by the murmuring 
 stream, 
 
 218 
 
Act IV. 
 
 AS YOCr LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Left on your right hand, brings you to 
 
 the place: 
 But at this hour the hoiise doth keep it- 
 self, 
 There's none within. 
 
 Oli. If that an eye may profit by a 
 
 tongue. 
 Then I should know you by description: 
 Such garments, and such years: Tlie hoy 
 
 is fair, 
 Of female favour, and bestotvs liimaelf 
 Like a rijye sister : but the luomau loiv. 
 And hrowner than her brother. Are not 
 
 you 
 The owner of the house I did inquire for? 
 Ccl. It is a boast, being ask'd, to say, 
 
 we are. 
 Oli. Orlando doth commend him to 
 
 you both; 
 And to tha,t youth, he calls his Eosalind, 
 He sends this bloody napkin; Are you he? 
 Ros. I am: What must we under- 
 stand by this? 
 Oli. Some of my shame; if you Avill 
 
 know of me 
 What man I am, and how, and why, and 
 
 where 
 This handkerchief was stain'd. 
 
 Cel. I pray you tell it. 
 
 Oli. When last the young Orlando 
 
 parted from you. 
 He left a promise to return again 
 Within an hour; and, pacing through the 
 
 forest, 
 Chewing the food of sweet and bitter 
 
 fancy, 
 Lo, what befell ! he threw his eye aside, 
 And, mark, what object did present itself! 
 Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd 
 
 Avith age 
 And high top bald with dry antiquity, 
 A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with 
 
 hair. 
 Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck 
 A green and gilded snake had wreathed 
 
 itself. 
 Who with her head, nimble in threats, 
 
 approach'd 
 
 The opening of his mouth; but suddenly 
 Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself. 
 And with indented glides did slip away 
 Into a bush: under which bush's shade 
 A. lioness, with udders all drawn dry. 
 Lay couching, head on ground, with cat- 
 like watch, 
 When that the sleeping man should stir: 
 
 for 'tis 
 The royal disposition of that beast. 
 To prey on nothing that doth seem as 
 
 dead: 
 This seen, Orlando did approach the man. 
 And found it was his brother, his elder 
 brother. 
 Cel. 0, I have heard him speak of that 
 same brother; 
 And he did render him the most un- 
 natural 
 That liv'd 'mongst men. 
 
 Oli. And well he might so do. 
 
 For well I know he was unnatural. 
 
 Ros. But, to Orlando; — Did he leave 
 him there. 
 Food to the suck'd and hungi'v lioness? 
 Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and 
 purposed so: 
 But kindness, nobler &ver than revenge, 
 And nature, stronger than his just oc- 
 casion, 
 Made him give battle to the lioness. 
 Who quickly fell before him; in which 
 
 hurtling 
 From miserable slumber I awak'd. 
 Cel. Are you his brotl)|pr? 
 Ros. Was it you he rescu'd? 
 
 Cel. Was't you that did so of t conti'ive 
 
 to kill him? 
 Oli. "Twas I; but 'tis not I; I do not 
 shame 
 To tell you what I was, since my conver- 
 sion 
 So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 
 Ros. But for the bloody napkin? — 
 Oli. By, and by. 
 
 AVhen from the first to last, betwixt us 
 two. 
 
 219 
 
Act IV. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 Tears our recountments had most kindly 
 bath'd, 
 
 As, liow I came into that desert place; 
 
 111 brief, he led me to the gentle duke, 
 Who gave me fresh array, and entertain- 
 ment. 
 Committing me unto my brother's love; 
 Who led me instantly unto his cave, 
 There stripp'd himself, and here upon his 
 
 arm 
 The lioness had torn some flesh away. 
 Which all this while had bled; and now 
 
 he fainted. 
 And cry'd, in fainting, upon Rosalind. 
 Brief, I recovered him; bound up his 
 
 wound; 
 And, after some small space, being strong 
 
 at heart. 
 He sent me hither, stranger as I am. 
 To tell this story, that you might excuse 
 His broken promise, and to give this nap- 
 kin, 
 Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd 
 
 youth 
 That he in sport doth call his Eosalind. 
 Cel. Why how now, Ganymede? sweet 
 Ganymede? [EosALiifD /ffr/iZ^s. 
 
 Oli. • Many will swoon when they do 
 look on blood._ 
 
 Cel. 
 
 in it: — Cousin — 
 
 Thei'e is more 
 Ganymede! 
 
 Oli. Look, he recovers. 
 
 Bos. I would, I were at home. 
 
 Cel. We'll lead you thither: — * 
 I pray you, will you take him by the arm? 
 
 Oli. Be of good cheer, youth: — You a 
 man ? — 
 You lack a man's heart. 
 
 Ro%, I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir, a 
 body would think this was well counter- 
 feited: I pray you, tell your brother how 
 well I counterfeited. — Heigh hoi — 
 
 Oli. This was not counterfeit; there is 
 too great testimony in your complexion, 
 that it was a passion of earnest. 
 
 Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. 
 
 Oli. Well then, take a good heart, and 
 counterfeit to be a man. 
 
 Eos. So I do: but, i'faith I should have 
 been a woman by right. 
 
 Cel. Come, you look paler and paler; 
 pray you, draw homewards: — Good sir, go 
 with us. 
 
 Oli. That will I, for I must bear an- 
 swer back — 
 How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. I shall devise something: But, 
 I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to 
 him: —Will you go? [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene I. The Same. 
 Enter Touchstoxe and Audrey. 
 
 Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey; 
 patience, gentle Audrey. 
 
 A^id. 'Faith, the priest was good 
 enough, for all the old gentleman's say- 
 ing. 
 
 Touch. A most wicked sir Oliver, 
 Audrey, a most vile Mar-text. But, Aud- 
 rey, there is a youth here in the forest 
 lays claim to you. 
 
 Aud. Ay, I know who 'tis; he hath no 
 interest in me in the world: here comes 
 the man you mean. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 1 Enter William. 
 
 Touch. It is meat and drink to me to 
 see a clown: By my troth, we that have 
 good wits, have much to answer for; we 
 shall be flouting; we cannot hold. 
 
 Will. Good even, Audrey. 
 
 Atul. Good even, William. 
 
 Will. And good even to you, sir. 
 
 Touch. Good even, gentle friend: 
 Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, 
 prvthee, be covered. How old are you, 
 friend? 
 
 Will. Five and twenty, sir. 
 
 
 
Act V. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Touch. A ripe age: Is thy name Wil- 
 liam? 
 
 Will. "William, sir. 
 
 Toiich. A fair name; "Wast born i' the 
 forest here? 
 
 Will. Ay, sir. 
 
 Touch. Art rich? 
 
 117//. 'Faith, sir, so so. 
 
 To\i,ch. So, SG, is good, very good, very 
 excellent good: — and yet it is not; it is 
 but so, so. Art thou wise? 
 
 Will. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. 
 
 Touch. Why, thou say'st well. I do 
 now remember a saying; Tlie fcol cloth 
 tJtinJc lie is wise, but the wise man hnoivs 
 himself to he a fool. The heathen philos- 
 opher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, 
 would open his lips when he put it into 
 his mouth; meaning thereby, that grapes 
 were made to eat, and' lips to open. You 
 do love this maid? 
 
 Will. I do, sir. 
 
 Touch. Give me your hand: Art thou 
 learned ? 
 
 Will. No, sir. 
 
 Touch. Then learn this of me; To 
 have, is to have: For it is a figure in 
 rhetoric, that drink, being poured out of 
 a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth 
 empty the other: For all your writers do 
 consent, that ij^se is he; now you are not 
 ipse, for I am he. 
 
 Will. Which he, sir? 
 
 Touch. He, sir, that must marry this 
 woman: Therefore, you clown, abandon, 
 — which is in the vulgar, leave, — the so- 
 cietj^, — which in the boorish is company, — 
 of this female, — which in the common is, 
 — woman, which together is, abandon the 
 society of this female; or, clown, thou 
 perishest; or, to thy better understand- 
 ing, diest; to wit, I kill thee, make thee 
 away, translate thy life into death, thy 
 liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison 
 with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I 
 will bandy with thee in faction; I will 
 o'er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee 
 
 a hundred and fifty ways; therefore trem- 
 ble, and depart. 
 
 Aud. Do, good William. 
 
 Will. Rest you merry, sir. \_Exit. 
 
 Enter CoRlN. 
 
 Cor. Our master and mistress seek you; 
 come, away, away. 
 
 Toxich. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey; — 
 I attend, I attend. [Exeiint. 
 
 Scene II. The Same. 
 Enter Orlando and Oliver. 
 
 Orl. Is't possible, that on so little ac- 
 quaintance you should like her? that, but 
 seeing, you should love her? and, loving, 
 woo? and, wooing, she should grant, and 
 will you persevere to marry her? 
 
 Oli. Neither call the giddiness of it 
 in question, the poverty of her, the small 
 acquaintance, my sudden Avooing, nor her 
 sudden consenting; but say with me, I 
 love Aliena; say with her, that she loves 
 me; consent Avith both, that we may enjoy 
 each other: it shall be to your good; for 
 my father's house, and all the revenue that 
 was old Sir Rowland's, will I estate ujion 
 you, and here live and die a shepherd. 
 
 Enter Rosalind. 
 
 Orl. You have my consent. Let your 
 wedding be to-morrow; thither will I in- 
 vite the duke, and all his contented fol- 
 lowers: Go you, and prepare Aliena; for, 
 look you, here comes my Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. God save you, brother. 
 
 Oli. And you, fair sister. 
 
 Ros. 0, my dear Orlando, how it 
 grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a 
 scarf. 
 
 Orl. It is my arm. 
 
 Ros. I thought, thy heart had been 
 wounded with the claws of a lion. 
 
 Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes 
 of a lady. 
 
 Ros. Did your brother tell you how I 
 counterfeited to swoon, when he showed 
 me vour handkerchief? 
 
 221 
 
Act Y 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Sge^s-e II. 
 
 Orl. Ay, and greater "wonders than 
 that. 
 
 Ros. 0, I know where you are: — Nay^ 
 'tis true: there was never any thing so 
 sudden, but the fight of two rams, and 
 Ciesar's thrasonical brag of — I came, saiv, 
 and overcame : For your brother and my 
 sister no sooner met, but they looked; no 
 sooner looked, but the)^ loved; no sooner 
 loved, but they sighed; no sooner sighed, 
 but they asked one another the reason; no 
 sooner knew the reason, but they sought 
 the rem.edy: and in these degrees have 
 they made a pair of stairs to marriage: 
 they are in the very wrath of love, and 
 they will together; clubs cannot part 
 them. 
 
 Orl They shall be married to-morrow: 
 and I will bid the duke to the nuptial. 
 But, 0, how bitter a thing it is to look 
 into happiness through another man's 
 eyes! By so much the more shall I to- 
 morrow be at the height of heart-heavi- 
 ness, by how much I shall think my 
 brother happy, in having what he wishes 
 for. 
 
 Ros. Why then, to-morrow I cannot 
 serve your turn for Kosalind? 
 
 Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. 
 
 Ros. I will weary you no longer then 
 with idle talking. Know of me then, 
 (for now I speak to some purpose), that I 
 know you are a gentleman of good con- 
 ceit: I speak not this, that you should 
 bear a good opinion of my knowledge, 
 insomuch, I say, I know you are; neither 
 do I labor for a greater esteem than may in 
 some little measure draw a belief from you, 
 to do yourself good, and not to grace me. 
 Believe then, if you please, that I can do 
 strange things: I have, since I was three 
 years old, conversed with a magician, most 
 profound in this art. If you do love Eosa- 
 lind so near the heart as your gesture cries 
 it out, when your brother marries Aliena, 
 shall you marry her: I know into what 
 straits of fortune she is driven; and it is 
 
 not impossible to me, if it appear not in- 
 convenient to you, to set her before your 
 eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and with- 
 out any danger. 
 
 0?-I. Speakest thou in sober meanings? 
 
 Ros. By my life, I do; which I tender 
 dearly, though I say I am a magician: 
 Therefore, put you in your best array, bid 
 3'our friends; for if you will be married 
 to-morrow, you shall; and to Eosalind, if 
 you will. 
 
 Fnter SiLVirs a7id Phebe. 
 
 Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a 
 lover of hers. 
 Phe. Youth, you have done me much 
 ungentleness. 
 To show the letter that I writ to you. 
 Ros. I care not, if I have: it is my 
 study. 
 To seem despiteful and ungentle to you: 
 You are there followed by a faithful shep- 
 herd; 
 Look upon him, love him; he worships 
 you. 
 Phe. Good shepherd tell this youth 
 
 what ''tis to love. 
 Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and 
 tears; — 
 And so am I for Phebe. 
 
 Phe. And I for Ganym.ede. 
 Orl. And I for Eosalind. 
 Ros. And I for no woman. 
 Sil. It is to be all made of faith and 
 service; — 
 And 80 am I for Phebe. 
 
 Phe. And I for Ganymede. 
 Orl. And I for Eosalind. 
 Ros. And I for no woman. 
 Sil. It is to be all made of fantasy. 
 All made of passion, and all made of 
 
 wishes ; 
 All adoration, duty, and observance, 
 All humbleness, all patience, and impa- 
 tience. 
 All purity, all trial, all observance; — 
 And so am I for Phebe. 
 
Act V 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Phe. And so am I for Ganymede. 
 Orl. And so am I for Eosalind. 
 Ros. And so am I for no woman. 
 Pile. If this be so, why blame you me 
 to love you? {To Eosalikd. 
 
 Sil. If this be so, why blame you me 
 to love you? [To Phebe. 
 
 Orl. If this be so, vfhj blame you me 
 
 to love you? 
 Ros. Who do you speak to, why blame 
 
 you me to love you? 
 Orl. To her, that is not here, nor doth 
 
 not hear. 
 Ros. Pray you, no more of this; 'tis 
 like the howling of Irish wolves against 
 the moon. — I will help you, [ To Silvius. ] 
 if I can: — I would love you, \_To Phebe.] 
 if I could. — To-morrow meet me all to- 
 gether. — I will marry you, [7b Phebe.] 
 if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married 
 to-morrow: — I will satisfy you, \^To Or- 
 lando.] if ever I satisfied man, and you 
 shall be married to-morrow: — I will con- 
 tent you, \_To SiLvirs.] if what pleases 
 you contents you, and you shall be marri- 
 ed to-morrow. — As you [Jo Orlando.] 
 love Rosalind, meet; — as you [Tb Sil- 
 vius.] love Phebe, meet; and as I love no 
 woman, I'll meet. — So, fare you well; I 
 have left you commands. 
 Sil. I'll not fail, if I live. 
 Phe. Nor I. 
 
 Orl. Nor I. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. The Same. 
 Enter Touchstone atid Audrey. 
 Toucli. To-morrow is the joyful day, 
 Audrey; to-morrow will we be married. 
 
 Aud. I do desire it with all my lieart: 
 and hope it is no dishonest desire, to de- 
 sire to be a woman of the -world. Here 
 comes two of the banished duke's pages. 
 Enter two Pages. 
 1 Page. Well met, honest gentleman. 
 Touch. By my troth, well met: Come 
 sit, sit, and a song. 
 
 2 Page. We are for you: sit i'the mid- 
 dle. 
 
 1 Page. Shall we clap into't roundly, 
 without hawking, or saying we are hoarse; 
 which are the only prologues to a bad 
 voice? 
 
 3 Page. And both in a tune, like two 
 gipsies on a horse. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was a lover, and his lass, 
 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
 Tliat o'er the green corn-iield did pass, 
 
 In the spring time, the only pretty rank 
 time, 
 When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; 
 Sweet lovers love the sptring. 
 
 II. 
 
 The carol they begin that hour. 
 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
 Hoio that a life was but a flower 
 
 In spring time, etc. 
 
 III. 
 And therefore take the present time. 
 
 With a hey, and a lio, and a hey nonijio, 
 For love is crowned loith the j^rime 
 
 In the spring time, etc. 
 
 Touch. Truly, young gentlemen, 
 though there was no greater matter in the 
 ditty, yet the note was very untuneable. 
 
 1 Page. You are deceived, sir; we 
 kept time, we lost not our time. 
 
 Touch. By my troth, yes ; I count it 
 but time lost to hear such a foolish song. 
 Come, Audrey. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. Another part of the Forest. 
 
 Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, 
 Orlando, Oliver, and Celia. 
 Duke 8. Dost thou believe, Orlando, 
 that the boy can do all this that he hath 
 promised? 
 
 Orl. I sometimes do believe, and 
 sometimes do not; 
 
 223 
 
Act V. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEXE IV. 
 
 As those that fear they hope, and know 
 they fear. 
 Eiiter EosALiND, Siltius, and Phebe. 
 Ros. Patience once more, whiles our 
 
 compact is urg'd : 
 
 You say, if I bring in your Eosalind, 
 
 {To the Duke. 
 You will bestow her on Orlando here? 
 Duhe S. That would I, had I kingdoms 
 
 to give with her. 
 Ros. And you say, you will have her 
 when I bring her ? 
 
 [7b Orlando. 
 Orl. That would I, were I of all king- 
 doms king. 
 Ros. You say: you'll marry me, if I 
 be willing ? 
 
 {To Phebe. 
 Phe. That will I, should I die the 
 
 hour after. 
 Ros. But, if you do refuse to marry 
 me. 
 You'll give yourself to this most faithful 
 shepherd? 
 Phe. So is the bargain. 
 Ros. You say, that you'll have Phebe, 
 if she will ? 
 
 [To SlLYIUS. 
 Sil. Though to have her and death 
 
 were both one thing. 
 Ros. I have promis'd to make all this 
 matter even. 
 Keep you your word, duke, to give your 
 
 daughter ; — 
 You yours, Orlando, to receive his daugh- 
 ter : — 
 Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry 
 
 me ; 
 Or else, refusing me, to wed this shep- 
 herd : — 
 Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry 
 
 her, 
 If she refuse me : — and from hence I go, 
 To make these doubts all even. 
 
 {Exeunt Rosalind and Celia. 
 Duke S. I do remember in this shep- 
 herd boy 
 
 Some lively touches of my daughter's 
 
 favor. 
 Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever 
 saAv him, 
 Methought he was a brother to your 
 
 daughter • 
 But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born; 
 And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments 
 Of many desjDerate studies by his uncle, 
 Whom he reports to be a great magician, 
 Obscured in the circle of this forest. 
 
 Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 
 
 Jaq. There is, sure, another flood 
 toward, and these couples are coming to 
 the ark ! Here comes a pair of very strange 
 beasts, which in all tongues are called 
 fools. 
 
 Touch. Salutation and greeting to you 
 all: 
 
 Jaq, Good my lord, bid him welcome: 
 This is the motley-minded gentleman, 
 that I have so often met in the forest : he 
 hath been a courtier, he swears. 
 
 Touch. If any man doubt that, let him 
 put me to my purgation. I have trod a 
 measure ; I have flattered a lady ; I have 
 been politick with my friend, smooth with 
 mine enemy ; I have undone three tailors; 
 I have had four quarrels, and like to have 
 fought one. 
 
 Jaq. And how was that ta'en up? 
 
 Touch. 'Faith, we met, and found the 
 quarrel was upon the seventh cause. 
 
 Jaq. How seventh cause? — Good my 
 lord, like this fellow. 
 
 Dulce 8. I like him very well. 
 
 Touch. Sir; I desire you of the like. 
 I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of 
 the country folks, to swear, and to for- 
 swear; according as marriage binds, and 
 blood breaks: — A poor virgin, sir, an ill- 
 favored thing, sir, but mine own ; a poor 
 humor of mine, sir, to take that that no 
 man else will: Eich honesty dwells like 
 a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl, 
 in your foul oyster. 
 
 224 
 
Act V. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Diikc S. By my faith, he is very swift 
 and sententious. 
 
 Toiich. According to the fool's bolt, 
 sir. 
 
 Jaq. But, for the seventh cause; how 
 did you find the quarrel on the seventh 
 cause ? 
 
 Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed ; 
 — Bear your body more seeming, Audrey: 
 — as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a 
 certain courtier's beard; he sent me word, 
 if I said his beard was not cut well, he 
 was in the mind it was: This iscalledthe 
 Retort courteous. If I sent him word 
 again, it was not well cut, he would send 
 me word, he cut it to please himself: 
 This is called the Quif modest. If again, 
 it was not well cut, he disabled my judg- 
 ment: This is called the Reply cliurlish. 
 If again, it was not well cut, he would 
 answei", I spake not true: This is call'd 
 the Ri'pr oof valiant. If again, it was not 
 well cut, he would say, I lie: This is call'd 
 the Counterchech quarrelsome: and so to 
 the Lie circumstantial, and the Lie direct. 
 
 Jaq. And how oft did you say, his 
 heard was not well cut ? 
 
 Touch. I durst go no further than the 
 Lie circumstantial, nor he durst not give 
 me the Lie direct; and so we measured 
 swords and parted. 
 
 Jaq. Can you nominate in order now 
 the degrees of the lie ? 
 
 Touch. sir, we quarrel in print, by 
 the book; as you have books for good man- 
 ners: I will name you the degrees. The 
 first, the Ketort courteous; the second, 
 the Quip modest; the third, the Eeply 
 churlish; the fourth, the Reproof valiant; 
 the fifth, the Countercheck quarrelsome; 
 the sixth, the Lie with circumstance; the 
 seventh, the Lie direct. All these you 
 may avoid but the lie direct; and you may 
 avoid that too, with an If. I knew when 
 seven justices could not take up a quarrel: 
 but when the parties were met themselves, 
 one of them thought but of an If, as //' 
 
 you said so, then I said so; and they shook 
 hands, and swore brothers. Your If is 
 the only peace-maker; much virtue in If. 
 
 Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord ? 
 he's as good at any thing, and yet a fool. 
 
 DuJce S. He uses his folly like a stalk- 
 ing-horse, and under the presentation of 
 that he shootshis wit. 
 
 Enter Hymen, leading Rosalind in 
 woman's clothes : and Celia. 
 Still Musick. 
 Hym. Then is there mirth in heaven. 
 When earthly things made even 
 
 Alone together. 
 Good duke, receioe thy daughter. 
 Hymen from heaven brought her: ' 
 
 Yea, brought her hither. 
 That thou mightst join her hand 
 
 with his 
 Whose heart within her bosom is. 
 Ros. To you I give myself, for I am 
 yours. 
 
 [To Duke S. 
 To you I give myself, for I am yours. 
 
 [To Orlando. 
 Duke S. If there be truth in sight, 
 you are my daughter. 
 
 Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are 
 my Rosalind. 
 
 Fhe. If sight and shape be true, 
 "Why then, — my love, adieu ! 
 
 Ros. I'll have no father, if you be not 
 he:— 
 
 [To Duke S. 
 I'll have no husband, if you be not he : — 
 
 [To Orlando. 
 Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. 
 
 [ To Phebe. 
 Ilym. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion: 
 'Tis I must make conclusion 
 
 Of these most strange events : 
 Here's eight that must take hands. 
 To join in Hymen's bands, 
 
 if truth holds true contents. 
 You and you no cross shall part: 
 
 [To Orlando and Rosalind. 
 
 225 
 
Act V. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCEXE IV. 
 
 To you and you are heart in heart: 
 
 [To Oliver and Celia. 
 You [To Phebe.] to his love must 
 
 accord, 
 Or have a woman to your lord : — 
 You and you are sure together, 
 
 [To Touchstone a?zc? Audrey. 
 As the winter to foul weather. 
 Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, 
 Feed yourselves with questioning; 
 That reason wonder may diminish, 
 How thus we met, and these things 
 finish. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Wedding is great Juno's croion; 
 
 Messed bond of hoard and bed ! 
 'Tis Hymen peoples every town; 
 High xoedlock then he honored: 
 Honor, high honour a7id renoxon. 
 To Hymen, god of every toion I 
 DuTce S. my dear niece, welcome 
 thou art to me ; 
 Even daughter, welcome in no less de- 
 gree. 
 Phe. I will not eat my word, now 
 thou art mine ; 
 Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. 
 
 , [To SiLVIUS. 
 
 Bnter Jaques de Bois. 
 
 Jaq. de B. Let me have audience for 
 a word or two; 
 
 I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, 
 
 That bring these tidings to this fair as- 
 sembly : — 
 
 Duke Frederick, hearing how that every 
 day 
 
 Men of great worth resorted to this for- 
 est. 
 
 Addressed a mighty power ! which were 
 on foot. 
 
 In his own conduct, purposely to take 
 
 His brother here, and put him to the 
 sword : 
 
 And to the skirts of this wild wood he 
 came ; 
 
 Where, meeting with an old religious 
 man. 
 
 After some questions with him, was con- 
 verted 
 
 Both from his enterprize, and from the 
 world : 
 
 His crown bequeathing to his banish'd 
 brother. 
 
 And all their lands restored to them 
 again 
 
 That were with him exil'd : This to be 
 true, 
 
 I do engage my life. 
 
 Duhe S. Welcome, young man ; 
 
 Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wed- 
 ding : 
 
 To one, his lands Avithheld : and to the 
 other, 
 
 A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 
 
 First, in this forest, let us do those ends 
 
 That here were well begun, and well be- 
 got : 
 
 And after, every of this happy number. 
 
 That have endur'd shrewd days and 
 nights with us. 
 
 Shall share the good of our returned for- 
 tune. 
 
 According to the measure of their states. 
 
 Meantime, forget this new-falFn dignity, 
 
 And fall into our rustick revelry : — 
 
 Play, music ; — and you brides and 
 bridegrooms all. 
 
 With measure heap'd in joy, to the meas- 
 ures fall. 
 Jaq. Sir, by your patience ; if I heard 
 you rightly. 
 
 The duke hath put on a religious life, 
 
 And thrown into neglect the pompous 
 court ? 
 Jaq. de B. He hath. 
 Jaq. To him will I : out of these con- 
 vertites 
 
 There is much matter to be heard and 
 learn'd. — 
 
 You to your former honor I bequeath ; 
 
 [To Duke S. 
 
 226 
 
Act V. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Your patience and your virtue, well de- 
 serves it : — 
 
 You [To Orlando.] to a love, that your 
 true faith doth merit : — 
 
 You [To Oliver.] to your land, and love, 
 and great allies : — 
 
 You [To SiLVius.] to a long and well de- 
 served bed ; — 
 
 And you [To Touchstone.] to wrang- 
 ling, for thy loving voyage 
 
 Is but for two months victual'd : — so to 
 your pleasures ; 
 
 I am for other than for dancing meas- 
 ures. 
 Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay. 
 Jaq. To see no pastime, I: — what 
 you would have 
 I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Duke S. Proceed, proceed : we will 
 begin these rites, 
 And we do trust they'll end, in true de- 
 
 lights. 
 
 [A dance. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Ros. It is not the fashion to see the 
 lady the epilogue : but it is no more un- 
 handsome, than to see the lord the pro- 
 logue. If it be true, that good tvine 
 needs no bush, 'tis true, that a good play 
 needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine 
 they do use good bushes ; and good plays 
 prove the better by the helj) of good epi- 
 logues. What a case am I in then, that 
 am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot 
 insinuate with you in the behalf of a good 
 play ? I am not furnished like a beggar, 
 therefore to beg will not become me : my 
 way is, to conjure you ; and I'll begin 
 
 with the women. I charge you, wom- 
 en, for the love you bear to men, to like 
 as much of this play as pleases them : 
 and so I charge you, men, for the love 
 you bear to women, (as I perceive by 
 your simpering, none of you hate them,) 
 that between you and the women, the 
 play may please. If I were a woman, I 
 would kiss as many of you as had beards 
 that pleased me, and complexions that 
 liked me : and, I am sure, as many as 
 have good beards, or good faces, will, for 
 my kind offer, when I make curt'sy, bid 
 me farewell. [Exeunt. 
 
 227 
 
Familiar Quotations From Shakespeare. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Duke Sejs"ior. 
 S^veet are the uses of adversity. 
 Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
 "Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; 
 And this our life, exemi^t from public 
 
 haunt. 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the run- 
 ning brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 1, I. 12, 
 
 Adam. 
 
 Though I look old, yet I am strong and 
 
 lusty; 
 
 For in my youth I never did apply 
 
 Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood, 
 
 Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
 
 The means of weakness and debility; 
 
 Therefore my age is as a lusty winter. 
 
 Frosty but kindly. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 3, I. 47. 
 
 Orlando. 
 O good old man, how well in thee appears 
 The constant service of the antique world, 
 When service sweat for duty, not for 
 
 meed! 
 Thou art not for the fashion of these 
 
 times, 
 Where none will sweat but for promotion. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 3, I. 56. 
 
 Jaql^es. 
 All the world's a stage. 
 And all the men and women merely 
 
 players: 
 They have their exits and their entrances; 
 And one man in his time plays many 
 
 parts, 
 His acts being seven ages. At first, the 
 infant 
 
 Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. 
 Then the whining school boy, with his 
 
 sachel. 
 And shining morning face, creeping like 
 
 snail 
 Unwillingly to school. And then, the 
 
 lover. 
 Sighing like a furnace, with a woful bal- 
 lad 
 Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a 
 
 soldier. 
 Full of strange oaths, and bearded like 
 
 the pard. 
 Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in 
 
 quarrel, 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, 
 
 the justice 
 In fair round belly with good capon lin'd. 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
 Full of wise saws and modern instances ; 
 And so he plays his part. The sixth age 
 
 shifts 
 Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon. 
 With spectacles on nose, and pouch on 
 
 side ; 
 His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too 
 
 wide 
 For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly 
 
 voice. 
 Turning again toward childish treble, 
 
 pipes 
 And whistles in his sound. Last scene of 
 
 all. 
 That ends this strange eventful history, 
 Is second childishness, and mere obliv- 
 ion ; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans 
 
 everything. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 7, I. 139, 
 
 228 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Amiens. — Song. 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind. 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen. 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 
 Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green 
 holly: 
 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving 
 mere folly. 
 Then heigh-ho! the holly! 
 This life is most jolly. 
 Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky. 
 Thou dost not bite so nigh 
 As benefits forgot: — 
 Though thou the waters warp 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 As friend remember'd not. 
 
 Heigh-ho! sing, etc. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 7, 1. 175. 
 
 Rosalind. 
 Do you not know I am a woman? when 
 I think, I must speak. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 3, ;. 226. 
 
 EOSALIND. 
 
 I had rather have a fool to make me 
 merry, than experience to make me sad. 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, I. 30. 
 
 Rosalind. 
 
 Now I am in a holiday humor, and like 
 enough to consent. 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, I. 55. 
 
 Rosalind. 
 
 Men have died from time to time, and 
 worms have eaten them, but not for love. 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, I. 88. 
 
 229 
 
A Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 THERE was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its citizens the power of 
 compelling their daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased; for upon a 
 daughter's refusing to marry the man her father had chosen to be her husband, the 
 father was emi^owered by this law to cause her to be put to death; but as fathers do 
 not often desire the death of their own daughters, even though they do happen to 
 prove a little refractory, this law was seldom or never put in execution, though per- 
 haps the young ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened by their parents 
 with the terrors of it. 
 
 There was an instance, however, of an old man, whose name was Egeus, who 
 actually did come before Theseus (at that time the reigning duke of Athens), to com- 
 plain that his daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded to marry Demetrius, a 
 young man of a noble Athenian family, refused to obey him, because she loved another 
 young Athenian named Lysander. Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, and desired 
 that this cruel law might be put in force against his daughter. 
 
 Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience that Demetrius had formerly pro- 
 fessedlove for her dear friend Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction; 
 but this honorable reason which Hermia gave for not obeying her father's command 
 moved not the stern Egeus. 
 
 Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no power to alter the laws of 
 his country; therefore he could only give Hermia four days to consider of it; and at 
 the end of that time, if she still refused to marry Demetrius, she was to be put to 
 death. 
 
 When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the duke, she went to her lover 
 Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, and that she must either give up him 
 and marry Demetrius or lose her life in four days. 
 
 Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; but recollecting 
 that he had an aunt who lived at some distance from Athens, and that at the place 
 where she lived the cruel law could not be put in force against Hermia (this law not 
 extending beyond the boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia that she should 
 steal out of her father^s house that night, and go with him to his aunt's house, where 
 he would marry her. " I will meet you," said Lysander, " in the wood a few miles 
 without the city; in that delightful wood, where we have so of ten walked with Helena 
 in the pleasant month of May." 
 
 To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she told no one of her intended 
 flight but her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens will do foolish things for love) very 
 ungenerously resolved to go and tell this to Demetrius, though she could hope no 
 benefit from betraying her friend's secret but the poor pleasure of following her faith- 
 less lover to the wood, for she well knew that Demetrius would go thither in pursuit 
 of Hermia. 
 
 The wood in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet was the favorite haunt 
 of those little beings known by the name of Fairies. 
 
 230 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of the Fairies, with all their tiny train 
 of followers, in this wood, held their midnight revels. 
 
 Between this little king and queen of spirits there happened, at this time, a sad 
 disagreement: they never met by moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant 
 wood but they were quarrelling, till all their fairy elves would creep into acorn cups 
 and hide themselves for fear. 
 
 The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing to give Oberon a 
 little changeling boy, whose mother had been Titania's friend ; and upon her death, 
 the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse, and brought him up in the woods. 
 
 The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as Titania was walking 
 with some of her maids of honor, she met Oberon, attended by his train of fairy 
 courtiers. 
 
 '■'Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy king. The queen replied, 
 "What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his com- 
 pany." '•■ Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon; "am not I thy lord? Why does Titania 
 cross her Oberon? Give me your little changeling boy to be my page.'' 
 
 " Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; "your whole fairy kingdom buys 
 not the boy of me." She then left her lord in great anger. " Well, go your way," 
 said Oberon; "before the morning dawns I will torment you for this injury," 
 
 Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favorite and privy councillor. 
 
 Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow) was a shrewd and 
 knavish sprite, and used to play comical pranks in the neighboring villages; sometimes 
 getting into the dairies and skimming the milk; sometimes plunging his light and 
 airy form into the butter-churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the 
 churn, in vain the dairymaid would labor to change her cream into butter; nor had 
 the village swains any better success, whenever Puck chose to play his freaks in the 
 brewing copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled. When a few good neighbors were met 
 to drink some comfortable ale together. Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in the 
 likeness of a roasted crab, and when some old goody was going to drink, he would bob 
 against her lips, and spill the ale over her withered chin; and presently after, when 
 the same old dame was gravely seating herself to tell her neighbors a sad and melan- 
 choly story. Puck would slip her thi'ee-legged stool from under her, and down toppled 
 the poor old woman, and then the old gossips would hold their sides and laugh at her, 
 and swear they never wasted a merrier hour. 
 
 " Come hither. Puck," said Oberon to this little merry wanderer of the night; 
 " fetch me the flower which maids call Love in Idleness; the juice of that little purple 
 flower laid on the eyelids of those who sleep, will make them, when they awake, dote 
 on the first thing they see. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eyelids' 
 of my Titania when she is asleep, and the first thing she looks upon when she opens 
 her eyes she will fall in love with, even though it be a lion, or a bear, a meddling 
 monkey, or a busy ape; and before I will take this charm from off her sight, which I 
 can do with another charm I know of, I will make her give me that boy to be my 
 page." 
 
 Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with this intended 
 frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower; and while Oberon was waiting the 
 return of Puck he observed Demetrius and Helena enter the wood; he overheard 
 Demetrius reproaching Helena for following him, and after many unkind words on 
 
 231 
 
A MIDSQMMER-XIGHT'S DEEAM. 
 
 his part, aud gentle expostulations from Helena, reminding him of his former love 
 and professions of true faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the mercy of the wild 
 beasts, and she ran after him as swiftly as she could. 
 
 The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, felt great compassion for 
 Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said, they used to walk by moonlight in this pleas- 
 ant wood. Oberon might have seen Helena in those hajipy times when she was beloved 
 by Demetrius. However that might be, when Puck returned with the little purple 
 flower, Oberon said to his favorite: '' Take a part of this flower: there has been a 
 sweet Athenian lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if you find him 
 sleei^ing, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but contrive to doit when she is near 
 him, that the first thing he sees when he awakes may be this despised lady. You will 
 know the man by the Athenian garments which he wears." Pack promised to man- 
 age this matter very dexterously; and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to 
 her bower, where she was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a bank, where 
 grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets under a canopy of wooelbine, musk-roses, 
 and eglantine. There Titania always slept some part of the night; her coverlet, the 
 enameled skin of a snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide enough to wrap a 
 fairy in. 
 
 He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they were to employ them- 
 selves while she slept. " Some of you," said her majesty, " must kill cankers in the 
 musk-rose buds, and some wage war with the bats for their leathern wings, to make 
 my small elves coats; and some of you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly 
 hoots, comes not near me ; but first sing me to sleep." Then they began to sing this 
 song: 
 
 Tou spotted snakes with double tongue, 
 Thorny hedgehogs be not seen; 
 Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, 
 Come not near our Fairy Queen. 
 Philomel, with melody, 
 Sing in your sweet lullaby : 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; hdla, lulla, lullaby : 
 Never harm, nor spell, nor charm 
 Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
 So good night with lullaby. 
 
 When the fairies had sung their queen asleep Avith this pretty lullaby, they left 
 her to perform the important services she had enjoined them. Oberon then softly 
 drew near his Titania, and dropped some of the love juice on her eyelids, saying, 
 
 What thou seegt, when thou doest wake. 
 Do it for thy true-love sake. 
 
 But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her father's house that 
 night, to avoid the eleath she was doomed to for refusing to marry Demetrius. When 
 she entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander waiting for her, to conduct her to 
 his aunt's house ; but before they had passed half through the wood, Hermia was so 
 much fatigued, that Lysander, who was very careful of his dear lady, who had proved 
 her affection for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded her to rest till 
 morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down himself on the ground at some little 
 distance, they soon fell asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who seeing a hand- 
 some young man asleep, and perceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian 
 
 232 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT^S DREAM. 
 
 fashion, and that a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this must be the 
 Athenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon had sent him to seek ; and he 
 naturally enough conjectured that as they were alone together, she must be the first thing 
 he would see when lie awoke ; so without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the 
 juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out, that Helena came 
 that way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first object Lysander beheld when he opened 
 his eyes ; and strange to relate, so powerful was the love-charm, that all his love for 
 Hermia vanished away, and Lysander fell in love with Helena. 
 
 Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder Puck committed would 
 have been of no consequence, for he could not love that faithful lady too well; but 
 for poor Lysander to be forced by a fairy love-charm to forget his own true Hermia, 
 and to run after another lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at mid- 
 night, was a sad chance indeed. 
 
 Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before related, endeavored 
 to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away so rudely from her; but she could not 
 continue this unequal race long, men being always better runners in a long race than 
 ladies. Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius; and as she was wandering about 
 dejected and forlorn, she arrived at the place where Lysander was sleeping. "Ah," 
 said she, "this is Lysander lying on the ground: ishedead or asleep?" Then gently 
 touching him, she said, "Good sir, if you are alive, awake." Upon this Lysander 
 opened his eyes, and (the love-charm beginning to work) immediately addressed her 
 in terms of extravagant love and admiration; telling her, she as much excelled 
 Hermia in beauty as a dove does a raven, and that he would run through fire for her 
 sweet sake; and many more such lovei'-like speeches. 
 
 Helena, knowing Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, and that he was 
 solemnly engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard herself 
 addressed in this manner; for she thought (well she might) that Lysander was making 
 a jest of her " Oh! " said she, "why was I born to be mocked and scorned by everyone? 
 Is it not enough, is it not enough young man, that I can never get a sweet look or a 
 kind word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in this disdainful manner to court 
 me? I tiiought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true gentleness." Saying these 
 words in great anger, she ran away; and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of 
 his own Hermia, who was still asleep. 
 
 AVhen Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at finding herself alone. She 
 wandered about the wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander, or which way 
 to go to seek for him. In the meantime Demetrius, not being able to find Hermia 
 and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with his fruitless search, was observed by 
 Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learned, by some questions he had asked of Puck, 
 that he had applied the love-charm to the wrong person's eyes; and now having 
 found the person first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleeping Demetrius 
 with the love-juice, and he instantly awoke; and the first thing he saw being Helena, 
 he, as Lysander had done before, began to address love-speeches to her; and just at 
 that moment Lysander, followed by Hermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it 
 was now become Ilermia's turn to run after her lover), made his appearance; and 
 th-en Lysander and Demetrius, botli speaking together, made love to Helena, they 
 being each one under the influence of the same potent charm. 
 
 233 
 
A MIDSUMMER- NIGHT'S DEEAM. 
 
 Tlie astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and her once dear 
 friend Hermia, were all in a plot together to make a jest of her. 
 
 Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she knew not wh}' Lysander and 
 Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now become the lovers of Helena; and 
 to Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest. 
 
 The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, now fell to high 
 words together. 
 
 " Unkind Hermia," said Helena, "it is you have set Lysander on, to vex me with 
 mock praises; and your other lover Demetrius, who used almost to spurn me with 
 his foot, have you not bid him call me Goddess, Nymph, rare, precious, and celestial? 
 He would not speak thus to me, whom he hates, if you did not set him on to make a 
 jest of me. Unkind Hermia, to join with men in scorning your poor friend. Have 
 you forgot our school-day friendship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on 
 one cushion, both singing one song, with our needles working the same flower, both 
 on the same sampler wrought: growing up together in fashion of a double cherry, 
 scarcely seeming parted? Hermia, it is not friendly in you, it is not maidenly, to 
 join with men in scorning your poor friend." 
 
 "I am amazed at your passionate words," said Hermia: "I scorn you not; it 
 seems you scorn me." "Ay, do," returned Helena, " persevere, counterfeit serious 
 looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back; then wink at each other, and 
 hold the sweet jest up. If you had any pity, grace, or manners, you would not use 
 me thus." 
 
 While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to each other, 
 Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together in the wood for the love of 
 Helena. 
 
 When they found the gentlemen had left them, they dejoarted, and once more 
 wandered weary in the wood in search of their lovers. 
 
 As soon as they were gone the fairy king, who, with little Puck, had been listen- 
 ing to their quarrels, said to him, "This is your negligence, Puck; or did you do this 
 wilfully?" "Believe me, king of shadows," answered Puck, "it was a mistake: did 
 not you tell me I should know the man by his Athenian garments? However, I am 
 not sorry this has happened, for I think their jangling makes me excellent sport." 
 "You heard," said Oberon, " that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek a con- 
 venient place to fight in. I command you to overhang the night with a thick fog, 
 and lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in the dark, that they shall not be able 
 to find each other. Counterfeit each of their voices to the other, and with bitter 
 taunts provoke them to follow you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they 
 hear. See you do this, till they are so weary that they can go no farther; and Avhen 
 you find they are asleep, droj) the juice of this other flower into Lysander's eyes, and 
 when he awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, and return to his old passion 
 for Hermia; and then the two fair ladies may each one be happy with the man she 
 loves; and they will think all that hasjiassed a vexatious dream. About this quickly, 
 Puck; and I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has found." 
 
 Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon, seeing a clown near her, who had lost 
 his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep : " This fellow," said he, "shall be my 
 Titania's true-love;" and clapping an ass's head over the clown's, it seemed to fit him 
 as well as if it had grown upon his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head 
 
 234 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 on very gently, it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done 
 to him, lie went toward the bower where the fairy queen slept. 
 
 "All! what angel is that I see!" said Titauia, opening her eyes, and the juice of 
 the little purple flower beginning to take effect : "Are you as wise as you are beau- 
 tiful ? " ' 
 
 '•'Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if I have wit enough to find the way 
 out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn." 
 
 " Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamored queen. " lam a spirit 
 of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give you fairies to attend 
 upon you." 
 
 She then called four of her fairies : their names were Pease-blossom, Cobweb, 
 Moth, and Mustard-seed. 
 
 "Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentleman : hop in his walks, and 
 gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and steal for him the honey- 
 bags from the bees. Come, sit with me," said she to the clown, "and let me play with 
 your amiable hairy cheeks, my beautiful ass ! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle 
 
 joy!" 
 
 " Where is Pease-blossom ?" said the ass-headed clown; not much regarding the 
 fairy-queen's courtship, but very proud of his new attendants. 
 
 "Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom. 
 
 " Scratch my head," said the clown. " Where is Cobweb ?" 
 
 " Here, sir," said Cobweb. 
 
 " Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, "kill me the red bumble-bee on the 
 top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the honey-bag. Do not 
 fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, and take care the honey-bag break 
 not; I should be sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed ?" 
 
 " Here, sir," said Mustard-seed ; " what is your will ? " 
 
 "Nothing," said the clown, "good Mustard-seed, but to help Mr. Pease-blossom 
 to scratch ; I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvelous 
 hairy about the face." 
 
 "My sweet love," said the queen, "what will you have to eat ? I have a ven- 
 turous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some new nuts." 
 
 'I had rather have a handful of dried pease," said the clown, who with his ass's 
 head had got an ass's appetite. "But, I pray, let none of your peojile disturb me, 
 for I have a mind to sleep." 
 
 "Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will M-ind you in my arms. how I love 
 you ! How I dote upon you I" 
 
 When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his queen, he 
 advanced within her sight, and reproached her with having lavished her favors upon 
 an ass. 
 
 This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within her arms, with 
 his ass's head crowned by her with flowers. 
 
 When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded the changeling- 
 boy ; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord with her new favorite, did 
 not dare to refuse him. 
 
 Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished for to be his 
 page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which, by his merry contrivance, he 
 
 235 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DEEAM. 
 
 had brought his Titania, and thre"n' some of the juice of the other flower into her 
 eyes ; and the fairy-queen immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her 
 late dotage, saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange monster. 
 
 Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left him to finish his 
 nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders. 
 
 Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he related to her the his- 
 tory of the lovers, and their midnight quarrels; and she agreed to go with him, and 
 see the end of their adventures. 
 
 The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at no great dis- 
 tance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, to make amends for his 
 former mistake, had contrived with the utmost diligence to bring them all to the 
 same spot, unknown to each other; and he had carefully removed the charm from o5 
 the eyes of Lysander with the antidote the fairy king gave to him. 
 
 Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander asleep so near her, was looking 
 at him and wondering at his strange inconstancy. Lysander presently opened his 
 eyes, and, seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his reason, which the fairy charm had 
 before clouded, and with his reason, his love for Hermia; and they began to talk over 
 the adventures of the night, doubting if these things had really happened, or if they 
 had both been dreaming the same bewildering dream. 
 
 Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet sleep having quieted 
 Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she listened with delight to the i^rofessions of 
 love, which Demetrius still made to her, and v/hich, to her surprise as well as pleas- 
 ure, she began to perceive were sincere. 
 
 These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became once more true 
 friends; all the unkind words which had passed were forgiven, and they calmly con- 
 sulted together what was best to be done in their present situation. It was soon 
 agreed that, as Demetrius had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should endeavor 
 to prevail upon her father to revoke the cruel sentence of death which had been passed 
 against her. Demetrius was preparing to return to Athens for this friendly purpose, 
 when they were surprised with the sight of Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to the 
 wood in pursuit of his runaway daughter. 
 
 When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry his daughter, he 
 no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave his consent that they should 
 be wedded on the fourth day from that time; being the same day on which Hermia 
 had been condemned to lose her life; and on that same day Helena joyfully agreed to 
 marry her beloved and noAv faithful Demetrius. 
 
 The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this reconciliation, and 
 now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history brought about through the good 
 ofFices of Oberon, received so much pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to cele- 
 brate the approaching nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy kingdom. 
 
 And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their pranks, as judging 
 it incredible and strange, they have only to think that they have been asleep and dream- 
 ing, and that all these adventures were visions which they saw in their sleep : and I 
 hope none of my readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty, harm- 
 less Midsummer iN'ight's Dream. 
 
 236 
 
A Midsummer-Night's Dream. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON JE. 
 
 in love xoitli Hermia. 
 
 Theseus, Duke of A thens. 
 
 Egeus, Father to Hermia. 
 
 Lysander, ) . 
 
 Demetrius, ) 
 
 Philostrate, Master of the Revels to 
 
 Theseus. 
 Quince, the Carpenter. 
 SisruG, tlie Joiner. 
 Bottom, the Weaver. 
 Flute, the Bellorvs-mender, 
 Snout, the Tinker. 
 Starveling, the Tailor. 
 HiPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, le- 
 
 trothed to Theseus. 
 Hermia, Daughter to Egeus, in love with 
 
 Lysandcr. 
 Helena, in love luith Demetrius. 
 
 SCENE — Athens; and 
 
 Oberon, King of the Fairies. 
 
 Titania, Queen of the Fairies. 
 
 Puck, or Eobin Goodfellow, a Fairy. 
 
 Peas-blossom, 
 
 Cobweb, 
 
 Moth, 
 
 Mustard-seed, j 
 
 Pyramus, 
 
 Thisbe, 
 
 Wall, 
 
 Moonshine, 
 
 Lion. 
 
 \ Fairies. 
 
 Characters in the Inter - 
 
 hide performed hy 
 
 the Clowns. 
 
 Other Fairies attending their King and 
 
 Queen. Attendants on Tlieseus 
 
 and Hippolyta. 
 
 A Wood not far from it. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Scene I. Athens. A Room in the Palace 
 
 of Theseus. 
 Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philos- 
 trate, and Atte7idants. 
 Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour 
 Draws on apace ; four happy days bring in 
 Another moon : but oh, methinks, how 
 
 slow 
 This old moon wanes ! she lingers my de- 
 sires. 
 Like to a step-dame, or a dowager. 
 Long withering out a young man's reve- 
 nue. 
 Hip. Four days will quickly steep 
 themselves in nights; 
 Four nights will quickly dream away the 
 
 time ; 
 And then the moon, like a silver bow 
 
 Now bent in heaven, shall behold the night 
 
 Of our solemnities. 
 
 The. Gro, Philostrate, 
 
 Stir up the Athenian youth to merri- 
 ments ; 
 
 Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth; 
 
 Turn melancholy forth to funerals, 
 
 The pale companion is not for our pomp. 
 [Exit Philostrate. 
 
 Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword, 
 
 And won thy love doing thee injuries ; 
 
 But I will wed thee in another key, 
 
 With pomj^, with triumj^h and with rev- 
 eling. 
 
 Enter Egeus, Hermia, Lysandeh and 
 Demetrius. 
 Ege. Happy be Theseus, our renowned 
 duke ! 
 
 £37 
 
Act I. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS DREAM. 
 
 SCEJv-E I. 
 
 Tlie. Thanks, good Egens : What's 
 
 the news with thee ? 
 Ege. Full of vexation come I, with 
 complaint 
 Against my child, my daughter Hermia. — 
 Stand forth, Demetrius ; — My noble lord. 
 This man has my consent to marry her : — 
 Stand forth, Lysander ; — and, my gra- 
 cious duke. 
 This hath betwich'd the bosom of my 
 
 child : 
 Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given 
 
 her rhymes. 
 And interchang'd love-tokens with my 
 
 child : 
 Though hast by moon-light at her window 
 
 sung. 
 With feigning voice, verses of feigning 
 
 love ; 
 And stol'n the impression of her fantasy 
 With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gauds, 
 
 conceits, 
 Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweet-meats ; 
 
 messengers 
 Of strong prevailment in unharden^d 
 
 youth : 
 With cunning hast thou filch'd my daugh- 
 ter's heart ; 
 Turn'd her obedience, which is due to 
 
 me. 
 To stubborn harshness : — And, my gra- 
 cious duke, 
 Be it so she will not here before your 
 
 grace 
 Consent to marry with Demetrius, 
 I beg the ancient privilege of Athens ; 
 As she is mine, I may dispose of her : 
 Which shall be either to this gentleman 
 Or to her death; according to our law, 
 Immediately provided in that case. 
 
 Tlie. What say you, Hermia? be ad- 
 vis'd, fair maid: 
 To you your father should be as a God; 
 One that compos'd your beauties; yea, and 
 
 one 
 To whom you are but as a form in wax. 
 By him imprinted, and within his power 
 
 To leave the figure, or disfigure it. 
 
 Demetrius is a worthy gentleman. 
 Her. So is Lysander. 
 The. In himself he is: 
 
 But, in this kind, wanting your father's 
 voice. 
 
 The other must be held the worthier. 
 Her. I would, my father look'd but 
 
 with my eyes. 
 The. Rather your eyes must with his 
 
 judgment look. 
 Her. I do entreat your grace to pardon 
 me. 
 
 I know not by what power I am made 
 bold; 
 
 Nor how it may concern ni}' modesty. 
 
 In such a presence here, to jilead my 
 thoughts: 
 
 But I beseech your grace that I may know 
 
 The worst that may befall me in this case. 
 
 If I refuse to wed Demetrius. 
 
 Tlie. Either to die the death, or to ab- 
 jure 
 
 Forever the society of men. 
 
 Therefore, fair Hermia, question your de- 
 sires. 
 
 Whether, if you yield not to your fathers' 
 choice, 
 
 You can endure the livery of a nun; 
 
 For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd. 
 
 To live a barren sister all your life. 
 
 Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruit- 
 less moon. 
 
 Thrice blessed they, that master so their 
 blood. 
 
 To undergo such maiden pilgrimage: 
 
 But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd, 
 
 Than that, which, withering on the virgin 
 thorn, 
 
 Grows, lives, and dies in single blessed- 
 ness. 
 Her. So will I grow, so live, so die, ray 
 lord. 
 
 Ere I will yield my virgin patent up 
 
 Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke 
 
 My soul consents not to give sovereignty. 
 
 238 
 
Act I. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCEIfE I. 
 
 The. Take time to pause; and, by the 
 
 next new moon, 
 (The sealing-day betwixt my love and me, 
 For everlasting bond of fellowship). 
 Upon that day either prepare to die. 
 For disobedience to your father's M'iil; 
 Or else, to wed Demetrius, as he would: 
 Or on Diana's altar to protest, 
 For aye, austerity and single life. 
 Dem. Relent, sweet Hermia; — And, 
 
 Lysander, yield 
 Thy crazed title to my certain right. 
 Lys. You have her father's love, De- 
 metrius: 
 Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him. 
 Efje. Scornful Lysander! true, he hath 
 
 my love; 
 And what is mine my love shall render 
 
 him: 
 And she is mine; and all my right of her 
 I do estate unto Demetrius. 
 
 Lijs. I am, my lord, as well deriv'd as 
 
 he. 
 As well possess'd; my love is more than 
 
 his; 
 IViy fortunes every way as fairly rank'd. 
 If not with vantage, as Demetrius'; 
 And, which is more than all these boasts 
 
 can be, 
 I am belov'd of beauteous Hermia: 
 Why should not I then prosecute my 
 
 right ? 
 Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head. 
 Made love to Nedar's daughter, Helena, 
 And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, 
 
 dotes 
 Upon this spotted and inconstant man. 
 Tlie. I must confess, that I have heard 
 
 so much. 
 And with Demetrius thought to have spoke 
 
 thereof ; 
 But, being over-full of self-affairs. 
 My mind did lose it. — But, Demetrius, 
 
 come; 
 And come, Egeus; you shall go with me; 
 I have some private schooling for you 
 
 both.— 
 
 For you, fair Hermia, look you arm your- 
 self 
 To fit your fancies to your father's will; 
 Or else the law of Athens yields you up 
 (Which by no means we may extenuate). 
 To death, or to a vow of single life. — 
 Come, my Hippolyta; What cheer, my 
 
 love? — 
 Demetrius, and Egeus, go along: 
 I must employ you in some business 
 Against our nuptial; and confer with you 
 Of something nearly that concerns your- 
 selves. 
 Ege. With duty, and desire, we follow 
 you. 
 
 \_Exeunt Thes., Hip., Ege., Dem. 
 and train. 
 Lys. How now, my love? Why is your 
 
 cheek so pale? 
 How chance the roses there do fade so 
 
 fast? 
 Her. Belike, for want of rain; which I 
 
 could well 
 Beteem them from the tempest of mine 
 
 eyes. 
 Lys. Ah me ! for aught that ever I 
 
 could read. 
 Could ever hear by tale or history. 
 The course of true love never did run 
 
 smooth: 
 But, either it was different in blood; 
 Or else misgraffed, in respect of years; 
 Or else it stood upon the choice of friends: 
 Or, if there Avere a sympathy in choice. 
 War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it; 
 Making it momentary as a sound. 
 Swift as a shadow, short as any dream; 
 Brief as the lightning in the collied night. 
 That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and 
 
 earth. 
 And ere a man hath power to sav, — Be- 
 hold ! 
 The jaws of darkness do devour it up: 
 So quick bright things come to confusion. 
 Her. If then true lovers have been 
 
 ever cross'd, 
 
 239 
 
Act I. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCEKE I, 
 
 It stands as an edict in destiny: 
 
 Then let us teach our trial patience. 
 
 Because it is a customary cross; 
 
 As due to love, as thoughts, and dreams, 
 
 and sighs, 
 TVishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers. 
 Lys. A good persuasion; therefore, 
 
 hear me, Hermia. 
 I have a widow aunt, a dowager 
 Of great revenue, and she hath no child: 
 From Athens is her house remote seven 
 
 leagues; 
 And she respects me as her only son. 
 There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee; 
 And to that place the sharp Athenian law 
 Cannot pursue us: If thou lov'st me then, 
 Steal forth thy father's house to-morrow 
 
 night; 
 And in the ■svood, a league without the 
 
 town, 
 Where I did meet thee once with Helena, 
 To do observance to a morn of May, 
 There will I stay for thee. 
 
 Her. My good Lysander! 
 
 I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow; 
 By his best arrow with the golden head; 
 By the simplicit}' of Venus' doves; 
 By that which knitteth souls, and prospers 
 
 loves; 
 And by that fire which burn'd the Carth- 
 age queen, 
 When the false Trojan under sail was seen; 
 By all the vows that ever men have broke. 
 In number more than ever women spoke; — 
 In that same place thou hast appointed me. 
 To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. 
 Lys. Keep promise, love: Look, here 
 
 comes Helena. 
 
 Enter Helena. 
 
 Her. God speed fair Helena! "Whither 
 
 away? 
 Hel. Call you me fair? that fair again 
 unsay. 
 Demetrius loves you fair: happy fair I 
 Your eyes are lode-stars; andyour tongue's 
 sweet air 
 
 More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear, 
 When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds 
 
 appear. 
 Sickness is catching ; 0, were favor so! 
 Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I 
 
 go; 
 My ear should catch your voice, my eye 
 
 your eye. 
 My tongue should catch your tongue's 
 
 sweet melody. 
 Were the world mine, Demetrius bein£- 
 
 bated, 
 The rest I'll give to be to you translated. 
 0, teach me how you look; and with what 
 
 art 
 You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart. 
 Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves 
 
 me still. 
 Hel. 0, that your frowns would teach 
 
 my smiles such skill! 
 Her. The more I hate, the more he 
 
 follows me. 
 Hel. The more I love, the more he 
 
 hateth me. 
 Her. His folly, Helena, is no fault of 
 
 mine. 
 Hel. None, but your beauty; 'Would 
 
 that fault were mine ! 
 Her. Take comfort; he no more shall 
 
 see my face, 
 Lysander and myself will fly this place. — 
 Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will 
 
 unfold: 
 To-morrow night when Phcebe doth be- 
 hold 
 Her silver visage in the wat'ry glass, 
 Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, 
 (A time that lovers' flights doth still con- 
 ceal), 
 Through Athens' gates have we devis'd to 
 
 steal. 
 Her. And in the wood, where often 
 
 you and I 
 Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie. 
 Emptying our bosoms of their counsel 
 
 sweet; 
 There my Lysander and myself shall meet : 
 
 240 
 
Act I. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 And thence, from Athens, turn away our 
 eyes. 
 
 To seek new friends and stranger com- 
 panies. 
 
 Farewell, sweet play-fellow; pray thou for 
 us. 
 
 And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius! 
 
 Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our 
 sight 
 
 From lovers' food, till morrow deep mid- 
 night. 
 
 \^Exit Herm. 
 Lys. I will, my Ilermia. — Helena, 
 adieu: 
 
 As you on him, Demetrius dote on you ! 
 
 \^Exit Lys. 
 Hel. How happy some, o'er other some 
 can be! 
 
 Through Athens I am thought as fair as 
 she. 
 
 But what of that? Demetrius thinks not 
 so; 
 
 He will not know what all but he do know. 
 
 And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes, 
 
 So I, admiring of his qualities. 
 
 Things base and vile, holding no quantity. 
 
 Love can transpose to form and dignity. 
 
 Love looks not with the eyes, but with the 
 mind; 
 
 And therefore is winged Cupid painted 
 blind. 
 
 Nor hath love's mind of any judment taste; 
 
 Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste: 
 
 And therefore is love said to be a child, 
 
 Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd . 
 
 As waggish boys in game themselves for- 
 swear. 
 
 So the boy love is perjured every where: 
 
 For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's 
 eyne, 
 
 He hail'd down oaths, that he was only 
 mine ; 
 
 I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight; 
 
 Then to the wood will he, to-morrow night. 
 
 Pursue her; and for this intelligence 
 
 If I have thanks, it is a dear expense: 
 
 But hprein mpan I to enrich my piin, 
 
 To have his sight thither, and back again. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 ScEKE II. The same. A room in a Cot- 
 tage. 
 
 Enter Sj^ug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, 
 Quince, mid Starveling. 
 
 Quui. Is all our company here? 
 
 Bot. You were best to call them gen- 
 erally, man by man, according to the scrip. 
 
 Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's 
 name, which is thought fit, through all 
 Athens, to play in our interlude before the 
 duke and duchess, on his wedding-day at 
 night. 
 
 Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say 
 what the play treats on; then read the 
 names of the actors; and so grow to a 
 point. 
 
 Quin. Marry, our play is — The most 
 lamentable comedy, and most cruel death 
 of 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 yourselves. 
 
 Quin. Answer, as I call you. — Nick 
 Bottom, the weaver. 
 
 Bot. Ready: Name what part I am 
 for, and proceed. 
 
 Qui7i. You, Nick Bottom, are set down 
 for Pyramus. 
 
 Bot. What is Pyramus? a lover, or a 
 tyrant. 
 
 Qiiin. A lover, that kills himself most 
 gallantly for love. 
 
 Bot. That will ask some tears in the 
 true performing of it: If I do it, let the 
 audience look to their eyes; I will move 
 storms, I will condole in some measui'e. 
 To the rest: — Yet my chief humor is for 
 a tyrant; I could play Ercles rarely, or a 
 part to tear a cat in, to make all split. 
 " The raging rocks, 
 "With shivering shocks, 
 "Shall break the locks 
 " Of prison gates: 
 
 241 
 
Act I. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DKEAM. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 ''Aud Phibbus' car 
 " Shall shine from far, 
 *' And make and mar 
 "The foolish fates/' 
 This was lofty! — now name the rest of the 
 pla3'ers. — This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's 
 vein; a lover is more condoling. 
 
 Quin. Francis Flute, the beliows- 
 mender. 
 
 Flu. Here, .Peter Quince. 
 
 Quin. You must take Thisbv on you. 
 
 Flu. What is Thisby ? a wandering 
 knight? 
 
 Qitin. It is the lady that Pyramus must 
 love. 
 
 Flu. Nay, faith, let me not play a 
 woman; I have a beard coming. 
 
 Quin. That's all one; you shall play it 
 in a mask, and you may speak as well as 
 3-ou will. 
 
 Bot. And I may hide my face, let me 
 play, Thisby too : I'll speak in a monstrous 
 little voice; — Tliisne, Thisne, — Ah, Pyra- 
 mus, my lover dear; thy Thisby dear, and 
 lady dear! 
 
 Quin. No, no: you must play Pyra- 
 mus, and. Flute, you Thisby. 
 
 Bot. Well, proceed, 
 
 Quin. Robin Starveling, the tailor. 
 
 Starv. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play 
 Thisby "smother. — TomSno^^t, the tinker. 
 
 Snout. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 Quin. You, Pyramus's father; myself 
 Thisby's father; — Snug, the joiner, you, 
 the lion's part: — and, I hope, here is a 
 play fitted. 
 
 Snug. Have you the lion's part writ- 
 ten ? pray you, if it be, give it me, for I 
 am slow of study. 
 
 Quin. You may do it extempore for 
 it is nothing but roaring. 
 
 Bot. Let me play the lion too : I will 
 roar, that I will do any man's heart good 
 to hear me; I will roar, that I will make 
 
 the duke say. Let him roar again. Let him 
 roar again. 
 
 Quin. An you should do it too terribly 
 you would fright the duchess and the 
 ladies, that they would shriek: and that 
 were enough to hang us all. 
 
 All. That would hang us every moth- 
 er's son. 
 
 Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you 
 should fright the ladies out of their wits, 
 they would have no more discretion but to 
 hang us: but I will aggravate my voice 
 so, that I will roar you as gently as any 
 sucking dove; 1 will roar you an 'twere 
 any nightingale. 
 
 Qxdn. You can play no part but Pyr- 
 amus; for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; 
 a proper man, as one shall see in a sum- 
 mer's day: a most lovely, gentleman-like 
 man; therefore you must needs play Pyr- 
 amus. 
 
 Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What 
 beard were I best to play it in? 
 
 Quioi. Why, what you will. 
 
 Bot. I will discharge it in either your 
 straw-colored beard, your orange-tawny 
 beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or 
 your perfect yellow, 
 
 Quin. Masters, here are your parts : 
 and I am to entreat you, request you, 
 and desire you, to con them by to-morrow 
 night; and meet me in the palace wood, a 
 mile withoutthe town, by moonlight; there 
 will we rehearse: for if we meet in the 
 city, we shall be dog'd with company, and 
 our devices known. In the mean time, 1 
 will draw a bill of properties, such as our 
 play wants, I pray you, fail me not, 
 
 Bot. We will meet; and there we may 
 rehearse courageously. Take pains; be 
 perfect; adieu. 
 
 Quin. At the duke's oak we meet. 
 
 Bot. Enough : Hold, or cut bow- 
 strings. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 •m 
 
Act II. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'-S DEE AM. 
 
 SCEKE I. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ScEi>"E I. A Wood near Athens. 
 Mnter a Fairy at one door, and Puck at 
 another. 
 Puck. How now, spirit ! whitlier wan- 
 der you ? 
 Fai. Over hill, over dale. 
 
 Thorough bush, thorough briar, 
 Over park, over pale. 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
 I do wander every where. 
 Swifter than the moones sphere; 
 And I serve the fairy queen, 
 To dew her orbs upon the green : 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners be; 
 In their gold coats spots you see; 
 Those be rubies, fairy favors. 
 In those freckles live their savours: 
 1 must go seek some dew-drops here. 
 And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 
 Farewell, thou lob of spirits, I'll begone; 
 •Oar queen and all her elves come liere 
 anon. 
 Puck. The king doth keep his revels 
 hero to-night ; 
 "Take heed, the queen come not within 
 
 his sight, 
 For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, 
 Because that she, as her attendant, hath 
 A lovely boy, stol'n from an Indian king; 
 ;She never had so sweet a changeling: 
 And jealous Oberon would have the child 
 TKnight of his train, to trace the forests 
 
 wild: 
 But she, perforce, withholds the loved 
 
 boy, 
 ■Crowns him with flowers, and makes him 
 
 all her Joy: 
 And now they never meet in grove, or 
 
 green, 
 By fountain clear, or spangled star-light 
 
 sheen. 
 But they do square; that all their elves, 
 
 for fear, 
 •Creep into acorn cups, and hide them 
 there. 
 
 Fai. Either I mistake your shape and 
 making quite. 
 Or else you are that shrewd and knavisli 
 
 sprite, 
 Call'd Eobin Goodfellow : are you not he. 
 That fright the maidens of the villagery; 
 Skim milk; and sometimes labor in the 
 
 quern. 
 And bootless make the breathless house- 
 wife churn; 
 And sometime make the drink to bear no 
 
 barm ; 
 Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at 
 
 their harm ? 
 Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet 
 
 Puck, 
 You do their work, and they shall have 
 
 good luck : 
 Are not you he ? 
 
 Puck. Thou speak'st aright 
 
 I am that merry wanderer of the night. 
 I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, 
 Wlien I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile. 
 Neighing in likeness of a silly foal : 
 And sometimes lurk I in a gossip's l)owl, 
 In very likeness of a roasted crab ; 
 And, Avhen she drinks, against her li])s I 
 
 bob, 
 And on her wither'd dew-lap pour the 
 
 ale. 
 The wisest aunt, telling tlie sadest tale. 
 Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh 
 
 me ; 
 Then slip I from her, and down topples 
 
 she. 
 And tailor cries, and falls into a cougli ; 
 And then the Avhole quire hold their hips, 
 
 and loffe ; 
 And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and 
 
 swear 
 A merrier hour was never wasted there. — 
 But room. Fairy, here comes Oberon. 
 Fai. And here my mistress : — 'Would 
 that he were gone ! 
 
 243 
 
Act ir. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Enter Oberox, at one door, loWi Ms train, 
 and TiTANiA, at another, with hers. 
 
 Ohe. Ill met by moonlight, proud 
 
 Titania. 
 Tita. What, jealous Oberon? Fairy, 
 skip hence ; 
 I have forsworn his bed and company. 
 Oie. Tarry, rash wanton : Am not I 
 
 thy lord ? 
 Tita. Then I must be, thy lady : But I 
 know 
 "When thou hast stol'n away from fairy 
 
 land. 
 And in the shape of Corin sat all day, 
 Playing on pipes of corn, and versing 
 
 love 
 To amorous Phillida. Why art thou 
 
 here. 
 Come from the farthest steep of India? 
 But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, 
 Your buskin'd mistress, and your warrior 
 
 love. 
 To Theseus must be wedded ; and you 
 
 come 
 To give their bed joy and prosperity. 
 Obe. How canst thou thus, for shame, 
 Titania, 
 Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, 
 Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? 
 Didst thou not lead him through the 
 
 glimmering night. 
 And make him with fair ^Egle break his 
 
 faith. 
 With Ariadne, and Antiopa? 
 
 Tita. These are the forgeries of jeal- 
 ousy: 
 And never since the middle summer's 
 
 spring. 
 Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead. 
 By paved fountain, or by rushy brook. 
 Or on the beached margent of the sea, 
 To dance our ringlets to the whistling 
 
 wind. 
 But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd 
 our sport. 
 
 Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain. 
 As in revenge, have suck'd up from the 
 
 sea 
 Contagious fogs; which falling in the 
 
 land. 
 Have every pelting river made so proud, 
 That they have overborn their continents: 
 The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke 
 
 in vain. 
 The ploughman lost his sweat; and the 
 
 green corn 
 Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard : 
 The fold stands empty in the drowned 
 
 field. 
 And crows are fatted with the murrain 
 
 flock; 
 The nine men's morris is fill'd up with 
 
 mud; 
 And the quaint mazes in the wanton 
 
 green. 
 For lack of tread, are undistinguishable: 
 The human mortals want their winert 
 
 here; 
 No night is now with hymn or carol 
 
 blest: — 
 Therefore the moon, the governess of 
 
 floods. 
 Pale in her anger, washes all the air. 
 That rheumatic diseases do abound: 
 And thorough this distemperature, we 
 
 see 
 The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts 
 Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ; 
 And on old Hyem's chin, and icy crown. 
 An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds 
 Is, as in mockery, set: The spring, the 
 
 summer. 
 The childing autumn, angry winter, 
 
 change 
 Their wonted liveries ; and the 'mazed 
 
 world, 
 Bj^ their increase, now knows not which 
 
 is which: 
 And this same progeny of evils comes 
 From our debate, from our dissention; 
 We are their parents and original. 
 
 244 
 
Act II. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 Obe. Do you amend it then; it lies in 
 you : 
 Wliy should Titania cross her Oberon? 
 I do but beg a little changeling boy, 
 To be my henchman. 
 
 Tita. Set your heart at rest, 
 
 The fairy land buys not the child of me. 
 His mother was a vot'ress of my order: 
 And, in the spiced Indian air, by night. 
 Full often hath she gossip'd by my side; 
 And sat with me on Neptune's yellow 
 
 sands. 
 Marking the embarked traders on the 
 
 flood ; 
 But she, being mortal, of that boy did 
 
 die ; 
 And, for her sake, I do rear up her boy; 
 And, for her sake, I will not part with 
 him. 
 Obe. How long within this wood in- 
 tend you stay? 
 Tita. Perchance, till after Theseus' 
 wedding-day. 
 If you will patiently dance in our round. 
 And see our moonlight revels, go with us; 
 If not, shun me, and I will spare your 
 haunts. 
 Obe. Give me that boy, and I will go 
 
 with thee. 
 Tita. Not for thy kingdom. — Fairies, 
 away: 
 We shall chide downright, if I longer- 
 stay. 
 
 [Bxetint Titania, and her train. 
 Obe. Well, go thy way: thou shalt not 
 from this grove. 
 Till I torment thee for this injury. — 
 My gentle Pnck, come hither: Thou re- 
 
 member'st 
 Since once I sat upon a promontory. 
 And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back, 
 Uttering such dulcet and harmonious 
 
 breath. 
 That the rude sea grew civil at her song; 
 And certain stars shot madly from their 
 
 spheres. 
 To hear the sea-maid's music. 
 
 Puck. I remember. 
 
 Obe. That very time I saw, but thou 
 could'st not. 
 Flying between the cold moon and the 
 
 earth, 
 Cupid all arm'd : A certain aim he took 
 At a fair vestal, throned by the west; 
 And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from 
 
 his bow. 
 As it should pierce a hundred thousand 
 
 hearts: 
 But I might see young Cupid's fieryshaft 
 Quench'd in the chaste beams of the 
 
 wat'ry moon; 
 And the imperial vot'ress passed on, 
 In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 
 Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: 
 It fell upon a little western flower, — 
 Before, milk-white; now jjurple with 
 
 love's wound — 
 And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 
 Fetch me that flower; the herb I show'd 
 
 thee once : 
 The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid. 
 Will make or man or woman madly dote 
 Upon the next live creature that it sees. 
 Fetch me this herb: and be thou here 
 
 again. 
 Ere the Leviathan can swim a league. 
 Puck. I'll put a girdle round about 
 the earth 
 In forty minutes. [Exit Puck. 
 
 Obe. Having once this juice, 
 
 I'll watch Titania when she is asleep. 
 And drop the liquor of it in her eyes: 
 The next thing then she waking looks 
 
 upon, 
 (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull. 
 On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,) 
 She shall pursue it with the soul of love. 
 And ere I take this charm off from her 
 
 sight, 
 (As I can take it with another herb,) 
 I'll make her render up her page to me. 
 But who comes here? I am invisible; 
 And I will over-hear their conference. 
 
 245 
 
Act II. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DEEAM. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 ^Ji^er Demetrius, Helena /oZ/owzw^ Mm. 
 Dem. I love thee not, therefore pursue 
 me not. 
 Where is Lysander, and fair Hermia? 
 The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me. 
 Thou told'st me they were stolen into this 
 
 wood. 
 And here am I, and wood within this 
 
 wood. 
 Because I cannot meet Avith Hermia. 
 Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no 
 more, 
 Hel. You draw me, you hard-hearted 
 adamant ; 
 But yet you draw not iron, for my heart 
 Is true as steel: Leave you your power to 
 
 draw. 
 And I shall have no power to follow you. 
 Dem. Do I entice you? Do I speak you 
 fair? 
 Or rather, do I not in plainest truth 
 Tell you — I do not, nor I cannot love 
 you? 
 Hel. And even for that do I love you 
 the more. 
 I am your spaniel ; and, Demetrius, 
 The more you beat me, I will fawn on you : 
 Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, 
 
 strike me. 
 Neglect me, lose me ; only give me leave. 
 Unworthy as I am, to follow you. 
 What worser place can I beg in your love, 
 (And yet a place of high respect with me,) 
 Than to be used as you use your dog ? 
 Dem. Tempt not too much the hatred 
 of my spirit ; 
 For I am sick, when I do look on thee. 
 Hel. And I am sick, when I look not 
 
 on you, 
 Dem. You do impeach your modesty 
 too much. 
 To leave the city, and commit yourself 
 Into the hands of one that loves you not. 
 Hel. Your virtue is my privilege for 
 that, 
 It is not night, when I do see your face, 
 Therefore I think I am not in the night : 
 
 Nor doth this wood lack worlds of com- 
 pany ; 
 For you, in my respect, are all the world : 
 Then how can it be said, I am alone. 
 When all the world is here to look on me ? 
 Dem. I'll run from thee, and hide me 
 in the brakes, 
 And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. 
 Hel. The wildest hath not such a heart 
 as you. 
 Eun when you will, the story shall be 
 
 chang'd ; 
 Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;. 
 The dove pursues the griffin ; the mild 
 
 hind 
 Makes speed to catch the tiger : Bootless 
 
 speed ! 
 When cowardice pursues, and valor flies. 
 Dem. I will not stay thy questions; let 
 me go : 
 Or, if thou follow me, do not believe 
 But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. 
 Hel. Ay, in the temple, in the town, 
 the field. 
 You do me mischief, Fye, Demetrius I 
 Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex ! 
 We cannot fight for love as men may do ; 
 We should be woo'd, and were not made 
 
 to woo. 
 I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, 
 To die upon the hand I love so well. 
 
 \_Exeunt Dem. and Hel. 
 Ohe. Fare thee well, nymph : ere he do 
 leave this grove, 
 Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy 
 love. — 
 
 Be-enier Puck. 
 
 Hast thou the flower there ? Welcome, 
 wanderer. 
 Puck. Ay, there it is. 
 01)e. I pray thee, give it me. 
 
 I know a bank whereon the wild thyme 
 
 blows. 
 Where ox-lips and the nodding violet 
 
 grows ; 
 Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine. 
 
 246 
 
Act II. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 With sweet musk-roses, and with eglan- 
 tine : 
 There sleeps Titania, some time of the 
 
 night, 
 Lnll'd in these flowers with dances and 
 
 delight ; 
 And there the snake throws her enameled 
 
 skin. 
 Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in : 
 And with the juice of this I'll streak her 
 
 eyes. 
 And make her full of hateful fantasies. 
 . Take thou some of it, and seek through 
 
 this grove : 
 A sweet Athenian lady is in love 
 With a disdainful youth : anoint his eyes; 
 But do it, "when the next thing he espies 
 May be the lady : Thou shalt know the 
 
 man 
 By the Athenian garments he hath on. 
 Effect it with some care ; that he may 
 
 prove 
 More fond on her, than she upon her love ; 
 And look thou meet me ere the first cock 
 
 crow. 
 Puck. Fear not, my lord, your servant 
 shall do so. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. Another part of the Wood. 
 Enter Titania, with her train. 
 
 Tita. Come, now a roundel, anda fairy 
 song; 
 
 Then, for the third part of a minute, 
 hence ; 
 
 Some, to kill cankers in the musk-rose 
 buds ; 
 
 Some, war with rear-mice for their leath- 
 ern wings. 
 
 To make my small elves coats ; and some, 
 keep back 
 
 The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, 
 and wonders 
 
 At our quaint spirits : Sing me now asleep; 
 
 Then to your oflfices, and let me rest. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1 Fai. You spotted snakes, with double 
 
 tongue. 
 Thorny hedge-hogs, le not seen. 
 Newts, and Uind-toorms, do no 
 lorong ; 
 Come not near our fairy queen: 
 Chorus. Philomel, with melody, 
 
 Sing in our sweet lullaby ; 
 Lulla, lulla, hdlahy; holla, lulla, 
 lullaby : 
 Never harm, tior spell, nor 
 
 charm. 
 Come 02ir lovely lady nigh ; 
 So, good night, with lullaby. 
 
 II. 
 
 2 Fai. Weaving spiders, come not here; 
 
 Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, 
 hence : 
 Beetles black, approach not near; 
 Worm, nor snail, do no offense; 
 Chorus. Philomel, with melody, etc. 
 1 Fai. Hence, away; now all is well : 
 One, aloof, stand sentinel. 
 [Exeu7it Fairies. Titania sleeps. 
 
 Enter Oberon. 
 
 Obc. What thou seest, when thou dost 
 wake, 
 
 [Squeezes thejlozver o;iTiTANlA's 
 eye-lids. 
 Do it for thy true love take ; 
 Love, and languish for his sake : 
 Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, 
 Pard, or boar with bristled hair. 
 In thy eye that shall appear 
 When thou wak'st, it is thy dear ; 
 Wake, when some vile thing is near. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lysander a)id Hermia. 
 
 Lys. Fair love, you faint with wander- 
 ing in the wood ; 
 And to speak troth, I have forgot our way; 
 We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good. 
 
 And tarry for the comfort of the day. 
 
 247 
 
Act II. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DEEAM. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Her. Be it so, Lysander : find you out 
 a bed, 
 For I upon this bank will rest my head. 
 Such separation, as, may well be said, 
 Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid : 
 So far be distant ; and good night sweet 
 
 friend : 
 Thy love ne'er alter, till thy sweet life end ! 
 Lys. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, 
 say I; 
 And then end life, when I end loyalty I 
 Here is my bed : sleep give thee all his 
 rest I 
 Her. With half that wish the wisher's 
 eyes be press'd. [They sleep. 
 
 Enter Puck. 
 Puck. Through the forest I have gone, 
 But Athenian found I none. 
 On whose eyes I might approve 
 This flower's force in stirring love. 
 Night and silence ! who is here ? 
 Weeds of Athens he doth wear : 
 This is he my master said, 
 Despis'd the Athenian maid ; 
 And here the maiden, sleeping 
 
 sound. 
 On the dank and dirty ground. 
 Pretty soul ! she durst not lie 
 Near this lack-love, kill-courtesy. 
 Churl, upon, thy eyes I throw 
 All the power this charm doth owe : 
 When thou wak'st let loA-e forbid 
 Sleep his seat on thy eye-lid. 
 So awake, when I am gone ; 
 For I must now to Oberon. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Demetrius and Helena, running. 
 
 Hel. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet 
 
 Demetrius. 
 Dem, I charge thee, hence, and do not 
 
 haunt me thus. 
 Hel. 0, wilt thou darling leave me ? 
 
 do not so. 
 Dem. Stay, on thy peril ; I alone will 
 
 go. l^Exit Demetrius. 
 
 Hel. 0, I am out of breath in this fond 
 
 chase ! 
 
 The more my prayer, the lesser is my 
 
 grace. 
 Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies ; 
 For she hath blessed and attractive eyes. 
 How came her eyes so bright ? Not with 
 
 salt tears : 
 If so, my eyes are of tener wash'd than hers. 
 No, no, I am as ugly as a bear ; 
 For beasts that meet me, run away for fear: 
 Therefore, no marvel, though Demetrius 
 Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus : 
 What wicked and dissembling glass of 
 
 mine 
 Made me compare with Hermia's sphery 
 
 eyne ? — 
 But who is here? — Lysander! on the 
 
 ground ! 
 Dead ? or asleep ? I see no blood, no 
 
 wound : — 
 Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. 
 Lys. And run through fire 1 will, for 
 thy sweet sake. [ Waking. 
 
 Transparent Helena ! Nature here shows 
 
 art. 
 That through thy bosom makes me see thy 
 
 heart. 
 Where is Demetrius ? 0, how fit a word 
 Is that vile name to perish on my sword ! 
 Hel. Do not say so, Lysander : say not 
 so : 
 What though he love your Hermia ? 0, 
 
 what though ? 
 Yet Hermia still loves you : then be con- 
 tent. 
 Lys. Content with Hermia ? No : I do 
 repent 
 The tedious minutes I with her have spent. 
 Not Hermia, but Helena I love : 
 Who will not change a raven for a dove ? 
 The will of man is by his reason sway'd ; 
 And reason says you are the worthier maid. 
 Things growing are not ripe until their 
 
 season : 
 So I, being young, till now ripe not to 
 
 reason ; 
 And touching now the point of human 
 
 skill. 
 
 248 
 
Act II. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Reason becomes the marshal to my will. 
 And leads me to your eyes ; where I o'er- 
 
 look 
 Love's stories written in love's richest 
 
 book. 
 Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen 
 mockery born ? 
 "When, at your hands, did I deserve this 
 
 scorn ? 
 Is't not enough, is't not enough, young 
 
 man 
 That I did never, no, nor never can. 
 Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye. 
 But you must flout my insufficiency? 
 Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, 
 
 you do. 
 In such disdainful manner me to woo. 
 But fare you well : perforce I must con- 
 fess, 
 I thought you lord of more true gentleness, 
 0, that a lady, of one man refus'd. 
 Should, of another, therefore be abus'd ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 Lys. She sees not Hermia : — Hermia, 
 sleep thoii there ; 
 And never may'st thou come Lysander 
 
 near ! • 
 For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things 
 The deepest loathing to the stomach 
 
 brings 
 
 Or, as the heresies, that men do leave, 
 Are hated most of those they did deceive ; 
 So thou, my surfeit, and my heresy. 
 Of all be hated ; but the most of me ! 
 And all my powers, address your love and 
 
 might. 
 To honor Helen, and to be her knight ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 Her. [Starting. 1 Heli3 me, Lysander, 
 help me ! do thy best, 
 To pluck this crawling serpent from my 
 
 breast ! 
 Ah me, for pity ! — what a dream was 
 
 here ? 
 Lysander, look, how I do quake with fear ! 
 Methought a serpent eat my heart away. 
 And you sat smiling at his cruel prey : — 
 Lysander ! what, removed ? Lysander ! 
 
 lord! 
 What, out of hearing ? gone ? no sound, 
 
 no word ? 
 Alack, where are you ? speak, and if you 
 
 hear ; 
 Speak, of all loves ; I swoon almost with 
 
 fear. 
 No? — then I well percieve you are not 
 
 nigh : 
 Either death, or you, I'll find immedi- 
 ately. [Exit. 
 
 Scene I. The same. The Queen of 
 Fairies lying asleep. 
 
 Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, 
 Snout, cmd Starveling. 
 
 Bot. Are we all met ? 
 
 Qxiin. Pat, pat ; and here's a marvel- 
 ous convenient place for our rehearsal : 
 This green plot shall be our stage, this 
 laawthorne brake our tyring-house ; and 
 we will do it in action, as we will do it 
 ■before the duke. 
 
 Bot. Peter Quince, — 
 
 Quin. What say'st thou, bully Bottom ? 
 
 ACT IIL 
 
 Bot 
 
 There are things in this comedy 
 of Pyramus and Tliishy, that will never 
 please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword 
 to kill himself ; which the ladies cannot 
 abide. How answer you that ? 
 
 Snont. By'rlakin, a parlous fear. 
 
 Star. I believe, we must leave the kill- 
 ing out, when all is done. 
 
 Bot. Not a whit ; I have a device to 
 make all well. Write me a prologue : and 
 let the prologue seem to say, we will do 
 no harm Avith oar swords, and that Pyra- 
 mus is not killed indeed : and for the more 
 
 249 
 
Act III. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DEEAM. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 better assurauce. tell them, that I Pyra- 
 iiius am not Pyramus, but Bottom the 
 weaver : This will put them out of fear. 
 
 Quin. "Well, we will have such a pro- 
 logue ; and it shall be written in eight and 
 six. — 
 
 Bot. No, make it two more ; let it be 
 written in eight and eight. 
 
 Snotii. Will not the ladies be afeard 
 of the lion ? 
 
 Sta?\ I fear it, I promise you. 
 
 Bot. Masters, you ought to consider 
 with yourselves : to bring in a lion among 
 ladies, is a most dreadful thing; for there 
 is not a more fearful wildfowl than your 
 lion, living: and we ought to look to it. 
 
 Snout. Therefore, another prologue 
 must tell, he is not a lion. 
 
 Bot. Nay, you must name his name, 
 and half his face must be seen through 
 the lion's neck ; and he himself must 
 speak through, saying thus, or to the 
 same defect, — Ladies, or fair ladies, I 
 would wish you, or, I would request you, 
 or, I would entreat you, not to fear, not 
 to tremble : my life for yours. If you 
 think I come hither as a lion, it were pity 
 of my life : No, I am no such thing ; I am 
 a man as other men are : — and there, in- 
 deed, let him name his name ; and tell 
 them plainly, he is Snug, the joiner. 
 
 Quin. Well, it shall be so. But there 
 is two hard things ; that is, to bring the 
 moon-light into a chamber : for you know 
 Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight. 
 
 Snug. Doth the moon shine, that 
 night we play our play ? 
 
 Bot. A calendar, a calendar ! look in 
 the almanac; find out moonshine, find 
 out moonshine. 
 
 Quin. Yes, it doth shine that night. 
 
 Bot. Why, then you may leave a case- 
 ment of the great chamber window, where 
 we play, open ; and the moon may shine 
 in at the casement. 
 
 Quin. Ay; or else one must come in 
 with a bush of thorns and a lanthorn, and 
 
 say, he comes to disfigure, or to present, 
 the person of moonshine. Then, there is 
 another thing : we must have a wall in 
 the great chamber ; for Pyramus and 
 Thisby, says the story, did talk through 
 the chinks of a wall. 
 
 Snug. You never can bring in a wall. 
 — What say you. Bottom ? 
 
 Bot. Some man or other must present 
 wall : and let him have some plaster, or 
 some lome, or some rough -cast about him, 
 to signify wall ; or let him hold his fin- 
 gers thus, and through that cranny shall 
 Pyramus and Thisby whisper. 
 
 Quin. If that may be, then all is well. 
 Come, sit down, every mother's son, and 
 rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you 
 begin : when you have spoken your 
 speech, enter into that brake; and so 
 every one according to his cue. 
 
 Enter Puck leliind. 
 
 Puck. What hempen home-spuns have 
 we swaggering here. 
 So near the cradle of the fairy queen ? 
 What, a play toward ? I'll be an auditor; 
 An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause. 
 Quin. Speak, Pyramus: — Thisby, 
 
 stand forth. 
 Pyr. Tliishy, the flowers of odious 
 
 savours sioeet,— 
 Quifi. Odors, odors. 
 
 Pyr. odors savors siceet : 
 
 So doth thy ireath, my dearest Thisby 
 dear. — 
 But, hark, a voice! stay thou hut here 
 aiohile, 
 And hy and by I will to thee appear. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Puck. A stranger Pyramus than e'er 
 played here ! 
 
 [Aside. — Exit. 
 
 TJiis. Must I speak now ? 
 
 Quin. Ay, marry, must you : for you 
 
 must understand, he goes but to see a 
 
 noise that he heard, and is to come 
 
 again. 
 
 250 
 
Act III. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM, 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 This. Most radiant Py ramus, most lily- 
 white of hue, 
 Of color like the red rose on triumphant 
 brier, 
 Most larisTcy juvenal, and ehe most lovely 
 Jeio, 
 As true as truest horse, that yet would 
 never tire, 
 I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomh. 
 Quin. Ninus' tomb, man : Why 3'ou 
 must not speak that yet ; that you answer 
 to Pyramus : you speak all your part at 
 once, cues and aU. — Pyramus, enter; 
 your cue is past ; it is, never tire. 
 
 Re-enter Puck, and Bottom, ivith an 
 Ass's head. 
 TJiis. 0, — As true as truest horse, 
 
 that yet ivould never tire. 
 Pyr. If I were fair, Thishy, I were 
 
 only thine : — 
 Quin. monstrous ! strange ! we 
 are haunted . 
 Pray, masters ! fly, masters ! help ! 
 
 [Exeunt Clotvns. 
 Puck. I'll follow you, I'll lead you 
 about a round. 
 Through bog, through bush, through 
 
 brake, through brier ; 
 Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a 
 
 hound, 
 A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire ; 
 And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and 
 
 roar, and burn. 
 Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at 
 every turn. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Bot. Why do they run away ? this is a 
 knavery of them, to make me afeard. 
 Re-enter Snout. 
 Snout. Button, thou art changed ! 
 what do I see on thee? \_Exit. 
 
 Bot. What do you see ? you see an 
 ass's head of your own ; do you? 
 Re-enter Quikce. 
 Quin. Bless thee. Bottom ! bless thee! 
 thou art translated. [Exit. 
 
 Bot. I see their knavery : this is to 
 make an ass of me ; to fright me, if they 
 could. But I will not stir from this place, 
 do what they can : I will walk up and 
 down here, and I will sing, that they shall 
 hear I am not afraid. [Sings. 
 
 Tlie ousel cock, so black of hue, 
 
 With o)-ange-tawny bill. 
 The throstle with his note so true, 
 
 The wren with little quill. 
 
 Tita. What angel wakes me from my 
 flowery bed ? [ Waking. 
 
 Bot. The finch, the sparroiv, and the 
 lark, 
 Tlie plain-song cuckoo grey, 
 WJiose note full many a man doth mark. 
 And dares not answer, nay; — 
 or, indeed, who would set his wit to so 
 foolish a bird ? who would give a bird the 
 lie, though he cry, cuckoo, never so ? 
 Tita. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing 
 again : 
 Mine ear is much enamored of thy note. 
 So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape ; 
 And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth 
 
 move me. 
 On the first view, to say, to swear, I love 
 thee. 
 Bot. Methinks, mistress, you should 
 have little reason for that : And yet, to 
 say the truth, reason and love keep little 
 company together now-a-days : The more 
 the pity, that some honest neighbors Mill 
 not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek 
 upon occasion. 
 
 Tita. Thou art as wise as thou art 
 
 beautiful. 
 Bot. Not so, neither : but if I had wit 
 enough to get out of this wood, I have 
 enough to serve mine own turn. 
 
 Tita. Out of this wood do not desire 
 to go; 
 Thou shalt remain here, whether thou 
 
 wilt or no. 
 I am a spirit of no common rate: 
 The summer still doth tend upon my 
 state, 
 
 251 
 
Aci III. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DKEAM. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 And I do love theo : therefore, go with 
 me ; 
 
 I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee ; 
 
 And they shall fetch thee jewels from the 
 deep. 
 
 And sing, while thou on pressed flowers 
 dost sleep : 
 
 And I will pui-ge thy mortal grossness so, 
 
 That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. — 
 
 Peas-blossom ! Cobweb I Moth I and Mus- 
 tard-seed ! 
 
 Enter four Fairies. 
 
 1 Fai. Eeady. 
 
 2 Fai. And I. 
 
 3 Fai. And I. 
 
 4 Fai. Where shall we go ? 
 Tita. Be kind and courteous to this 
 
 gentleman ; 
 
 Hop in his walks, and gamble in his eyes; 
 
 Feed him with apricocks and dewberries. 
 
 With purple grapes, green figs, and mul- 
 berries ; 
 
 The honey bags steal from the humble- 
 bees. 
 
 And, for night-tapers, crop their waxen 
 thighs, 
 
 And light them at the fiery glow-worm's 
 eyes, _ • 
 
 To have my love to bed, and to arise : 
 
 And pluck the wings from painted but- 
 terflies, 
 
 To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping 
 eyes : 
 
 Nod to him, elves, and do him courte- 
 sies. 
 
 1 Fai. Hail, mortal ! 
 
 2 Fai. Hail! 
 
 3 Fai. Hail! 
 
 4 Fai. Hail ! 
 
 Bot. I cry your worship's mercy, 
 heartily. — I beseech, your Avorship's 
 name ? 
 
 Coh. Cobweb. 
 
 Bot. I shall desire you of more ac- 
 quaintance, good master Cobweb : If I 
 cut my finger, I shall make bold with 
 you. — Your name, honest gentleman ? 
 
 Peas. Peas-blossom. 
 Bot. I pray you, commend me to mis- 
 tress Squash, your mother, and to master 
 Peascod, your father. Good master Peas- 
 blossom, I shall desire you of more ac- 
 quaintance too. — Your name, I beseech 
 you, sir? 
 
 Mils. Mustard-seed. 
 Bot. Good master Mustard-seed, I 
 know your patience well : that same cow- 
 ardly, giant-like ox-beef hath devoured 
 many a gentleman of your house : I 
 promise you, your kindred hath made my 
 eyes water ere now. I desire you more 
 acquaintance, good master Mustard-seed. 
 Tita. Come wait upon him; lead him 
 to my bower. 
 The moon, methinks, looks with a watery 
 eye; 
 \ And when she weeps, weeps every little 
 j flower, 
 
 1 Lamenting some enforced chastity. 
 Tie up my love's tongue, bring him 
 silently. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. Another part of the AVood. 
 Enter Obeeox. 
 
 Ohe. I wonder, if Titania be awak'd ; 
 Then, what it was that next came in her 
 
 eye. 
 Which she must dote on in extremity. 
 
 Enter Puck. 
 
 Here comes my messenger. — How now, 
 
 mad spirit ? 
 What night-rule now about this haunted 
 
 grove ? 
 Puclc. My mistress with a monster is 
 
 in love. 
 Near to her close and consecrated bower. 
 While she was in her dull and sleeping 
 
 hour, 
 A crew of patches, rude mechanicals. 
 That Avork for bread upon Athenian 
 
 stalls, 
 Were met together to rehearse a play. 
 
 252 
 
Act III. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Intended for great Theseus' nuptial day. 
 The shallowest thick-skin of that barren 
 
 sort, 
 Who Pjramus presented, in their sport 
 Forsook his scene, and enter "d in a brake: 
 When I did him at this advantage take. 
 An ass's nowl I fixed on his head; 
 Anon, his Thisbe must be answered. 
 And forth my mimic comes ; When they 
 
 him spy. 
 As Avild 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 our stamp, here o'er and o'er one 
 
 falls ; 
 He murder cries, and help from Athens 
 
 calls. 
 Their sense, thus week, lost with their 
 
 fears, thus strong, 
 Made senseless things begin to do them 
 
 wrong : 
 For briers and thorns at their apparel 
 
 snatch ; 
 Some, sleeves ; some, hats : from yielders 
 
 all things catch. 
 I led them on this distracted fear. 
 And left sweet Pyramus translated there : 
 When in that moment (so it came to 
 
 pass), 
 Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an 
 
 ass. 
 Obe. This falls out better than I could 
 
 devise. 
 But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's 
 
 eyes 
 With the love-juice, as I did bid thee 
 
 do? 
 Puck. I took him sleeping, — that is 
 
 finish'd too. 
 And the Athenian woman by his side ; 
 That, when he wak'd, of force she must 
 
 be ey'd. 
 
 Enter Demetrius and Hermia. 
 Ohe. Stand close ; this is the same 
 
 Athenian. 
 Puck. This is the woman, but not this 
 
 the man, 
 Dem. 0, why rebuke you him that 
 
 loves you so ? 
 Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. 
 Her. Now I but chide, but I should 
 
 use thee worse ; 
 For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to 
 
 curse. 
 If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, 
 Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the 
 
 deep. 
 And kill me too. 
 
 The sun was not so true ^^nto the day, 
 As he to me : would he have stol'n away 
 From sleeping Hermia ? I'll believe as 
 
 soon. 
 This whole earth may be bor'd ; and that 
 
 the moon 
 May through the centre creep, and so dis- 
 please 
 Her brother's noon-tide with the Anti- 
 podes. 
 It cannot be, but thou hastmurder'd him; 
 So should a murderer look ; so dead, so 
 
 grim. 
 Dem. So should the murder'd look ; 
 
 and so should I, 
 Pierc'd through the heart with your stern 
 
 cruelty : 
 Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as 
 
 clear. 
 As yonder Venus in her glimmering 
 
 sphere. 
 Her. What's this to my Lysander ? 
 
 where is he ? 
 Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him 
 
 me ? 
 Dem. I had rather give his carcass 
 
 to my hounds. 
 Her. Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv'st 
 
 me past the bounds 
 Of maiden's patience. "Hast thou slain 
 
 him then ? 
 
 253 
 
Act III. 
 
 A MIDSrMMER-NIGHT'S DEEAM. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 Henceforth be never number'd among 
 
 men! 
 I once tell true, tell true, even for my 
 
 sake; 
 Durst thou have look'd upon him, being 
 
 awake. 
 And hast thou kill'd him sleeping ? 
 
 brave touch I 
 Could not a worm, an adder, do so much? 
 An adder did it ; for with doubler tongue 
 'Than thine, thou serpent, never adder 
 
 stung. 
 De7n. You spend your passion on a 
 
 mispris'd mood : 
 T am not guilty of Lysander's blood; 
 3ror is he dead, for aught that I can tell. 
 Her. I pray thee, tell me then, that 
 
 he is well. 
 Dem. And if I could, what should I 
 
 get therefore ? 
 Her. A privilege, never to see me 
 
 more. — 
 A.nd from thy hated presence part I so : 
 ;See me no more, whether he be dead or 
 
 no. \_Exit. 
 
 Dem. There is no following her in this 
 
 fierce vein : 
 Here, therefore, for a while I will remain. 
 So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow 
 For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow 
 
 owe ; 
 'Which now, in some slight measure it will 
 
 pay. 
 
 If for his tender here I make some stay. 
 
 [Lies down. 
 Obe. What hast thou done ? thou hast 
 mistaken quite, 
 .And laid the love-juice on some true love's 
 
 sight : 
 Of thy misprison must perforce ensue 
 Some true-love turn'd, and not a false 
 turn'd true. 
 Puck. Then fate o'er-rules ; that, one 
 man holding troth, 
 J\. million fail, confounding oath on oath. 
 Obe. About the wood go swifter than 
 the wind. 
 
 Aiid Helena of Athens look thou find : 
 All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer. 
 With sighs of love, that cost the fresh 
 
 blood dear : 
 By some illusion see thou bring her here ; 
 I'll charm his eyes, against she do appear. 
 
 Puclc. I go, I go; look how I go ; 
 Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Obe. Flower of this purple die. 
 Hit with Cupid's archery, 
 Sink in apple of his eye ! 
 Whan his love he doth espy. 
 Let her shine as gloriously 
 As the Venus of the sky. — 
 When thou wak'st, if she be by. 
 Beg of her for remedy. 
 
 Re-enter PrcK. 
 
 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 ? 
 0, 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 ? 
 Scorn and derision never come in tears: 
 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 jwove them 
 true ? 
 Hel. You do advance your cunning 
 more and more. 
 
 254 
 
Act 111. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCEXE I!. 
 
 When truth kills truth, matchless 
 
 holy fray I 
 These vows are Hermia's : Will you give 
 
 her o'er ? 
 Weigh oath with oath, and you will 
 
 nothing weigh : 
 Your vows, to her and me, put in two 
 
 scales, 
 Will even weigh; and both as light as 
 
 tales. 
 Lys. I had no judgment, when to her 
 
 I swore. 
 Hel. Nor none, in my mind, now you 
 
 give her o'er. 
 Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves 
 
 not you. 
 Dem. [aiuaMng.'] Helen, goddess, 
 
 nymph, perfect, divine I 
 To what, my love, shall I compare thine 
 
 eyne ? 
 Crystal is muddy. 0, how ripe in show 
 Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting 
 
 grow 
 Tliat pure congealed white, high Taurus' 
 
 snow, 
 Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a 
 
 crow. 
 When thou hold'st up thy hand : let 
 
 me kiss 
 This princess of pure white, this seal of 
 
 bliss ! 
 Hel. cruel spite ! I see you all are 
 
 bent 
 To set against me, for your merriment. 
 If you are 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 sujierpraise my 
 
 parts. 
 When, I am sure, you hate me with your 
 
 hearts. 
 You both are rivals, and love Ilermia ; 
 And now both rivals, to mock Helena : 
 
 A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, 
 
 To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes. 
 
 With your derision ! none, of noble sort, 
 
 Would so offend a virgin ; and extort 
 
 A poor soul's patience, all to make you 
 
 sport. 
 Lys. You are unkind, Demetrius : be 
 
 not so, 
 For you love Hermia; this, you know, I 
 
 know : 
 And here, with all good will, with all my 
 
 heart. 
 In Hermia's love I yield you up my part ; 
 And yours of Helena to me bequeath. 
 Whom I do love, and will do to my death. 
 Hel. Never did mockers waste more 
 
 idle breath. 
 Dem. Lysander, keep thy Hermia ; I 
 
 will none : 
 If e'er I loved her, all that love is gone. 
 My heart with her but, as guest-wise, 
 
 sojourn'd ; 
 And now to Helen is it home return'd. 
 There to remain. 
 
 Lys. Helen, it is not so. 
 
 Dem. Disparage not the faith thou dost 
 
 not know, 
 Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear. — 
 Look, where thy love comes ; yonder is 
 
 thy dear. 
 
 Enter Hermia. 
 Her. Dark night, that from tlie eye 
 
 his function takes, 
 The ear more quick of apprehension 
 
 makes 
 Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense. 
 It pays the hearing double recompense: — 
 Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, 
 
 found; 
 Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy 
 
 sound, 
 liut why unkindly didst thou leave me 
 
 so? 
 Lys. Why should he stay, whom love 
 
 doth press to go? 
 Her. Wliat love could press Lysander 
 
 from my side? 
 
 255 
 
Act III. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Lys. Lysander's love, that would not 
 
 let him bide. 
 Fair Helena: who more engilds the night 
 Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. 
 Why seek'st thou me? could not this make 
 
 thee know, 
 
 The hate I bear thee made me leave thee 
 
 so? 
 Her. You speak not as you think; it 
 
 cannot be. 
 Hel. Lo, she is one of this confederacy! 
 Now I perceive they have conjoin'd, all 
 
 three, 
 To fashion this false sport in spite of 
 
 me. 
 Injurious Hermia: most ungrateful maid! 
 Have you conspir'd, have you with these 
 
 contriv'd 
 To bait me with this foul derision ? 
 Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd. 
 The sisters' vows, the hours that we have 
 
 spent, 
 When we have chid the hasty-footed 
 
 time 
 For parting us, — 0, and is all forgot? 
 All school-days' friendship, childhood in- 
 
 nocence?- 
 We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, 
 Have with our neelds created both one 
 
 flower, 
 Both on one sampler sitting on one cush- 
 ion. 
 Both warbling of one. song, both in one 
 
 key; 
 As if our hands, our sides, voices, and 
 
 minds. 
 Had been incorporate. So we grew to- 
 gether. 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted; 
 But yet a union in partition. 
 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem: 
 So with two seeming bodies, but one heart; 
 Two of the first, like coats in heraldry. 
 Due but to one, and crowned with one 
 
 crest. 
 And 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 amaz'd at your passionate 
 
 words: 
 I scorn you not; it seem that you scorn 
 
 me. 
 Hel. Have you not set Lysander, as in 
 
 scorn, 
 To follow me, and praise my eyes and 
 
 face? 
 And make your other love, Demetrius, 
 (Who even but now did spurn me with 
 
 his foot,) 
 To call me goddess, nymph, divine, and 
 
 rare, 
 Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he 
 
 this 
 To her he hates? and wherefore doth 
 
 Lysander 
 Deny your love, so rich within his soul. 
 And tender me, forsooth, affection ; 
 But by your setting on, by your consent? 
 What though I be not so in grace as you. 
 So hung upon with love, so fortunate; 
 But miserable most, to love unlov'd? 
 This you should pity, rather than despise. 
 Her. I understand not what you mean 
 
 by this. 
 Hel. Ay, do, persevere, counterfeit sad 
 
 looks. 
 Make mows upon me when 1 turn my 
 
 back; 
 Wink at each other; hold the sweet jest 
 
 up: 
 This sport, well carried, shall be chron- 
 icled. 
 If you have any pity, grace, or manners. 
 You would not make me such an argu- 
 ment. 
 But fare ye well: 'tis partly mine own 
 
 fault; 
 Which death, orabsence, soon shall remedy. 
 Lys. Stay, gentle Helena; hear my 
 ' excuse; 
 
 256 
 
Act III. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 My love, my life, my soul, fair Ilelenal ' 
 //(?/. excellent! 
 
 Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so. 
 
 Dem. If she cannot entreat, I can com- 
 
 jiel. 
 Li/s. Thou canst compel no more tlian 
 she entreat; 
 Thy threats have no more strength than 
 
 her weak prayers. — 
 Helen, I love thee; by my life, I do; 
 I swear 1/y that which I will lose for thee. 
 To prove him false, that says I love thee 
 not. 
 Detn. I say, I love thee more than he 
 
 can do. 
 Lj/s. If thou say so, withdraw, and 
 
 prove it too. 
 De77i. Quick, come, — 
 Her. Lysauder, whereto tends all this. 
 Lys. Away, you Ethiop! 
 Dem. No, no, sir: — he will 
 
 Seem to break loose; take on, as you would 
 
 follow; 
 But yet come not: you are a tame man, 
 go! 
 Lys. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr: 
 yile thing, let loose; 
 Or I will shake thee from me, like a ser- 
 pent. 
 Her. Why are you grown so rude? what 
 change is this. 
 Sweet love? 
 
 Lys. Thy love? out, tawny Tartar, out. 
 Her.. Do you not jest? 
 Hel. Yes, 'sooth; and so do you. 
 
 Lys. Demetrius, I will keep my word 
 
 with thee. 
 Dem. I would, I had your bond; for, I 
 perceive, 
 A weak bond holds you; I'll not trust 
 your word. 
 Lys. What, should I hurt her, strike 
 her, kill her dead? 
 Although I hate her, I'll not harm her so. 
 Her. What, can you do me greater 
 harm, than liate? 
 
 Hate me! wherefore? me! what Hews, 
 my love? 
 
 Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysan- 
 der? 
 
 I am as fair now, as I was erewhile. 
 
 Since night you lov'd me; yet, since night 
 you left me: 
 
 Why, then you left me, — 0, the gods for- 
 bid!— 
 
 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, 
 doubt. 
 
 Be certain, nothing truer; 'tis no jest. 
 
 That I do hate thee, and love Helena. 
 Her. me! you juggler! you canker 
 blossom ! 
 
 You thief of love! what, have you come 
 by night, 
 
 And stol'n my love's heart from him? 
 Hel Fine, i'faith 
 
 Have you no modesty, no maiden shame. 
 
 No touch of bashfulness? What, will 
 you tear 
 
 Impatient answers from my gentle tongue? 
 
 Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet 
 you! 
 Her. Puppet! why so? Ay, that way 
 goes the game. 
 
 Now I perceive that she hath made com- 
 pare 
 
 Between our statures, she hath urg'd her 
 height; 
 
 And with her personage, her tall person- 
 age. 
 
 Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd 
 with him. — 
 
 And are you grown so high in his esteem. 
 
 Because I am so dwarfish, and so low? 
 
 How low am I, thovi painted maypole? 
 speak, 
 
 How low am I? I am not j'et so low. 
 
 But that my nails can reach unto thine 
 eyes. 
 Ilel. I pray you, though you mock me, 
 gentlemen. 
 
Act III. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCEN-E II. 
 
 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's something lower than my- 
 self. 
 That I can match her. 
 
 Her. Lower I hark, again. 
 
 Hel. Good Hermia, do not be so bit- 
 ter 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 followed you ; for love, I follow'd 
 
 him : 
 But he hath chid me hence ; and threat- 
 ened me 
 To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me 
 
 too : 
 And now, so you will let me quiet go, 
 To Athens will I bear my folly back. 
 And follow you no further : Let me go : 
 You see how simple and hoM' fond I am. 
 Her. Why, get you gone : Who is't 
 
 that hinders you ? 
 Hel. A foolish heart, that I leave here 
 
 behind. 
 Her. What, with Lysander ? 
 Hel. With Demetrius. 
 
 Lys. Be not afraid : she shall not 
 
 harm thee, Helena. 
 Dem. No, sir ; she shall not, though 
 
 you take her part. 
 Hel. 0, when she's angry, she is keen 
 and shrewd : 
 She was a vixen, when she went to school; 
 And, though she. be but little, she is 
 fierce. 
 Her. Little again ? nothing but low 
 and little ? — 
 Why will you suffer her to flout me thus ? 
 Let me come to her. 
 
 Lys. Get you gone, you dwarf ; 
 
 Y'ou minimus, of hind'ring knot-grass 
 
 made ; 
 You bead, you acorn. 
 
 Dem. You are too officious. 
 
 In her behalf that scorns your sei'vices. 
 Let her alone ; speak not of Helena ; 
 Take not her part : for if thou dost in- 
 tend 
 Never so little show of love to her. 
 Thou shalt aby it. 
 
 Lys. Xow, she holds me not ; 
 
 Now follov\-, if thou dar'st, to try whose 
 
 right. 
 Or thine or mine, is most in Helena. 
 Dem. Follow ? nay, I'll go with thee, 
 cheek by jole. 
 
 \_Exeunt Lys. and Dem. 
 Her. You, mistress, all this coil is long 
 of you : 
 Nay, go not back. 
 
 Hel. I will not trust you, I ; 
 
 Nor longer stay in your curst company. 
 Your hands, than mine, are quicker for 
 
 a fray ; 
 My legs are longer though, to run away. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Her. I am amaz'd, and know not what 
 to say. 
 
 {Exit, inirsuing Helena. 
 Obe. This is thy negligence: still thou 
 mistak'st, 
 Or else commit'st thy knaveries wilfully. 
 Puck. Believe me, king of shadows, I 
 mistook. 
 Did not you tell me, I should know the 
 
 man 
 By the Athenian garments he had on ? 
 And so far blameless proves my enter- 
 prise, 
 That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes : 
 And so far am I glad it so did sort. 
 As this their jangling I esteem a sjiort. 
 Oie. Thou seest, these lovers seek a 
 place to fight! 
 Hie, therefore, Robin, overcast the night; 
 The starry welkin cover thou anon 
 With drooping fog, as black as Acheron ; 
 
 258 
 
Act III. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEK-NIGHT-'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 And lead these testy rivals so astray, 
 As one come not within another's way. 
 Like to Lysander sometime frame thy 
 
 tongue. 
 Then stir Demetrius up with bitter 
 
 wrong ; 
 And sometime rail thou like Demetrius ; 
 And from each other look thou lead them 
 
 thus. 
 Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting 
 
 sleep 
 "With leaden legs and batty wings doth 
 
 creep : 
 Then crush this herb into Lysander'seye; 
 Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, 
 To take from thence all error, with his 
 
 might. 
 And make his eye-balls roll with wonted 
 
 sight. 
 When they next wake, all this derision 
 Shall seem a dream, and fruitless vision ; 
 And back to Athens shall the lovers wend. 
 With league, whose date till death shall 
 
 never end. 
 Whiles I in this aiiair do thee employ, 
 I'll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy; 
 And then I will her charmea 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 swift dragons cut the clouds 
 
 full fast. 
 And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger; 
 At whose appi'oach, ghosts, wandering 
 
 here and there. 
 Troop home to church-yards : and the 
 
 spirits all, 
 That in cross- ways 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. 
 Obe. But we are spirits of another 
 
 sort : 
 
 I with the Morning's Love have oft made 
 
 sport ; 
 And, like a forester, the groves may 
 
 tread. 
 Even till the eastern gate, all fiery red. 
 Opening on Neptune with fair blessed 
 
 beams. 
 Turns into yellow gold his salt-green 
 
 streams. 
 But, notwithstanding, haste ; make no 
 
 delay : 
 We may effect this business yet ere day. 
 
 lExit Obe. 
 Piick. 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. 
 
 Enter Lysander. 
 
 Lys. Where art thou, proud Demet- 
 rius ? speak thou now. 
 Puck. Here, villain ; drawn and 
 
 ready. Where art thou ? 
 Lys. I will be with thee straight. 
 Puck. Follow me then 
 
 To plainer ground. 
 
 l^Exit Lysander as folloiuing the voice. 
 
 Enter Demetrius. 
 
 Dem. Lysander ! speak again. 
 
 Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou 
 
 fled? 
 Speak. In some bush ? Where dost thou 
 hide thy head ? 
 Puck. Thou coward, art thou brag- 
 ging to the stars. 
 Telling the bushes that thou look'st for 
 
 wars. 
 And wilt not come ? Come, recreant ; 
 
 come, thou child ; 
 I'll whip thee with a rod : He is defil'd. 
 That draws a sword on thee. 
 
 Dem. Yea; art thou there ? 
 
 Puck. Follow my voice ; we'll try no 
 
 manhood here. {Exeunt. 
 
Acx HI. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DEEAM. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Re-enter Ltsas"der. 
 
 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 followed fast, but faster he did fly ; 
 
 That fallen am I in dark uneven way. 
 
 And here will rest me. Come, thou gen- 
 tle day I 
 
 \_Lies doioH. 
 
 For if but once thou show me thy grey 
 light, 
 
 Pll find Demetrius, and revenge this 
 spite. \^Slee2)s. 
 
 Re-enter Puck cmd Demetrius. . 
 
 Puck. Ho, ho ! ho, ho! Coward, why 
 
 com'st thou not ? 
 Dem. Abide me, if thou dar'st ; for 
 well I wot. 
 Thou runn'st before me, shifting every 
 
 place, 
 And dar'st not stand, nor look me in the 
 
 face. 
 Where art thou ? 
 
 Puck. Come hither ; I am here. 
 
 Dem. Nay, then thou mock'st me. 
 Thou shalt buy this dear. 
 If ever I thy face by daylight see : 
 Now, go thy way. Eaintness constrain- 
 
 eth me 
 To measure oiit my length on this cold 
 
 bed. — 
 By day's approach look to be visited. 
 
 \_Lies douni and sleeptt. 
 
 Enter Helena. 
 
 Hel. weary night, long and te- 
 dious night. 
 
 Abate thy hours : shine, comforts, from 
 the east ; 
 
 That I may back to Athens, by day- 
 light. 
 
 From these that my jjoor company de- 
 test : — 
 And, sleep, that sometimes shuts up sor- 
 row's eye. 
 Steal me awhile from mine own companv. 
 
 {^Slefps. 
 Puck. Yet but three ? Come one 
 
 more ; 
 Two of both kinds makes up four. 
 Here she comes, curst and sad : — 
 Cupid is a knavish lad, 
 Thus to make poor females mad. 
 
 Enter Herjiia. 
 
 Her. Never so weary, never so in woe. 
 Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with 
 briers : 
 I can no further crawl, no further go ; 
 My legs can keep no pace with my de- 
 sires. 
 Here will I rest me, till the break of 
 
 day. 
 Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean 
 a fray I 
 
 \^Lks down. 
 Puck. On the ground 
 Sleep sound : 
 I'll apply 
 To your eye. 
 Gentle lover, remedy. 
 [Squeezi7ig the juice on Lysander's eye. 
 When thou Avak'st, 
 Thou tak'st 
 True delight 
 In the sight 
 Of thy former lady's eye : 
 And the country proverb known. 
 That every man should take his 
 
 own. 
 In your waking shall be shown : 
 Jack shall have Jill ; 
 Nought shall go ill ; 
 The man shall have his mare again, and 
 all shall be well. 
 \^Exit Puck. — Dem., Hel.. etc., sleep. 
 
 260 
 
Act IV. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DEEAM. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. The Same. 
 
 Eiih'i- TiTANiA and Bottom, Fairies 
 attending; Obero:s behind, unseen. 
 
 Tita. Come, sit thee down upon this 
 flowery bed, 
 
 While I thy amiable cheeks do coy. 
 And stick musk roses in thy sleek smooth 
 head. 
 
 And kiss thy fair large ears, my gen- 
 tle joy. 
 
 Bot. Where's Peas-blossom ? 
 
 Peas. Ready. 
 
 Bot. Scratch my head, Peas-blossom. 
 — Where's Monsieur Cobweb ? 
 
 Cob. Eeady. 
 
 Bot. Monsieur Cobweb ; good mon- 
 sieur, get your weapons in your hand, and 
 kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the 
 top of a thistle ; and, good monsieur, 
 bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret 
 yourself too much in the action, mon- 
 sieur ; and, good monsieur, have a care 
 the honey- bag break not : I would be 
 loath to have you overflown with a honey- 
 bag, signior. — Where's monsieur Mustard- 
 seed ? 
 
 Must. Eeady. 
 
 Bot. Give me your nief, monsieur 
 Mustard-seed. Pray you, leave your 
 courtesy, good monsieur. 
 
 Must. What's your will ? 
 
 Bot. Nothing, good monsieur, but to 
 help cavalero Cobweb to scratch. I must 
 to the barber's, monsieur ; for, methinks, 
 I am marvelous hairy about the face: and 
 I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but 
 tickle me, I must scratch. 
 
 Tita. What, wilt thou hear some 
 music, my sweet love. 
 
 Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in 
 music : let us have the tongs and the 
 bones. 
 
 Tita. Or say, sweet love, what thou 
 ■desir'st to eat. 
 
 Bot. Truly, a peck of provender; I 
 could munch your good dry oats. Me- 
 thinks, I have a great desire to a bottle of 
 hay ; good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. 
 Tita. I have a venturous fairy that 
 shall seek 
 The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new 
 nuts. 
 Bot. I had rather have a handful, or 
 two, of dried peas. But, I pray you, let 
 none of your people stir me : I have an 
 exposition of sleeji come upon me. 
 
 Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee 
 in my arms. Fairies, begone, and be all 
 ways away. 
 
 \^Exeunt Fairies. 
 So doth the woodbine, the sweet honey- 
 suckle. 
 Gently eutwist, — the female ivy so 
 Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. 
 0, how I love thee ! how I dote on thee ! 
 
 \_Tliey slec]}. 
 
 Oberon" advances. 
 
 Enter Puck. 
 
 See'st 
 
 Obe. Welcome, good Eobin. 
 
 thou this sweet sight ? 
 Her dotage now I do begin to pity. 
 For meeting her of late, behind the wood. 
 Seeking sweet savours for this hateful 
 
 fool, 
 I did upbraid her, and fall out with her : 
 For she his hairy temples then had 
 
 rounded 
 With coronet of fresh and fragrant flow- 
 ers; 
 And that same dew, whicli sometime on 
 
 the buds 
 Was wont to swell, like round and orient 
 
 pearls. 
 Stood now within tlie pretty flowrets' 
 
 eyes. 
 Like tears, that did their own disgrace 
 
 bewail. 
 When I had, at my pleasure, taunted her, 
 
 261 
 
Act IV. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCEKE I. 
 
 And she^ in mild terms, begg'd my 
 
 patience, 
 I then did ask of her her changeling child, 
 
 Which straight she gave me, and her fairy- 
 sent 
 To bear him to my bower in fairy land. 
 
 And now I have the boy, I will undo 
 This hateful imperfection of her eyes. 
 And, gentle Puck, take this transformed 
 
 scalp 
 From off the head of this Athenian swain; 
 
 That he awaking when the others do, 
 May all to Athens back again repair; 
 And think no more of this night's acci- 
 dents. 
 But as the fierce vexation of a dream. 
 
 262 
 
Act IV. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 But first, I will release the fairy queen. 
 Be, as thou wast wont to be; 
 
 \_Touc1iing her eyes ivilh an herb. 
 See, as thou wast wont to see: 
 Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower 
 Hath such force and blessed power. 
 Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet 
 queen. 
 Tita. My Oberon! what visions have I 
 seen I 
 Methought, I was enamour'd of an ass. 
 Obe. There lies your love. 
 Til a. How came these things to pass? 
 0, how mine eyes do loath his visage now! 
 Obe. Silence, a while. — Robin, take 
 ofE this head. 
 Titania, music call; and strike more dead 
 Than common sleep, of all these five the 
 sense. 
 Tita. Music, oh ! music, such as charm- 
 
 eth sleep. 
 Puck. Now, when thou wak'st, with 
 
 thine own fool's e^^es peep. 
 Obe. Sound, music. [SfiU mtcsic] 
 Come, my queen, take hands with 
 me. 
 And rock the ground whereon these 
 
 sleej^ers be. 
 Now thou and I are new in amity; 
 And will, to-morrow midnight, solemnly. 
 Dance in duke Theseus' house triumph- 
 antly. 
 And bless it to all fair posterity: 
 There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be 
 Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity. 
 
 Pticlc. Fairy king, attend and mark, 
 I do hear the morning lark. 
 
 Obe. Then, my queen, in silence sad, 
 Trip we after the night's shade: 
 We the globe can compass soon. 
 Swifter than the wand'ring moon. 
 
 Tita. Come, my lord; and in our flight, 
 Tell me how it came this night, 
 That I sleeping here was found. 
 With these mortals, on the ground. 
 
 [Uxeunt. Horns sound within. 
 
 263 
 
 Enter Thesetts, Hippoltta, Egeus, and 
 train. 
 
 Tlie. Go, one of you, find out the 
 
 forester; — 
 For now our observation is perf orm'd ; 
 And since we have the vaward of the day. 
 My love shall hear the music of my 
 
 hounds. — 
 Uncouple in the western valley; go: — 
 Despatch, I say, and find the forester. — 
 We will, fair queen, up to the mount- 
 ain's top. 
 And mark the musical confusion 
 Of hounds and echo in conjunction. 
 Hip. I was with Hercules, and Cad- 
 mus, once. 
 When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the 
 
 bear 
 With liounds of Sparta: never did I hear 
 Such gallant chiding; for, besides the 
 
 groves. 
 The skies, the fountains, every region 
 
 near 
 Seem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard 
 So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. 
 Tlie. My hounds are bred out of the 
 
 Spartan kind. 
 So flew'd, so sanded ; and their heads are 
 
 hung 
 With ears that sweep away the morning 
 
 dew; 
 Crook-knee'd, and dew-lap'd like Thessa- 
 
 lian bulls; 
 Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth 
 
 like bells. 
 Each under each. A cry more tuneable 
 Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with 
 
 horn, 
 Iq Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly: 
 Judge, when you hear. — But, soft; what, 
 
 nymphs are these? 
 Ege. My lord, this is my daughter 
 
 here asleep: 
 And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is; 
 This Helena, old Nedar's Helena: 
 I wonder of their being here together. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DKEAM, 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Tlie. No doubt, they rose up early, to 
 observe 
 The rite of May; and, hearing onr intent. 
 Came here in grace of our solemnity. — 
 But, sj^eak, Egeus; is not this tlie day 
 That Hermia should give answer of her 
 choice? 
 Ege. It is, my lord. 
 The. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them 
 with their horns. 
 
 Horns and sliouts witliin. Demetrius, 
 LYSAJfDER, Heemia, and Helen'a, 
 walce and start up. 
 The. Good-morrow, friends. Saint 
 Valentine is past; 
 Begin these wood-birds but to coujole 
 now? 
 Lys. Pardon, my lord. 
 
 \He and the rest kneel to Theseus, 
 The. I pray you all, stand up. 
 
 I know, you are two rival enemies; 
 How comes this gentle concord in the 
 
 world. 
 That hatred is so far from jealousy, 
 To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity? 
 
 Lys. My lord, I shall reply amazedly. 
 Half sleep, half waking : But as yet, I 
 
 swear 
 I cannot truly say how I came here: 
 But, as I think, (for trulj' would I 
 
 speak,- — 
 And now I do bethink me, so it is;) 
 I came with Hermia hither: our intent 
 Was, to be gone from Athens, where we 
 
 might be 
 "Without the peril of the Athenian law. 
 Ege. Enough, enough, my lord; you 
 have enough: 
 I beg the law, the law, upon his head.— 
 They would have stol'n away, they would, 
 
 Demetrius, 
 Thereby to have defeated you and me: 
 You, of your wife; and me, of my con- 
 sent; 
 Of my consent that she should be your 
 wife. 
 
 Deni. My lord, fair Helen told me of 
 
 their stealth. 
 Of this their jjurj^ose hither to this M^ood; 
 And I in fury hither foUow'd them; 
 Fair Helena in fancy following me. 
 But, my good lord, I wot not by what 
 
 power, 
 (But by some power it is.) my love to 
 
 Hermia, . - 
 
 Melted as doth the snow, seems to me 
 
 now 
 As the remembrance of an idle gawd. 
 Which in my childhood I did dote upon: 
 And all the faith, the virtue of my heart. 
 The object, and the pleasure of mine eye. 
 Is only Helena. To her, my lord,. 
 Was Ibetroth'd ere I saw Hermia: 
 But, like in sickness, did I loath this 
 
 food : 
 But, as in health, come to my natural 
 
 taste, 
 ISTow do I wish it, love it, long for it. 
 And will forever more be true to it. 
 
 Hie. Fair lovers, you are fortunatelj' 
 
 met: 
 Of this discourse we more will hear 
 
 anon. — 
 Egeus, I will overbear your will; 
 For in the temple, by and by with us. 
 These couples shall eternally be knit. 
 And, for the morning now is something 
 
 worn. 
 Our purpos'd hunting shall be set aside. — 
 Away, with us, to Athens: Three and 
 
 three. 
 We'll hold a feast in great solemnity. — 
 Come, Hippolyta. 
 
 [Exeunt The., Hij)., Ege. and train. 
 Dem. These things seem small and un- 
 
 distinguishable. 
 Like far-ofi mountains turn "d into clouds. 
 Her. Methinks, I see these things with 
 
 parted eye 
 When everything seems double. 
 
 Hel. So methinks: 
 
 And I have found Demetrius like a jewel. 
 Mine own, and not mine own. 
 
 264 
 
Act IV. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Dem. It seems to me. 
 
 That yet we sleep, we dream. — Do not 
 
 you think, 
 The duke was here, and bid us follow him ? 
 Her. Yea ; and my father. 
 Hel. And Hippolyta. 
 
 Lys. And he did bid us follow to the 
 
 temple. 
 Dem. Why then, we are awake : let's 
 follow him ; 
 And, by the way, let us recount our 
 dreams. \_Exeiint. 
 
 As they go out Bottom awakes. 
 Bot. When my cue comes, call me, and 
 I will answer: — my next is. Most fair 
 Pyramus. — Hey, ho! — Peter Quince! 
 Flute, the bellows-mender ! Snout, the 
 tinker! StarvelingI Odd's my life! stolen 
 hence, and left me asleep! I have had a 
 most rare vision. I have had a dream, — 
 past the wit of man to say what dream it 
 was: Man is but an ass, if he go about to 
 expound this dream. Methought I was 
 — there is no man can tell what. Me- 
 thought I was, and methought I had, — 
 But man is but a patched fool, if he will 
 offer to say what methought I had. I 
 will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of 
 this dream: it shall be called Bottom's 
 Dream, because it hath no bottom; and 
 I will sing it in the latter end of the play, 
 before the duke! Peradventure, to make 
 it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her 
 death. [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. Athens. A Room in Quince's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and 
 Starveling. 
 
 Quin. Have you sent to Bottom's 
 house? is he come home yet? 
 
 Star. He cannot be heard of. Out of 
 doubt, he is transported. 
 
 Flu. If he come not, then the play is 
 marred; It goes not forward, doth it? 
 
 Quin. It is not possible: you have not 
 a man in all Athens, able to discharge 
 Pyramus, but he. 
 
 Flu. No; he hath simply the best wit 
 of any handycraft man in Athens. 
 
 Quin. Yea, and the best person too: 
 and he is a very paramour, for a sweet 
 voice. 
 
 Fhi. You must say, paragon, a para- 
 mour is a thing of nought. 
 
 Enter Snug. 
 
 Snug. Masters, the duke is coming 
 from the temple, and there is two or three 
 lords and ladies more married: if our sport 
 had gone forward, we had all been made 
 men. 
 
 Flu. sweet bully Buttom ! 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'll 
 be hanged; he would have deserved it: six- 
 pence a day, in Pyramus, or nothing. 
 
 Enter Bottom. 
 
 Bot. Where are these lads? where are 
 these hearts? 
 
 Quin. Bottom! — most courageous 
 day! most hajipy hour! 
 
 Bot. Masters, I am to discourse 
 waders : but ask me not what; for, if I 
 tell you, lam no true Athenian. I will 
 tell you everything, right as it fell out. 
 
 Quin. Let us hear, sweet Bottom. 
 
 Bot. Not a word of me. All that I 
 will tell you, is, that the duke hath dined: 
 Get your apparel together; good strings to 
 your beards, new ribbons to your pumjjs; 
 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 gar- 
 lick, for we are to utter sweet breath; and 
 I do not doubt, but to hear tliem say, it 
 is sweet comedy. No more words; away; 
 go, away. [Exei/nf. 
 
Act V. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DREAiAL 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. An Apartment in the Palace of 
 Theseus. 
 
 Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Phil- 
 ostrate, Lords and Attendants. 
 
 Hip. ' Tis strange, my Theseus, that 
 
 these lovers speak of. 
 The. More strangethan true. I never 
 may believe 
 These antique fables nor these fairy toys. 
 Lovers, and madmen, have such seething 
 
 brains. 
 Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 
 More than cool reason ever comprehends. 
 The lunatic, the lover, and the poet. 
 Are of imagination all compact: 
 One sees more devils than vast hell can 
 
 hold; 
 That is, the madman: the lover, all as 
 
 frantic. 
 Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt: 
 The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
 Doth glance from heaven to earth, from 
 
 earth to heaven. 
 And, as imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's 
 
 pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives the airy 
 
 nothing 
 A local habitation, and a name. 
 Such tricks hath strong imagination; 
 That, if it would but apprehend some joy. 
 It comprehends some bringer of that joy; 
 Or, in the night, imagining some fear, 
 How easy is a bush suppos'd a bear? 
 Hip. But all the story of the night 
 told over, 
 And all their minds transfigur'd so to- 
 gether, 
 More witnesseth tlian fancy's images. 
 And grows to something of great con- 
 stancy; 
 But, howsoever, strange and admirable. 
 
 Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, 
 and Helena. 
 The. Here come the lovers, full of 
 joy and mirth, — 
 Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days 
 
 of love. 
 Accompany your hearts! 
 
 Lys. More than to us 
 
 Wait on your royal walks, your board, 
 your bed ! 
 Hie. Come now; what masks, what 
 dances shall we have, 
 To wear away this long age of three 
 
 hours. 
 Between our after-supper and bed-time? 
 Where is our usual manager of mirth? 
 What revels are in hand? Is there no 
 
 play, 
 To ease the anguish of a torturing hour? 
 Call Philostrate. 
 
 PMlost. Here, mighty Theseus. 
 
 The. Say what abridgment have you 
 for this evening? 
 What mask? what music? How shall 
 
 we beguile 
 
 The la«y time, if not with some delight? 
 
 Phiiost. There is a brief, how many 
 
 sports are ripe; 
 
 Make choice of which your highness will 
 
 see first. [ Giving a paper. 
 
 The. [Reads.] The battle with the Oeti- 
 
 taurs, to be sung, 
 By an Athenian songster to the harp, 
 Well none of that: that have I told my 
 
 love. 
 In glory of my kinsman Hercules. 
 Tlie riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, 
 Tearing the Thracian singer in their 
 rage. 
 That is an old device; and it was play'd 
 When I from Thebes came last a con- 
 queror. 
 The thrice three miises rnourning for the 
 
 death 
 Of learning^ late deceased in beggary. 
 
 266 
 
Act V. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 That in some satire, keen, and critical. 
 Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. 
 A tedio7(S brief scene of young Pyramus, 
 
 death 
 And his love Thisbej 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 dis- 
 cord? 
 Philost. 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 Pyramus therein doth kill himself. 
 Which, when I saw rehears'd, I must 
 
 confess. 
 Made mine eyes water; but more merry 
 
 tears 
 The passion of loud laughter never shed. 
 The. What are they, that do play it? 
 Philost. Hard-handed men, that work 
 
 in Athens here, 
 Which never labored in their minds till 
 
 now; 
 And now have toil'd their unbreath'd 
 
 memories 
 With this same play, against your nup- 
 tial. 
 The. And we will hear it. 
 Philost. No, my noble lord. 
 
 It is not for you: I have heard it ove.". 
 And it is nothing, nothing in the world; 
 Unless you can find sport in their intents. 
 Extremely stretchM, and conn'd with cruel 
 
 pain, 
 To do you service. 
 
 Tlie. I will hear that play; 
 
 For never any thing can be amiss. 
 When simpleness and duty tender it. 
 
 Go, bring them in; — and take your places, 
 ladies. 
 
 {^Exit Philostrate. 
 Hip. I love not to see wretchedness 
 o'ercharg'd. 
 
 And duty in his service perishing. 
 
 The. Why, 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 mis- 
 take: 
 
 And what poor duty can do, 
 
 Noble respect takes it in might, not 
 merit. 
 
 Where I have come, great clerks have 
 purposed 
 
 To greet me with premeditated welcomes; 
 
 Where I have seen them shiver and look 
 pale. 
 
 Make periods in the midst of sentences, 
 
 Throttle their practis'd accent in their 
 fears, 
 
 And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke 
 off, 
 
 Not paying me a welcome: Trust me 
 sweet. 
 
 Out of this silence, yet, I pick'd a wel- 
 come; 
 
 And in the modesty of fearful duty 
 
 I read as much, as from the rattling 
 tongue 
 
 Of saucy and audacious eloquence. 
 
 Love, therefore, and tongue-tied sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 In least, speak most, to my capacity. 
 
 Enter Philostrate. 
 
 Philost. So please your grace, the 
 
 prologue is addrest. 
 Tlie. Let him approach. [Flourish 
 
 of trujnpets. 
 
 Enter Prologue. 
 Prol. If tve offend, it is -with our good- 
 will. 
 
 267 
 
Act V. 
 
 A MIDSQMMER-NIGHT'S DEE AM. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 That you should think, we come not to 1 "This man, with lantern, dog, and bush 
 
 offend, 
 
 of thorn, 
 
 But with good-ioill. To shoiv our simple "Presenteth moon-shine: for, if you 
 
 skill. 
 
 That is the true beginning of our end. 
 Consider then, we come hut in despite. 
 
 We do not come as minding to content ' "To meet at Xinus' tomb, there, there 
 
 will know, 
 "By moon-shine did these lovers think no 
 scorn 
 
 you. 
 
 to woo. 
 
 O^ir true intent is. All for your delight, ' "This grisly beast, which by name lion 
 
 We are not here. Tliai you should here 
 repent you. 
 The actors are at hand; and, by their 
 shoiu. 
 
 hight, 
 "The trusty Thisby, coming first by 
 
 night, 
 '"Did scare away, or rather did aif right: 
 
 Yoii shall knciv all, that you are like to i "And, as she fled, her mantle she did 
 
 knoiv. 
 Tlie. This fellow doth not stand iipon 
 points. 
 
 fall; 
 "Which lion vile with bloody mouth 
 did stain: 
 
 Lys. He hath rid his prologue, like a "Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth, and 
 
 rough colt; he knows not the stop. A 
 good moral, my lord: It is not enough 
 to speak, but to speak true. 
 
 Hip. Indeed he hath played on this 
 prologue, like a child on a recorder; a 
 sound, but not in goyernment. 
 
 The. His sjaeech was like a tangled 
 chain; nothing impaired, but all dis- 
 ordered. Who is next? 
 
 Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, 
 Moonshine, and Lion, as i7i dumb 
 show. 
 
 Prol. "Gentles, perchance, you won- 
 der at this show: 
 
 "But wonder on, till truth make all 
 things 23]ain. 
 *'This man is Pyramus, if you would 
 know; 
 
 tall, 
 "And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle 
 
 slain: 
 "Whereat with blade, with bloody blame- 
 ful 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 liere they do 
 
 remain." 
 
 {Exeunt Prol., Pyr., Thisbe, Lion, and 
 Moonshine. 
 
 The. I wonder if the lion be to speak. 
 Dem. Xo wonder, my lord: one lion 
 
 "Thisbeauteouslady Thisby is, certain. may, when many asses do. 
 
 "This man, with lime and rough-cast, 
 doth present 
 
 Wall. "In the same interlude, it doth 
 befall, 
 
 "Wall, that vile wall which did these "That I, one Snout by name, present a 
 
 lovers sunder: 
 
 wall: 
 
 "And through wall's chink, poor souls, "And such a wall, as I would have you 
 
 they are content 
 "To whisper; at the which let no man 
 wonder. 
 
 think, 
 
 "That had in it a cranny'd hole, or 
 chink. 
 
Act V. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Through which the lovers, Pyramus and 
 
 Thisby, 
 " Did whisper often very secretly. 
 " This loam, this rough cast, and this 
 
 stone, doth show 
 " That I am that same wall; the truth is 
 
 so: 
 "And this the cranny is, right and 
 
 sinister, 
 " Through which the fearful lovers are to 
 
 whisper."' 
 Hie. Would you desire lime and hair 
 to speak better? 
 
 Dem. It is the wittiest jiartition that 
 ever I heard discourse, my lord. 
 
 The. Pyramus draws near the wall: 
 
 silence! 
 
 Enter Pyramus. 
 
 Pyr. "0 grim-look'd night! night 
 
 with hue fo bhick I 
 "0 night, which ever art, when day 
 is not! 
 "0 night, night, alack, alack, alack, 
 "I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot!— 
 '•' And thou, wall, sweet, lovely 
 wall, 
 "That stand'st between her father's 
 ground and mine! 
 "Thou wall, wall, sweet and lovely 
 wall, 
 " Show mo thy chink, to blink through 
 with mine eyne. 
 
 [ Wall liolds up his fingers 
 
 "Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield 
 
 thee well for this! 
 
 "But what see I? No Thisby do I see. 
 
 " wicked wall, through whom I see no 
 
 bliss; 
 " Curst be thy stones for thus deceiving 
 me!" 
 Tlic. The wall, methinks, being sensi- 
 ble, should curse again. 
 
 Pyr. No, in truth, sir, he should not. 
 Deceiving me is This1)y's cue: slie is to 
 enter now, and I am to spy her throngli 
 
 the wall. You shall see, it will fall pat 
 as I told you: — Yonder she comes. 
 
 Enter Thisbe. 
 
 This. "Oh wall, full often hast thou 
 
 heard my moans, 
 " For parting ray fair Pyramus and me: 
 "My cherry lips have often kissed thy 
 
 stones; 
 " Thy stones with lime and hair knit up 
 
 in thee." 
 Pyr. "I see a voice: now will I to the 
 
 chink, 
 " To spy, and I can hear my Thisby 's face. 
 "Thisby!" 
 
 This. " My love, thou art my love, I 
 
 think." 
 Pyr. " Think what thou wilt, I am 
 
 thy lover's grace; 
 " And like Limander am I trusty still." 
 This. '• And I like Helen, till the fates 
 
 me kill." 
 Pyr. " Not Shafalus to Procrus was so 
 
 true." 
 This. " As Shafalus to Procus, I to 
 
 you." 
 Pyr. " 0, kiss me through the hole of 
 
 this vile wall." 
 This. " I kiss the wall's hole, not 
 
 your lips at all." 
 Pyr. " Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb 
 
 meet me straightway?" 
 This. " Tide life, tide death, I come 
 
 without delay." 
 Wall. "Thus have I, wall, my part 
 
 discharged so;" 
 "And, being done, thus wall away doth 
 
 go." 
 
 Exeunt Wall, PvitAMUs and Thisbe. 
 
 The. Now is the mural down between 
 the two neighbors. 
 
 Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls 
 are so wilful to hear without warning. 
 
 Hip. This is the silliest stuff that ever 
 I heard. 
 
 :.>(;n 
 
Act V. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Hie. The best in this kind are but 
 shadows: and the worst are no worse, if 
 imagination amend them. 
 
 Hip. It must be your imagination 
 then, and not theirs. 
 
 Tlie. If we imagine no worse of them, 
 than they of themselves, they may pass 
 for excellent men. Here come two noble 
 beasts in, a moon and a lion. 
 
 Enter Lion and Moonshine. 
 
 Lioji. '"You, ladies, you, whose gentle 
 
 hearts do fear 
 " The smallest monstrous mouse that 
 creeps on floor, 
 
 "May now, perchance, both quake and 
 tremble here, 
 " When lion rough in wildest rage doth 
 roar. 
 " Then know, that I, one Snug the joiner, 
 
 am 
 '' A lion fell, nor else no lion's dam: 
 " For if I should as lion come in strife 
 " Into this place, 'twere pity on my 
 life." 
 The. A very gentle beast and of a good 
 
 conscience. 
 Dem. The very best at a beast, my 
 lord, that e'er I saw. 
 
 Lys. This lion is a very fox for his 
 
 valor. 
 Tfie. True; and a goose for his dis- 
 cretion. 
 Dem. Not so, my lord: for his valor 
 cannot carry his discretion ; and 
 the fox carries the goose. 
 The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot 
 carry his valor; for the goose carries not 
 the fox. It is well : leave ic to his discre- 
 tion, and let us listen to the moon. 
 
 Moon. " This lantern doth the horned 
 
 moon present: — " 
 Dem. He should have worn the horns 
 
 on his head. 
 Tlie. He is no crescent, and his horns 
 are invisible within the circumference. 
 
 Moon. " This lantern doth the horned 
 moon present; 
 " Myself tlie man i' the moon do seem to 
 be." 
 
 The. This is the greatest error of all 
 the rest: the man should be put into the 
 lantern: 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. 
 
 Hip. I am aweary of this moon : Would, 
 he would change! 
 
 The. It appears, by his small light of 
 discretion, that he is in the wane: but 
 yet, in courtesy, in all reason, Ave must 
 stay the time. 
 
 Lys. Proceed, moon. 
 
 Moon. All that I have to say, is, to 
 tell you, that the lantern is the moon; I, 
 the man in the moon; this thorn-bush, 
 my thorn- bush; and this dog, my dog. 
 
 Dem. Why, all these should be in the 
 lantern; for they are in the moon. But, 
 silence; here comes Thisbe. 
 
 Entei- Thisbb. 
 
 Tliis. "This is old Ninny's tomb: 
 
 Where is my love?" 
 Lion. "Oh.—" 
 
 [77ie Lion roars. — Thisbe rinis off. 
 Dem. Well roared, Lion. 
 The. Well run, Thisbe. 
 Hi]). Well shone, moon. — Truly, the 
 
 moon shines with a good grace. 
 The. Well moused, lion. 
 [ J7/I? Lion tears Thisbe's mantle, and exit. 
 Dem. And so comes Pyramus. 
 Lys. And so the lion vanish'd. 
 
 Enter 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 
 streams, 
 
 270 
 
Act V 
 
 A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene L 
 
 " I trust to taste of truest Thisb)^ sight. 
 " But stay; — spite! 
 " But mark; — Poor knight, 
 " What dreadful dole is here? 
 " Eyes, do you see? 
 " How can it be? 
 " dainty duck! dear! 
 " Thy mantle good, 
 "What, stain'd with blood? 
 " Approach, ye furies fell! 
 " fate! 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. "0, wherefore, nature, didst 
 
 thou lions frame? 
 "Since lion vile hath here defiour'd my 
 dear: 
 " Which is — no, no — which was the fair- 
 est dame, 
 "That liv'd, that lov'd, that lik'd, that 
 look'd with cheer. 
 " Come, tears, confound ; 
 "Out, sword, and wound 
 "The pap of Pyramus: 
 " Ay, that left pap, 
 " Where heart doth hop: 
 "Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. 
 " Now am I dead, 
 " Now am I fled; 
 "My soul is in the sky: 
 
 " Tongue, loose thy light! 
 "Moon, take thy flight! 
 "Now die, die, die, die, die." 
 
 [Dies. —Exit Moonshine. 
 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. 
 
 The. With the help of a surgeon, he 
 might yet recover, and prove an ass. 
 
 Hi}). How cliauce moonshine is gone, 
 before Thisbe comes back and finds her 
 lover? 
 
 Tlie. She will find him by star-light. 
 — Here she comes; and her passion ends 
 the play. 
 
 Enter Thisbe. 
 
 Hip. Methinks, she should not use a 
 long one, for such a Pyramus: I hope, she 
 will be brief. 
 
 Dem. A mote will turn the balance, 
 which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the bet- 
 ter. 
 
 Lys. She hath spied him already with 
 those sweet eyes. 
 
 Dem. And thus she moans, videlicet. — 
 Tliis. " Asleep, my love? 
 "What, dead, my dove? 
 "0 Pyramus, arise, 
 
 " Speak, speak. Quite dumb? 
 "Dead, dead? A tomb 
 " Must cover thy sweet eyes. 
 "These lily brows, 
 "Tliis cherry nose, 
 "These yellow cowslip cheeks, 
 "Are gone, are gone: 
 " Lovers, make moan! 
 " His eyes were green as leeks. 
 "0 sisters three, 
 "Come, come, to me, 
 " With hands as pale as milk, 
 "Lay them in gore, 
 " Since you have shore 
 "With shears his thread of silk. 
 "Tongue, not a word: — 
 "Come, trusty sword; 
 "Come, blade, my breast imbrue: 
 "And farewell, friends; — 
 " Thus Thisbe ends: 
 " Adieu, adieu, adieu." [Dies. 
 
 The. Moonshine and lion are left to 
 bury the dead. 
 
 Dem. Ay, and wall too. 
 
 Bot. No, I assure you; the wall is 
 
 down that parted their fathers. Will it 
 
 please you to see the epilogue, or to hear 
 
 a Bergomask dance, between two of our 
 
 company? 
 
 The. Noeiiilogue, I pray you; for your 
 play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for 
 
Act Y. 
 
 A MIDSUxMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 when the players are all dead, there need 
 none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ 
 it, had play'd Pyramus and hanged himself 
 in Thisbe's garter, it would have been a 
 fine tragedy: and so it is, truly; and vei-y 
 notably discharged. But come, your Ber- 
 gomask: let your epilogue alone. 
 
 [Here a dance of Clotvns. 
 The iron tongue of midnight hath told 
 
 twelve: — 
 Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. 
 I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn, 
 As much as we this night have over- 
 watch 'd. 
 This palpable gross play hath well be- 
 
 guil'd 
 The heavy gait of night. — Sweet friends, 
 
 to bed. — 
 A fortnight hold we this solemnity. 
 In nightly revels and new jollity. 
 
 [IJzeu7it. 
 Scene II. 
 Ejiter Puck. 
 Puch. Now the hungry lion roars. 
 And the wolf behowls the moon; 
 Whilst the heavy ploughman snores. 
 
 All with weary task fordone. 
 Now the wasted brands do glow. 
 
 Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud. 
 Puts the wretch, that lies in woe, 
 
 In remembrance of a shroud. 
 Now it is the time of night, 
 
 That the graves, all gaping wide. 
 Every one lets forth his sprite. 
 
 In the church-way paths to glide: 
 And we fairies, that do run 
 
 By the triple Hecat's team. 
 From the presence of the sun, 
 
 Following darkness like a dream, 
 Now are f rolick ; not a mouse 
 Shall disturb this hallow'd house: 
 I am sent, with broom, before. 
 To sweep the dust behind the door. 
 Enter Oberon and Titaxia, with their 
 Train. 
 Obe. Through this house give glim- 
 mering light. 
 
 By the dead and drowsy fire: 
 Every elf, and fairy sprite, 
 
 Hop as light as bird from brier; 
 And his ditty, after me. 
 Sing, and dance it trippingly. 
 
 Tita. First, rehearse this song by rote: 
 To each word a warbling note, 
 Hand in hand, with fairy grace. 
 Will we sing, and bless this place. 
 
 Song, and Dance. 
 
 Ohe. Now, until the break of day. 
 Through this house each fairy stray. 
 To the best bride-bed will we. 
 Which by us shall blessed be; 
 So shall all the couples three 
 Ever true in loving be; 
 And the blots of nature's hand 
 Shall not in their issue stand; 
 Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar. 
 Nor mark prodigious, such as are 
 Despised in nativity. 
 Shall upon their children be. — 
 With this field-dew consecrate. 
 Every fairy take his gait; 
 And each several chamber bless. 
 Through this palace with sweet peace: 
 E'er shall it in safety rest, 
 And the owner of it blest. 
 TrijJ away; 
 Make no stay; 
 Meet me all by break of day. 
 [Exeunt Oheron, Titania and Train. 
 
 Puck. If we shadoivs have offended, 
 Think but this, {and all is mended,) 
 That you have but slumber'd here, 
 While these visions did appear. 
 And this ^ueak and idle theme, 
 No more yielding but a dream, 
 Oentles, do not reprehend; 
 If you pardon, toe tvill mend. 
 A nd, as I am honest Puck, 
 If ice have unearned hick 
 Noiv to 'scape the serpent's tongue, 
 We tvill make amends, ere long: 
 Else the Puck a liar call. 
 So, good night unto you all. 
 Give me your hands, if we befriends. 
 And Robin shall restore amends. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 272 
 
Familiar Quotations From Shakespeare.. 
 
 A MID SUMMER-WIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Theseus. 
 You can endure the livery of a nun. 
 For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd, 
 To live a barren sister all your life. 
 Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruit- 
 less moon. 
 Thrice blessed they that master so their 
 
 blood, 
 To undergo such maiden lailgrimage; 
 But earthlier happy is the rose distilled. 
 Than that which withering on the virgin 
 
 thorn 
 Grows, lives, and dies in single blessed- 
 ness. Act 1, Sc. 1, I. 71. 
 Lysander. 
 Ah me! for aught that I could ever read. 
 Could ever hear by tale or history. 
 The course of true love never did run 
 smooth. Act 1, Sc. 1, I. 133. 
 Hermia. 
 By all the vows that ever men have broke. 
 In number more than ever women spoke. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 1, I. 111. 
 Helena. 
 Love looks not with the eyes, but Avith 
 
 the mind, 
 And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted 
 blind. Actl, Sc.\,l.2Zh. 
 
 Oberon. 
 And the imperial votaress passed on. 
 In maiden meditation fancy free. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 2, I. 163 
 PUCK^ 
 
 I'll put a girdle round about the earth 
 In forty minutes. Act 2, Sc. 3, I. 17G. 
 
 Quince. 
 Bless thee. Bottom I bless thee! thou 
 art translated. Act 3, Sc. 1, I. 107. 
 
 Puck. 
 Titania wak'd and straightway lov'd an 
 ass. Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 34. 
 
 Puck. 
 Lord, what fools these mortals be! 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 115. 
 
 Helena. 
 
 So we grew together, 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted. 
 
 But yet an union in partition; 
 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem; 
 So, with two seeming bodies, but one 
 heart. Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 208. 
 
 Titania. 
 My Oberon! what visions have I seen! 
 Methought, I was enamour'd of an ass. 
 
 Act 4:, Sc. 1, I. 73. 
 
 Bottom. 
 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. Act A,Sc.l, I. 210. 
 
 Theseus. 
 The lunatic, the lover, and the poet. 
 Are of imagination all compact: 
 One sees more devils than vast hell can 
 hold; 
 
 That is, the madman: the lover, all as 
 
 frantic, 
 Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt; 
 The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
 Doth glance from heaven to earth, from 
 
 earth to heaven; 
 And as imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's 
 
 pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy 
 
 nothing 
 A local habitation and a name. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1,1.7 
 
 Theseus. 
 The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 48. 
 Theseus. 
 For never anything can be amiss 
 When simpleness and duty tender it. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1. I. 83. 
 Theseus. 
 The rattling tongue of saucy and auda- 
 cious eloquence. Act 5, Sc. 1, l. 102. 
 
 Theseus. 
 His speech was like a tangled chain ; 
 Nothing impaired, but all disordered. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 124. 
 
The Comedy of Errors. 
 
 THE States of Syracuse and Ephesns being at variance, there was a cruel law 
 made at Ephesus, ordaining that if any merchant of Syracuse was seen in the 
 city of Ephesus, he was to be put to death, unless he could pay a thousand marks for 
 the ransom of his life. 
 
 ^geon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was discovered in the streets of EjDhesus 
 and brought before the duke, either to pay this heavy fine or to receive sentence of 
 death. 
 
 JEgeon had no money to pay the fine, and the duke, before hq jDronounced the 
 sentence of death upon him, desired him to relate the history of his life, and to tell 
 for what cause he had ventured to come to the city of Ephesus, which it was death 
 for any Syracusan merchant to enter. 
 
 /Rgenu said that he did not fear to die, for sorrow had made him weary of his life, 
 bu.t that a heavier task could not have been imposed upon him than to relate the 
 events of his unfortunate life. He then began his own history in the following words: 
 
 " I was born at Syracuse and brought up to the profession of a merchant. I 
 married a lady with whom I lived very happily, but being obliged to go to Epidam- 
 niuni, I was detained there by my business six months, and then, finding I should be 
 obliged to stay some time longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon as she arrived, 
 gave birth to two sons, and, what was very strange, they were both so exactly 
 alike that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. At the same time that 
 these twin boys were born, a poor woman in the inn where my wife lodged gave birth 
 to two sons, and these twins Avere as much like each other as my two sons were. The 
 parents of these children being exceeding poor, I bought tlie two boys,. and brought 
 them up to attend upon my sons. 
 
 "My sons were very fine children, and my wife was not a little proud of two such 
 boys; and she daily wishing to i-eturn home, I iinwillingly agreed, and in an evil 
 hour we got on shipboard; for we had not sailed above a league from Epidamnium 
 before a dreadful storm arose, which continued with such violence that the sailors 
 seeing no chance of saving the ship, crowded into the boat to save their own lives, 
 leaving us alone in the shij^, which we every moment expected woi;ld be destroyed by 
 the fury of the storm. 
 
 " The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous complaints of the pretty 
 babes, who not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, because the}^ saw their 
 mother weep, filled me with terror for them, though I did not for myself fear death; 
 and all my thoughts were bent to contrive means for their safety; I tied my youngest 
 son to the end of a small spare mast, such as seafaring men provide against storms; at 
 the other end I bound the youngest of the twin slaves, and at the same time I directed 
 my wife how to fasten the other children in like manner to another mast. She thus 
 having charge of the two eldest children and I of the two younger, we bound ourselves 
 separately to these masts with the children; and but for this contrivance we had all 
 been lost, for the ship split on a mighty rock and was dashed in pieces, and we, 
 
 274 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 •clinging to these slender masts, were supported above the water, where I, having the 
 care of two children, was unable to assist my wife, who, with the other children, was 
 .soon separated from me; but while they were yet in my sight they were taken up by 
 a boat of fishermen, from Corinth (as I supposed), and seeing them in safety, I had 
 no care but to struggle with the wild sea-waves to preserve my dear son and the 
 youngest slave. At length we in our turn were taken u]) by a ship, and the sailors, 
 knowing me, gave us kind welcome and assistance, and landed us in safety at 
 Syracuse; but from that sad hour I have never known what became of my wife and 
 eldest child. 
 
 " My youngest son, and now my only care, when he was eighteen years of age, 
 TDegan to be inquisitive after his mother and his brother, and often importuned me 
 that he might take his attendant, the young slave, who had also lost his brother, and 
 go in search of them; at length I unwillingly gave consent, for though I anxiously 
 desired to hear tidings of my wife and eldest son, yet in sending my younger one to 
 find them, I hazarded the loss of him also. It is now seven years since my son left 
 me; five years have I i:)assed in traveling through the world in search of him: I have 
 been in farthest Greece, and through the bounds of Asia, and coasting home-ward, 
 I landed here in Ephesus, being unwilling to leave any place unsought that harbors 
 men; but this day must end the story of my life, and happy should I think myself in 
 my death, if I were assured my wife and sons were living." 
 
 Here the haj)less iEgeon ended the account of his misfortunes; and the duke, 
 pitying this unfortunate father, who had brought upon himself this great peril by his 
 love for his lost sou, said, if it were not against the laws, which his oath and dignity did 
 not permit him to alter, he would freely pardon him; yet, instead of dooming him to 
 instant death, as the strict letter of the law required, he would give him that day to 
 try if he could beg or borrow the money to pay the fine. 
 
 This day of grace did seem no great favor to iEgeon, for not knowing any man 
 in Ephesus, there seemed to him but little chance that any stranger would lend or give 
 him a thousand marks to pay the fine; and helpless and hopeless of any relief, he 
 retired from the presence of the duke in the custody of a jailer. 
 
 iEgeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus; but at the very time he was in 
 ■danger of losing his life through the careful search he was making after his 
 youngest son, that son and his eldest son also were both in the city of Ephesus. 
 
 ^Egeon's sons, being exactly alike in face and person, were both named alike, 
 being both called Antipholus, and the two twin slaves were also both named Dromio. 
 iEgeon's youngest sou, Antipholus of Syracuse, he whom the old man had come to 
 Ephesus to seek, happened to arrive at Ephesus with his slave Dromio that very same 
 day that iEgeon did; and he being also a merchant of Syracuse, would have been in 
 the same danger that his father was, but by good fortune he met a friend who told 
 him the peril an old merchant of Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass for a 
 merchant of Epidamnium; this Antipholus agreed to do, and he was sorry to hear 
 one of his own countrymen was in this danger, but he little thought this old merchant 
 was his own father. 
 
 The oldest son of iEgeon (who must be called Antipholus of Ephesus, to 
 distinguish him from his brother, Antipholus of Syracuse) had lived at Ephesus 
 twenty years, and, being a rich man, was well able to have paid the money for the 
 ransom of his father's life; but Antipholus knew nothing of his father, being so 
 
 375 
 
THE COMEDY OF EEROKS. 
 
 young when lie was taken out of the sea with his mother by the fisherman that he only 
 remembered he had been so preserved, but he had no recollection of either his father 
 or his mother : the fisherman, who took up this Antipholus and his mother and the 
 young slave Dromio, having carried the two children away from her (to the great grief 
 of that unhai^py lady), intending to sell them. 
 
 Antipholus and Dromio were sold by them to Duke Meuaphon, a famous warrior, 
 who was uncle to the Duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boys to Ephesus when he 
 went to visit the duke his nephew. 
 
 The Duke of Ephesus taking a fancy to young Antipholus, when he grew up, 
 made him an ofl&cer in his army, in which he distinguished himself by his great bravery 
 in the wars, where he saved the life of his patron the duke, who rewarded his merit by 
 marrying him to Adriana, a rich lady of Ephesus: with whom he was living (his slave 
 Dromio still attending him) at the time his father came there. 
 
 Antij)holus of Syracuse, when he parted with his friend, who advised him to say 
 he came from Epidamnium, gave his slave Dromio some money to carry to the inn 
 where he intended to dine, and in the mean time he said he would walk about and 
 view the city, and observe the manners of the people. 
 
 Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Antipholus was dull and melancholy he 
 used to divert himself with the odd humors and merry jests of his slave, so that the 
 freedoms of speech he allowed in Dromio were greater than is usual between masters 
 and their servants. 
 
 When Antipholus of Syracuse had sent Dromio awaj', he stood awhile thinking 
 over his solitary wanderings ip search of his mother aiid his brother, of whom in no 
 -place where he landed could he hear the least tidings; and he said sorrowfully to him- 
 self, "I am like a drop of water in the ocean, Avhich, seeking to find its fellow-drop, 
 loses itself in the wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a mother and a brother, do lose 
 myself." 
 
 While he was thus meditating on his weary travels, which had hitherto been so 
 useless, Dromio (as he thought) returned. Antipholus, wondering that he came back 
 so soon, asked him where he had left the money. Kow it was not his own Dromio, 
 but the twin brother that lived with Antipholus of Ephesus, that he spoke to. The 
 two Dromios and the two Antipholuses were still as much alike as ^geon had said 
 they were in their infancy; therefore no wonder Antipholus thought it was his own 
 slave returned, and asked him why he came back so soon. Dromio replied, "My 
 mistress sent me to bid you come to dinner. The capon burns, and the pig falls from 
 the spit, and the meat will be all cold if you do not come home." " These jests are 
 out of season," said Antipholus: "where did you leave the money?" Dromio still 
 answering that his mistress had sent him to fetch Antipholus to dinner: "what 
 mistress?" said Antipholus. "Why your worship's wife, sir," replied Dromio. 
 Antii^holus having no wife, he was very angry with Dromio, and said, "Because I 
 familiarly sometimes chat with you, you presume to jest with me in this free manner. 
 1 am not in a sportive humor now, where is the money? we being strangers here, how 
 dare you trust so great a charge from your own custody?' Dromio hearing his master, 
 as he thought him, talk of their being strangers, supposing Antipholus was jesting, 
 replied merrily, "I pray you, sir, jest as you sit at dinner. I had no charge but to 
 fetch you home to dine with my mistress and her sister." Xow Antipholus lost all 
 patience, and beat Dromio, who ran home, and told his mistress that his master had 
 refused to come to dinner, and said that he had no wife. 
 
 276 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERROKS. 
 
 Adriana, the wife of Antipholus of Ephesns, was very angry when she heard that 
 her husband said he had no wife; for she was of a jealous temper, and she said her 
 husband meant that he loved another lady better than herself; and she began to fret, 
 and say unkind words of jealousy and reproach of her husband; and her sister 
 Luciana, who lived with her, tried in A'ain to persuade her out of her groundless sus- 
 picions. 
 
 Antipholus of Syracuse went to the inn, and found Dromio with the money in 
 safety there, and seeing his own Dromio, he was going again to chide him for his free 
 jests, when Adriana came up to him, and not doubting that it was her husband she 
 saw, she began to reproach him for looking strange upon her (as well he might, never 
 having seen this angry lady before); and then she told him how well he loved her 
 hefore they were married, and that now he loved some other lady instead of her. 
 " How comes it now, my husband," said she, " oh, how comes it that I have lost your 
 love? " " Plead you to me, fair dame ?" said the astonished Antipholus. It was in 
 vain he told her he was not her husband, and that he had been in Ephesus but two 
 hours; she insisted on his going home with her, and Antipholus at last, being unable 
 to get away, went with her to his brother's house, and dined with Adriana and her 
 sister, the one calling him husband, and the other, brother; he, all amazed, thinking 
 he must have been married to her in his sleep, or that he was sleeping now. And 
 Dromio, who followed them, was no less surprised, for the cook-maid, who was his 
 brother's wife, also claimed him for her husband. 
 
 While Antipholus of Syracuse was dining with his brother's wife, his brother, the 
 real husband, returned home to dinner with his slave Dromio; but the servants would 
 not open the door, because their mistress had ordered them not to admit any company; 
 and when they repeatedly knocked, and said they were Antipholus and Dromio, the 
 maids laughed at them, and said that Antipholus was at dinner with their mistress, 
 and Dromio was in the kitchen; and though they almost knocked the door down, 
 they could not gain admittance, and at last Antipholus went away very angry, and 
 strangely surprised at hearing a gentleman was dining with his wife. 
 
 When Antipholus of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he was so perplexed at the 
 lady^s still persisting in calling him husband, and at hearing that Dromio had also 
 been claimed by the cook-maid, that he left the house, as soon as he could find any 
 pretense to get away ; for, though he was very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, 
 yet the jealous-tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at all bet- 
 ter satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen ; therefore, both master and man were 
 glad to get away from their new wives as fast as they could. 
 
 The moment Antipholus of Syracuse had left the house, he was met by a gold- 
 smith, who mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for Antipholus of Ephesus, gave 
 him a gold chain, calling him by his name ; and when Antipholus would have refused 
 the chain, saying it did not belong to him, the goldsmith replied he made it by his 
 own orders ; and went away, leaving the chain in the hand of Antipholus, who 
 ordered his man Dromio to get his things on board a ship, not choosing to stay in a 
 place any longer where he met with such strange adventures that he surely thought 
 himself bewitched. 
 
 The goldsmith who had given the chain to the wrong Antijiholus, was arrested 
 immediately after for a sum of money he owed ; and Antipholus the married brother, 
 to whom the goldsmith thought he had given the chain, happened to come to the 
 
THE COMEDY OF EEROES. 
 
 place where the ofl&cer was arresting the goldsmith, who, when he saw Antipholus, 
 asked him to pay for the gold chain he had just delivered him, the price amounting- 
 to nearly the same sum as that for which he had been arrested. Antipholus denying- 
 the having received the chain, and the goldsmith j)ersisting to declare that he had 
 but a few minutes before given it to him, they disputed the matter a long time, both 
 thinkiug they were right, for Antipholus knew the goldsmith never gave him the 
 chain, and, so like were the two brothers, the goldsmith was as certain he had deliv- 
 ered the chain into his hands, till at last the officer took the goldsmith away to prison 
 for the debt he owed, and at the same time the goldsmith made the officer arrest 
 Antipholus for the price of the chain ; so that, at the conclusion of their dispute, 
 Antipholus and the merchant were both taken away to prison together. 
 
 As Antipholus was going to prison, he met Dromio of Syracuse, his brother's 
 slave, and mistaking him for his own, he ordered him to go to Adriana, his wife, and 
 tell her to send the money for which he vras arrested. Dromio wondering that his 
 master should send him back to the strange house where he dined, and from which 
 he had just before been in such haste to depart, did not dare to repl}", though he 
 came to tell his master the ship was ready to sail ; for he saw Antipholus was in no- 
 humor to be jested with. Therefore he went away, grumbling within himself that 
 he must return to Adriana's house, " Where," said he, " Dowsabel claims me for a 
 husband ; but I must go, for servants must obey their master's commands." 
 
 Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning, he met Antipholus 
 of Syracuse, who was still in amaze at the surprising adventures he met with ; for his 
 brother being well known in Ephesus, there was liardly a man he met in the streets 
 but saluted him as an old acquaintance : some offered him money which they said was 
 owing to him, some invited him to come and see them, and some gave him thanks for 
 kindnesses they said he had done them, all mistaking him for his brother. A tailor 
 showed him some silks he had bought for him, and insisted upon taking measure of 
 him for some clothes. 
 
 Antipholus began to think he was among a nation of sorcerers and witches, and 
 Dromio did not at all relieve his master from his bewildered thoughts, by asking him 
 how he got free from the officer who was carrying him to prison, and giving him the 
 purse of gold which Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This talk of Dromio's 
 of the arrest, and of a prison, and of the money he had brought from Adriana, per- 
 fectly confounded Antipholus, and he said, "This fellow Dromio is certainly dis- 
 tracted, and we wander here in illusions ; " and quite terrified at his own confused 
 thoughts, he cried out, "Some blessed i:)ower deliver us from this strange place I" 
 
 And now another stranger came up to him, and she was a lady, and she too called 
 him Antipholus, and told him he had dined with her that day, and asked him for a 
 gold chain which she said he had promised to give her. Antipholus now lost all 
 patience, and calling her a sorceress, he denied that he had ever promised her a. 
 chain, or dined with her, or had ever seen her face before that moment. The lady 
 persisted in affirming he had dined with her, and had promised her a chain, which 
 Antipholus still denying, she farther said, that she had given him a valuable ring, 
 and if he would not give her the gold chain, she insisted upon having her own ring 
 again. On this Antipholus became quite frantic, and again calling her sorceress and 
 witch, and denying all knowledge of her and her ring, ran away from her, leaving 
 her astonished at his words and his wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more cer- 
 
 278 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERROES. 
 
 tain than that he had dined with her, and that she had given him a ring, in conse- 
 quence of his promising to make her a jiresent of a gold chain. But this lady had 
 fallen into the same mistake the others had done, for she had taken him for his bro- 
 ther : the married Antii^holus had done all the things she taxed this Antiphohis 
 with. 
 
 When the married Antipholus was denied entrance into his own house (those 
 within supposing him to be already there), he had gone away very angry, believing it 
 to be one of his wife's jealous freaks,, to which she was very subject, and remember- 
 ing that she had often falsely accused him of visiting other ladies, he, to be revenged 
 on her for shutting him out of his own house, determined to go and dine with this 
 lady, and she receiving him with great civility, and his wife having so highly offended 
 him, Antipholus promised to give her a gold chain, which he had intended as a pres- 
 ent for his wife ; it was the same chain which the goldsmith by mistake had given to 
 his brother. The lady liked so well the thoughts of having a fine gold chain, that 
 she gave the married Antipholus a ring ; which, when, as she supposed (taking his 
 brother for him), he denied, and said he did not know her, and left her in such a 
 wild passion, she began to think he was certainly out of his senses ; and presently she 
 resolved to go and tell Adriana that her husband was mad. And while she was tell- 
 ing it to Adriana, he came attended by the jailer (who allowed him to come home to 
 get the money to pay the debt), for the purse of money which Adriana had sent by 
 Dromio, and he had delivered to the other Antipholus. 
 
 Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her husband's madness must be 
 true when he reproached her for shutting him out of his own house ; and remember- 
 ing how he had j)rotested all dinner-time that he was not her husband, and had never 
 been in Ephesus till that day, she had no doubt that he Avas mad, she therefore paid 
 the jailer the money, and having discharged him, she ordered her servants to bind her 
 husband with ropes, and had him conveyed into a dark room, and sent for a doctor to 
 come and cure him of his madness : Antipholus all the while hotly exclaiming against 
 this false accusation, which the exact likeness he bore to his brother had brought upon 
 him. But his rage only the more confirmed them in the belief that he was mad ; and 
 Dromio persisting in the same story, they bound him also, and took him away along 
 with his master. 
 
 Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confinement, a servant came to tell 
 her that Antipholus and Dromio must have broken loose from their keepers, for that 
 they were both walking at liberty in the next street. On heariug this, Adriana ran 
 out to fetch him home, taking some people with her to secure her husband again ; 
 and her sister went along with her. "When they came to the gates of a convent in 
 their neighborhood, there they saw Antipholus and Dromio, as they thought, being 
 again deceived by the likeness of the twin brothers. 
 
 Antipholus of Syracuse was still beset with the perplexities this likeness had 
 orought upon him. The chain which the goldsmith had given him was about his 
 neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching him for denying that he had it, and refus- 
 ing to pay for it, and Antipholus was protesting that the goldsmith freely gave him 
 the chain in the morning, and that from that hour he had never seen the goldsmith 
 again. 
 
 And now Adriana came up to him, and claimed him as her lunatic husband, Avho 
 had escaped from his keepers ; and the men she brought with her were going to lay 
 
THE COMEDY OF EEROES. 
 
 violent hands on Autipliolus and Dromio ; but they ran into the convent, and Antiph- 
 olus begged the abbess to give him shelter in her house. 
 
 And now came out the lady abbess herself to inquire into the cause of this dis- 
 turbance. She was a grave and venerable lady, and wise to judge of what she saw, 
 and she would not too hastily give up the men who had sought protection in her house; 
 so she strictly questioned the wife about the story she told of her husband's madness, 
 and she said, " What is the cause of this sudden distemper of your husband ? Has he 
 lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death of sgme dear friend that has disturbed his 
 mind?" Adriana replied that no such things as these had been the cause. " Per- 
 haps," said the abbess, "he has fixed his affections on some other lady than you his 
 wife; and that has driven him into this state." Adriana said she had long thought the 
 love of some other lady was the cause of his frequent absences from home. Now, it 
 was not his love for another, but the teasing jealousy of his wife's temper, that often 
 obliged Antipholus to leave his home ; and (the abbess suspecting this from the 
 vehemence of Adriana's manner) to learn the truth, she said, " You should have 
 reprehended him for this." "Why, so I did," replied Adriana. "Ay," said the 
 abbess, " but perhaps not enough." Adriana, willing to convince the abbess that she 
 had said enough to Antipholus on this subject, replied, " It was the constant subject 
 of our conversation : in bed I would not let him sleep for speaking of it. At table I 
 would not let him eat for speaking of it. When I was alone with him, I talked of 
 nothing else ; and in company I gave him frequent hints of it. Still, all my talk was 
 how vile and bad it was in him to love any lady better than me.'' 
 
 The lady abbess having drawn this full confession from the jealous Adriana, now 
 said, "And therefore comes it that your husband is mad. The venomous clamor of 
 a jealous woman is a more deadly poison than a mad dog's tooth. It seems his sleep 
 was hindered by your railing ; no wonder that his head is light; and his meat was 
 sauced with your upbraidings ; unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has thrown 
 him into this fever. You say his sports were disturbed by your brawls ; being debar- 
 red from the enjoyment of society and recreation, what could ensue but dull melan- 
 choly and comfortless despair ? The consequence is, then, that your jealous fits have 
 made your husband mad." 
 
 Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she always reprehended her hus- 
 band mildly ; and she said to her sister, " Why do you hear these rebukes without 
 answering them ? " But the abbess made her so plainly perceive her fault, that she 
 could only answer, " She has betrayed me to my own reproof." 
 
 Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still insisted on having her hus- 
 band delivered up to her ; but the abbess would suffer no person to enter her house, 
 nor would she deliver up this unhappy man to the care of the jealous wife, determin- 
 ing herself to use gentle means for his recovery, and she retired into her house again, 
 and ordered her gates to be shut against them. 
 
 During the course of this eventful day, in which so many errors had happened 
 from the likeness the twin brothers bore to each other, old ^Egeon's day of grace was 
 passing away, it being now near sunset ; and at sunset he was doomed to die if he 
 could not pay the money. 
 
 The place of his execution was near this convent, and here he arrived just as the 
 abbess retired into the convent; the duke attending in person, that if any offered to 
 pay the money he might be present to pardon him. 
 
 280 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERROKS. 
 
 Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and cried out to the duke for jus- 
 tice, telling him that the abbess had refused to deliver up her lunatic husband to her 
 care. While she was speaking, her real husband and his servant, Dromio, who had 
 got loose, came before the duke to demand justice, complaining that his wife had 
 confined him on a false charge of lunacy ; and telling in what manner he had broken 
 his bands, and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. Adriana was strangely surprised 
 to see her husband, when she thought he had been within the convent. 
 
 -^geon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son who had left him to go in 
 search of his mother and his brother ; and he felt secure that this dear son would 
 readily j)ay the money demanded for his ransom. He therefore spoke to Antipholus 
 in words of fatherly affection, with joyful hope that he should now be released. But 
 to the utter astonishment of ^geon his son denied all knowledge of him, as well he 
 might, for this Antipholus had never seen his father since they were sejoarated in the 
 storm in his infancy ; but while the poor old ^geon was in vain endeavoring to make 
 his son acknowledge him, thinking surely that either his griefs and the anxieties he had 
 suffered had so strangely altered him that his son did not know him, or else that he 
 was ashamed to acknowledge his father in his misery ; in the midst of this i^erplexity 
 the lady abbess and the other Antipholus and Dromio came out, and the wondering 
 Adriana saw two husbands and two Dromios standing before her. 
 
 And now these riddling errors, which had so perplexed them all, were clearly 
 made out. When the duke saw the two Antipholuses and the two Dromios both so 
 exactly alike, he at once conjectured aright, of these seeming mysteries, for he 
 remembered the story ^geon had told him in the morning; and he said, these men 
 must be the two sons of yEgeon and their twin slaves. 
 
 But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the history of JEgeon; and the 
 tale he had in the morning told in sorrow, and under sentence of death, before the 
 setting sun went down was brought to a happy conclusion, for the venerable lady 
 abbess made herself known to be the long lost wife of ^geon, and the fond mother 
 of the two Antipholuses. 
 
 When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholus and Dromio away from her, she 
 entered a nunnery, and by her wise and virtuous conduct she was at length made lady 
 abbess of this convent, and in discharging the rights of hospitality to an unhappy 
 stranger she had unknowingly protected her own son. 
 
 Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between these long-separated 
 parents and their children made them for a while forget that ^Egeon was yet under 
 sentence of death; but when they were become a little calm, Antipholus of Ephesus 
 offered the duke the ransom money for his father's life; but the duke freely pardoned 
 yEgeon, and would not take the money. And the duke went with the abbess and her 
 newly-found husband and children into the convent, to hear this happy family dis- 
 course at leisure of the blessed ending of their adverse fortunes. And the two Dro- 
 mios' humble joy must not be forgotten; they had their congratulations and greet- 
 ings too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented his brother on his good looks, 
 being well pleased to see his own person (as in a glass) show so handsome in his 
 brother. 
 
 Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother-in-law that she 
 never after cherished unjust suspicions or was jealous of her husband. 
 
 281 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Antipholus of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, tlie sister of his brother's wife; 
 and the good old ^geou, with his wife and sons, lived at Ephesus many years. Nor 
 did the unraveling of these perplexities so entirely remove every ground of mistake 
 for the future, but that sometimes, to remind them of adventures past, comical blun- 
 ders would happen, and the one Antipholus, and the oneDromio, be mistaken for the 
 other, making altogether a pleasant and diverting Comedy of Errors. 
 
 283 
 
The Comedy of Errors. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 SoLiNUS, Duke of Ephesus. 
 /Egeon, a Merchant of Syracuse. 
 Antipholus f Twin Brothers, and 
 
 of Ephesus, j So)is to JEgeon and 
 Antipholus 1 Emilia, hut imknoivn 
 
 of Syracuse, Vto each other. 
 T^ ^ r, 1 { Ttoin Brothers and 
 
 ^^''^'^'' i ^P^'''''''\ Attendants on the 
 Dko^io of Syracuse, \ ^^^ Antipholus's. 
 
 Balthazar, a Merchant. 
 Angelo, a Goldsmith. 
 
 SCENE - 
 
 A Merchant, Friend to Antipholus of 
 
 Syracuse. 
 Pinch, a Schoolmaster, and a Conjurer. 
 iEjiiLiA, Wife to JEgeon, an Abbess at 
 
 Ephesus. 
 Adriana, Wife to Antipholus of Ephesus. 
 LuciAKA, her Sister. 
 Luce, her Servant. 
 A Courtezan. 
 
 Gaoler, Officers and other Attenda7ifs. 
 Ephesus. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. A Hall in the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter Duke, ^geon. Gaoler, Officers, 
 n7ul other Attendants. 
 
 ^ge. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my 
 
 fall. 
 And, by the doom of death, end woes and 
 
 all. 
 Duke. Merchant of Syracuse, plead no 
 
 more ; 
 I am not partial to infringe our laws : 
 The enmity and discord, which of late 
 Sprung from the rancorous outrage of 
 
 your duke 
 To merchants, our well dealing country- 
 men, — 
 Who, wanting gilders to redeem their 
 
 lives^ 
 Have seal'd his rig'rous statutes with 
 
 their bloods, — 
 Excludes all pity from our threatening 
 
 looks. 
 For, since the mortal and intestine jars 
 'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us. 
 It hath in solemn synods been decreed^ 
 
 Both by the Syracusans and ourselves, 
 To admit no traffic to our adverse 
 
 towns : 
 Nay, more, 
 
 If any born at Ephesus, be seen 
 At any Syracusan marts and fairs ; 
 Again, if any Syracusan born. 
 Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies, 
 His goods confiscate to the duke's dis- 
 pose ; 
 Unless a thousand marks be levied. 
 To quit the penalty, and to ransom him. 
 Thy substance valued at the highest rate. 
 Cannot amount unto a hundred marks; 
 Therefore, by law thou art condemned to 
 
 die. 
 ^Ege. Yet this my comfort ; when your 
 
 words are done, 
 My woes end likewise with the evening 
 
 sun. 
 Duke. Well, Syracusan, say, in brief, 
 
 the cause 
 Why thou departedst from thy native 
 
 home ; 
 
 2S3 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EKEOES. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 And for what cause thou earnest to Ephe- 
 
 sus. 
 ^ge. A heavier task could not have 
 
 been impos'd 
 Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable : 
 Yet, that the world may witness, that my 
 
 end 
 Was wrought by nature, not by vile 
 
 offense, 
 I'll utter what my sorrow gives me leave. 
 In Syracusa was I born ; and wed 
 Unto a woman, happy but for me. 
 And by me too, had not our hap been 
 
 bad. 
 With -her I liv'd in joy ; our wealth in- 
 
 creas'd. 
 By prosperous voyages I often made 
 To Epidamnum, till my factor's death ; 
 And he (great care of goods at random 
 
 left) 
 Drew me from kind embracements of my 
 
 spouse : 
 Prom whom my absence was not six 
 
 months old. 
 Before herself (almost at fainting under 
 The pleasing punishment that women 
 
 bear.) 
 Had made provision for her following 
 
 me, 
 And soon, and safe, arrived where f was. 
 There she had not been long, but she 
 
 became 
 A joyful mother of two goodly sons ; 
 And which was strange, the one so like 
 
 the other. 
 As could not be distinguished but by 
 
 names. 
 That very hour, and in the self-same inn, 
 A poor mean woman was delivered 
 Of such a burden, male twins, both alike : 
 Those, for their parents were exceeding 
 
 poor, 
 I bought, and brought up to attend my 
 
 sons. 
 My wife, not meanly proud of two such 
 
 boys, 
 Made daily motions for our home return : 
 
 Unwilling I agreed ; alas, too soon 
 We came aboard : 
 
 A league from Epidamnum had we sail'd. 
 Before the always-wind-obeying deep 
 Gave any tragic instance of our harm: 
 But longer did we not retain much hope; 
 For what obscured light the heavens did 
 
 grant 
 Did but convey unto our fearful minds 
 A doubtful warrant of immediate death; 
 Wliich, though myself would gladly have 
 
 embrac'd 
 Yet the incessant weepings of my wife, 
 Weeping before for what she saw must 
 
 come. 
 And piteous plainings of the pretty babes. 
 That mourn'd for fashion, ignorant what 
 
 to fear, 
 Forc'd me to seek delays for them and me. 
 And this it was, — for other means was 
 
 none. — 
 The sailors sought for safety by our boat, 
 And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to 
 
 us: 
 My wife, more careful for the elder born. 
 Had f asten'd him unto a small spare mast. 
 Such as sea-faring men provide for 
 
 storms ; 
 To him one of the other twins was bound. 
 Whilst I had been like heedful of the 
 
 other. 
 The children thus dispos'd, my wife and I, 
 Fixing our eyes on whom our care was 
 
 fix'd. 
 Fastened ourselves at either end the mast; 
 And floating straight, obedient to the 
 
 stream. 
 Were carried toward Corinth, as we 
 
 thought. 
 At length the sun, gazing upon the earth, 
 Dispers'd those vapors that offended us; 
 And, by the benefit of his wish'd light. 
 The seas wax'd calm, and we discover'd 
 Two ships from far making amain to us. 
 Of Corinth that, of Epidarus this: 
 But ere they came,— 0, let me say no 
 
 more; 
 
 281 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Gather the sequel by that went before. 
 Dulce. Nay, forward, old man, do not 
 break ofE so; 
 For we may pity, though not pardon 
 thee. 
 jSge. 0, had the gods done so, I had 
 not noAV 
 Worthily term'd them merciless to us! 
 For, ere the ships could meet by twice 
 
 five leagues. 
 We were encounter'd by a mighty rock; 
 Which being violently borne upon. 
 Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst, 
 So that, in this unjust divorce of us. 
 Fortune had left to both of us alike 
 AVhat to delight in, what to sorrow for. 
 Her part, poor soul! seeming as bur- 
 dened 
 With lesser weight, but not with lesser 
 
 woe. 
 Was carried with more speed before the 
 
 wind; 
 And in our sight they three were taken 
 
 up 
 By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. 
 At length another ship had seiz'd on us; 
 And, knowing whom it was their hap to 
 
 save. 
 Gave helpful welcome to their shipwreck'd 
 
 guests; 
 And would have reft the fishers of their 
 
 prey. 
 Had not their bark been very slow of sail. 
 And therefore homeward did they bend 
 
 their course. — 
 Thus have you heard me sever'd from my 
 
 bliss; 
 That by misfortunes was my life pro- 
 
 long'd. 
 To tell sad stories of my own mishaps. 
 DuTce. And, for the sake of them thou 
 sorrowest for, 
 Do me the favor to dilate at full 
 What hath befall'n of them, and thee, till 
 now. 
 j^ge. My youngest l)oy, and yet my 
 eldest care, I 
 
 At eighteen years became inquisitive 
 After his brother; and importun'd me. 
 That his attendant, (for his case was like. 
 Reft of his brother, butretain'd his name,) 
 Might bear him company in the quest of 
 
 him: 
 Whom whilst I labor'd of a love to see 
 I hazarded the loss of whom 1 lov'd. 
 Five summers have I spent in furthest 
 
 Greece, 
 Roaming clean through the bounds of 
 
 Asia 
 And, coasting homeward, cametoEphesus; 
 Hopeless to find, yet loth to leave un- 
 sought. 
 Or that, or any place that harbors men. 
 But here must end the story of my life; 
 And happy were I in my timely death, 
 Could all my travels warrant me they live. 
 Duke. Hapless ^geon, whom the 
 fates have mark'd 
 To bear the extremity of dire mishap! 
 Now, trust me, were it not against our 
 
 laws. 
 Against my crown, my oath, my dignity. 
 Which princes, would they, may not dis- 
 annul. 
 My soul should sue as advocate for thee. 
 But, though thou art adjudged to the 
 
 death. 
 And passed sentence may not be recall'd. 
 But, to our honor's great disparagement. 
 Yet will I favor thee in what I can : 
 Therefore, merchant, I'll limit thee this 
 
 day 
 To seek thy help by beneficial help: 
 Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus; 
 Beg thou, or l)orrow, to make \\\) the sum. 
 And live; if not, then thou art doom'd to 
 
 die : — 
 Gaoler, take him to thy custody. 
 Gaol. I will, my lord. 
 u^ge. Hopeless, and helpless, doth 
 ^geon wend. 
 But to procrastinate hi.s lifeless end. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 265 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EREOES. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 ScEXE II. A jDublic Place. 
 
 Enter Antipholus and Dromio of Syra- 
 cuse, and a Merchant. 
 3Ier. Therefore, give out, you are of 
 
 Epidamnum 
 Lest that your goods too soon be confis- 
 cate. 
 This very day, a Syracusan merchant 
 Is apprehended for arrival here; 
 And, not being able to buy out his life, 
 According to the statute of the town. 
 Dies ere the weary sun set in the west. 
 Tliere is your money that I had to keep. 
 Ant. S. Go bear it to the Centaur, 
 
 where we host, 
 And stay there, Dromio, till I come to 
 
 thee. 
 IVithin this hour it will be dinner-time: 
 Till that I'll view the manners of the 
 
 town. 
 Peruse the traders, gaze u^Don the build- 
 ings. 
 And then return, and sleep within mine 
 
 inn; 
 For with long travel I am stiff and weary. 
 Get thee away. 
 Dro. 8. Many a man would take you 
 
 at your word. 
 And go indeed, having so good a mean. 
 
 {Exit Dro. S. 
 Ant. S. A trusty villain, sir; that very 
 
 oft, 
 When I am dull with care and melancholy, 
 Lightens my humor with his merry jests. 
 "What, will you walk Avitii me about the 
 
 town, 
 And then go to my inn, and dine with me? 
 Mer. I am invited, sir, to certain 
 
 merchants, 
 Of whom I hope to make much benefit; 
 I craveyour pardon. Soon, at five o'clock. 
 Please you, I'll meet with you upon the 
 
 mart. 
 And afterwards consort you till bed-time; 
 3Iy present business calls me from you 
 
 now. 
 
 Ant. S. Farewell till then: I will go 
 
 lose myself. 
 And wander up and down, to view the 
 
 city. 
 Mer. Sir, I commend you to your own 
 
 content, \^E:cit Merdiant. 
 
 Ant. S. He that commends me to mine 
 
 own content. 
 Commends me to the thing I cannot get. 
 I to the world am like a drop of water. 
 That in the ocean seeks another drop; 
 Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, 
 Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself: 
 So I, to find a mother, and a brother, 
 In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. 
 
 Enter Deomio of Epiiesus. 
 
 Here comes the almanack of my true 
 
 date, — 
 What now? How chance, thou art re- 
 
 turn'd so soon ? 
 Dro. E. Return'd so soon! rather ap- 
 
 proach'd too late : 
 The capon burns, the pig falls from the 
 
 spit; 
 The clock has strucken twelve upon the 
 
 bell. 
 My mistress made it one upon my cheek: 
 She is so hot, because the meat is cold; 
 The meat is cold, because you come not 
 
 home; 
 You come not home, because you have no 
 
 stomach; 
 You have no stomach, having broke your 
 
 fast; 
 But we, that know what 'tis to fast and 
 
 pray. 
 Are penitent for your default to-day. 
 A7it. S. Stop in your wind, sir; tell 
 
 me this, I jjray; 
 Where have you left the money that I 
 
 gave you ? 
 Dro. E. 0, — sixpence, that I had o' 
 
 Wednesday last. 
 To pay the saddler for my mistress' crup- 
 per;— 
 The saddler had it, sir, I kept it not. 
 
 cso 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EEROKS. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Aiit. S. I am not in a sportive humor 
 
 now: 
 Tell me, and dally not, where is the 
 
 money? 
 We being strangers here, how dar'st thou 
 
 trust 
 So great a charge from thine own cus- 
 tody? 
 Dro. E. I pray you, jest, sir, as you 
 
 sit at dinner: 
 I from my mistress come to you in post; 
 If I return, I shall be post indeed; 
 For she will score your fault upon my 
 
 pate. 
 Methinks, your maw, like mine, should be 
 
 your clock. 
 And strike you home without a messenger. 
 Ant. E. Come, Dromio, come, these 
 
 jests are out of season; 
 Reserve them till a merrier hour than 
 
 this: 
 Where is the gold I gave in charge to 
 
 thee? 
 Dro. E. To me, sir? why you gave no 
 
 gold to me. 
 Ant. S. Come on, sir knave, have 
 done your foolishness, 
 And tell me, how thou hast dispos'd thy 
 charge. 
 Dro. E. My charge was but to fetch 
 you from the mart 
 Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to 
 
 dinner; 
 My mistress, and her sister, stay for you. 
 A}it. S. Now, as I am a Christian, 
 answer me. 
 In what safe place you have bestowed my 
 
 money; 
 ' Or I. shall break that merry sconce of 
 yours. 
 
 That stands on tricks when I am undis- 
 
 pos'd: 
 Where is the thousand marks thou had'st 
 
 of me? 
 Dro. E. I have some marks of yours 
 
 upon my pate. 
 Some of my mistress" marks upon my 
 
 shoulders. 
 But not a thousand marks between you 
 
 both. — 
 If I should pay your worship those again. 
 Perchance, you will not bear them pa- 
 tiently. 
 Ant. 8. Thy mistress' marks! what 
 
 mistress, slave, hast thou? 
 Dro. E. Your worship's wife, my mis- 
 tress at the Phoenix: 
 She that doth fast, till you come home to 
 
 dinner, 
 And prays, that you will hie you home to 
 
 dinner. 
 Ant. 8. What wilt thou flout me thus 
 
 unto my face. 
 Being forbid? There, take you that, sir 
 
 knave. 
 Dro. E. What mean you, sir? for 
 
 heaven's sake, hold your hands; 
 Nay, an you will not, sir, I'll take my 
 
 heels. \^Exit Dromio, E. 
 
 Ant. 8. Upon my life, by some device 
 
 or other. 
 The villain is o'er-raught of all my money. 
 They say, this town is full of cozenage; 
 As, nimble jugglers, that deceive the eye, 
 Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, 
 And many such like liberties of sin; 
 If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner. 
 I'll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave; 
 I greatly fear my money is not safe. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene L A public Place. 
 
 Enter Adeiana and Luciana. 
 
 Adv. Neither my husband, nor the 
 slave return'd, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 That in such haste I sent to seek his 
 
 master! 
 Sure, Luciana, it is two o'clock. 
 
 Ltic. Perhaps, some merchant hath 
 
 invited him, 
 
 28T 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERROES. 
 
 Scene L 
 
 And from the mart he's somewhere gone 
 
 to dinner. 
 Good sister, let us dine, and never fret: 
 A man is master of his liberty: 
 Time is their master; and, Avhen they see 
 
 time. 
 They'll go, or come: if so, be patient, 
 
 sister. 
 Adr. Why should their liberty than 
 
 ours be more ? 
 Luc. Because their business still lies 
 
 out o'door. 
 A(h\ Look, when I serve him so, he 
 
 takes it ill. 
 Lkc. 0, know, he is the bridle of your 
 
 will. 
 Adr. There's none but asses will be 
 
 bridled so. 
 Luc. Why headstrong liberty is lash'd 
 
 with woe. 
 There's nothing situate under heaven's 
 
 eye. 
 But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in 
 
 sky: 
 The beasts, the fishes, and the winged 
 
 fowls, 
 Are their males' subject, and at their con- 
 trols: 
 Men, more divine, the masters of all 
 
 these. 
 Lords of the wide world, and wild wat'ry 
 
 seas. 
 Indued with intellectual sense and souls. 
 Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls. 
 Are masters to their females, and their 
 
 lords: 
 
 Luc. Till he come home again, I would 
 
 forbear. 
 Adr. Patience, unmov'd, no marvel 
 
 though she pause; 
 They can be meek, that have no other 
 
 cause. 
 A wretched soul, bruis'd with adversity. 
 We bid be quiet, when we hear it cry; 
 But were we burden'd with like weight of 
 
 pain. 
 As much, or more, we should ourselves 
 
 complain: 
 So thou, that hast no unkind mate to 
 
 grieve thee. 
 With urging helpless patience wouldst 
 
 relieve me: 
 But if thou live to see like right bereft. 
 This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be 
 
 left. 
 Luc. Well, I will marry one day, but 
 . to try;— 
 Here comes your man, now is your hus- 
 band nigh. 
 
 F7iter DrO-MIO of UpJiesus. 
 
 Adr. Say, is your tardy master now at 
 hand? 
 
 L>ro. E. Nay, he is at two hands with 
 me, and that my two ears can witness. 
 
 Adr. Say, didst thou speak with him? 
 know'st thou his mind? 
 
 Dro. E. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon 
 mine ear: 
 Beshrew his hand, I scarce could under- 
 stand it. 
 
 Luc. Spake he so doubtfully, thou 
 
 Then let your will attendon their accords. , couldst not feel his meaning? 
 
 Adr. This servitude makes you to Dro. E. Nay, he struck so plainly, I 
 
 keep unwed. could too well feel his blows; and withal 
 
 Luc. Not this, but troubles of the so doubtfully, that I could scarce under- 
 
 marriage bed. - 
 Adr. But were you wedded, you would 
 
 bear some sway. 
 Lihc. Ere I learn love, I'll practice to 
 
 obey, 
 Adr. How if your husband start yome 
 
 other where? 
 
 stand them. 
 
 Adr. But say, I pr'ythee, is he coming 
 home ? 
 It seems, he hath great care to please his 
 wife. 
 Dro. E. Why, mistress, sure my master 
 is stark mad: 
 
 288 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EEROES. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 When I desir'd him to come home to 
 
 dinner. 
 He as'k me for a thousand marks in gold: 
 'Tis dinner-time, quoth I; My gold, quoth 
 
 he: 
 Your meat doth burn, quoth I; My gold, 
 
 quoth he: 
 Will you come home? quoth I; My gold, 
 
 quoth he: 
 Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, 
 
 villain? 
 The pig, quoth I, is hurn'd; My gold, 
 
 quoth he: 
 My mistress, sir, quoth I; Hang up thy 
 
 mistress; 
 I know not thy mistress; out on thy mis- 
 tress! 
 Luc. Quoth who? 
 Dro. E. Quoth my master: 
 / know, quoth he, no house, no wife, no 
 
 mistress; — 
 So that my errand, due unto my tongue, 
 I thank him, I bear home upon my 
 
 shoulders; 
 For, in conclusion, he did beat me there. 
 Adr. Go back again, thou slave, and 
 
 fetch him home. 
 Dro. E. Go back again, and be new 
 
 beaten home? 
 For heaven's sake, send some other 
 
 messenger. 
 Adr. Back, slave, or I will break thy 
 
 pate across. 
 Dro. E. And he will bless that cross 
 
 with other beating: 
 Between you I shall have a holy head. 
 Adr. Hence, prating peasant; fetch 
 
 thy master home. 
 Dro. E. Am I so round with you, as 
 
 you with me. 
 That like a football you do spurn me thus? 
 You spurn me hence, and he will spurn 
 
 me hither: 
 If I last in this service, you must case me 
 
 in leather. \^Exit. 
 
 Luc. Fye, how impatience lowreth in 
 
 your face. 
 
 Adr. His company must do his minions 
 
 grace. 
 Whilst I at home starve for a merry look. 
 Hath homely age the alluring beauty took 
 From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted 
 
 it: 
 Are my discourses dull? barren my wit? 
 If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd, 
 Unkindness blunts it, more than marble 
 
 hard. 
 Do their gay vestments his affections bait? 
 That's not my fault, he's master of my 
 
 state: 
 What ruins are in me, that can be found 
 By him not ruin'd? then is he the ground 
 Of my defeatures: My decayed fair 
 A sunny look of his would soon repair; 
 But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale, 
 And feeds from home; poor I am but his 
 
 stale. 
 Luc. Self-arming jealousy! — fye, beat 
 
 it hence. 
 Adr. Unfeeling fools can with such 
 
 wrongs dispense, 
 I know his eye doth homage otherwhere; 
 Or else, what lets it but he would be here? 
 Sister, you know, he promis'd me a 
 
 chain; — 
 Would that alone alone he would detain. 
 So he would keep fair quarter with his 
 
 bed! 
 I see, the Jewel, best enamelled. 
 Will lose his beauty; and though gold 
 
 'bides still, 
 That others touch, yet often touching 
 
 will. 
 Wear gold: and so no man, that hath a 
 
 name. 
 But falsehood and corruption doth it 
 
 shame. 
 Since that my beauty cannot please his 
 
 eye, 
 I'll weep what's left awaj', and weeping 
 
 die. 
 Luc. How many fond fools serve mad 
 
 jealousy! 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EEEOES. 
 
 SCE]S^E II. 
 
 ScBKE II. The Same. 
 Enter Axtipholus of Syracuse. 
 
 Ant. S. The gold, I gave to Dromio, 
 
 is laid up 
 Safe at the Centaur: and the heedful 
 
 slave 
 Is wander'd forth, in care to seek me out. 
 By computation, and mine host's report, 
 I could not speak with Dromio, since at 
 
 first 
 I sent him from the mart: See, here he 
 
 comes. 
 
 Enter Deomio of Syracuse. 
 
 How now, sir? is your merry humor 
 
 alter'd? 
 As you love strokes, so jest with me again. 
 You know no Centaur, you received no 
 
 gold? 
 Your mistress sent to have me home to 
 
 dinner? 
 My house was at the Phoenix? "Wast thou 
 
 mad, 
 That thus so madly thou didst answer me? 
 Dro. S. Wliat answer, sir? when spake 
 
 I such a word? 
 Ant. S. Even now, even here, not half 
 
 an hour since. 
 Dro. S. I did not see you since you 
 sent me hence. 
 Home to the Centaur, with the gold you 
 gave me. 
 Ant. S. Villain, thou didst deny the 
 gold's receipt; 
 And told'st me of a mistress, and a dinner; 
 For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was dis- 
 pleas'd. 
 Dro. S. I am glad to see you in this 
 merry vein: 
 What means this jest? I pray you, master, 
 tell me. 
 Ant. S. Yea, dost thai; jeer, and flout 
 
 me in the teeth? 
 Think'st thou, I jest? Hold, take thou 
 that, and that. [Beating him. 
 
 Dro. S. Hold, sir, for heaven's sake: 
 now your jest is earnest: 
 Upon what bargain do you give it me? 
 Ant. S. Because that I familiarly 
 sometimes 
 Do use you for my fool, and chat with 
 
 you. 
 Your sauciness will jest upon my love. 
 And make a common of my serious hours. 
 When the sun shines, let foolish gnats 
 
 make sport. 
 But creep in crannies, when he hides his 
 
 beams. 
 If you will jest with me, know my aspect. 
 And fashion your demeanour to my looks. 
 Or I will beat this method in 3-our sconce. 
 Dro. S. Sconce, call you it? so you 
 would leave battering, I had rather have 
 it a head: an you use these blows long, I 
 must get a sconce for my head, and iu- 
 sconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit 
 in my shoulders. But, I pray, sir, why 
 am I beaten? 
 
 Ant. S. Dost thou not know? 
 
 Dro. S. Nothing, siY; but that I am 
 
 beaten. 
 A7it. S. Shall I tell you why? 
 Dro. S. Ay, sir, and wherefore; for, 
 they say, every why hath a wherefore. 
 Ant. S. Why, first, — for flouting me; 
 and then, wherefore, — 
 For urging it the second time to me. 
 Dro. 8. Was there ever any man thus 
 beaten out of season? 
 When, in the why, and the wherefore, is 
 
 neither rhyme nor reason? — 
 Well, sir, I thank you. 
 Ant. S. Thank me, sir? for what. 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, for this something 
 that you gave me for nothing. 
 
 Ant. S. I'll make you amends next, to 
 give you nothing forsomething. But say, 
 sir, is it dinner-time? 
 Dro. S. No, sir; I think, the meat 
 
 wants that I have. 
 Ant. S. In good time, sir, what's that? 
 Dro. S. Basting. 
 
 290 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERROES. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 AnL S. Well, sir, then 'twill be dry. 
 
 Dro. S. If it be, sir, I pray you eat 
 .none of it. 
 
 Atit. S. Your reason? 
 
 Dro. S. Lest it make you cliolerick, 
 and purchase me another dry basting. 
 
 Afit. S. Well, sir, learn to jest in good 
 time; 
 There's a time for all things. 
 
 Dro. S. I durst have denied that, be- 
 fore you were so cholerick. 
 
 Ant. S. By what rule, sir? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain 
 as the plain bald pate of father Time him- 
 self. 
 
 Ant. S. Let's hear it. 
 
 Dro. S. There's no time for a man to 
 recover his hair, that grows bald by nature. 
 
 Ant. S. May he not do it by fine and 
 recovery? 
 
 Dro. S. Yes, to pay a fine for a peruke, 
 and recover the lost hair of another man. 
 
 A7it. S. Why is time such a niggard of 
 hair, being, as it is, so plentiful? 
 
 Dro. S. Because it is a blessing that 
 he bestows on beasts: and what he hath 
 scanted men in hair he hath given them 
 in. wit. 
 
 Ajit. S. Why, but there's many a man 
 hath more hair than wit. 
 
 Dro. S. Not a man of those, but he 
 hath the wit to lose his hair. 
 
 A nt. S. Why, thou didst conclude hairy 
 men plain dealers without wit. 
 
 Dro. S. The plainer dealer, the sooner 
 lost: Yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity. 
 
 A}it. S. For what reason? 
 
 For two; and sound ones too. 
 Nay, not sound, I pray you. 
 Sure ones then. 
 Nay, not sure, in a thing 
 
 Certain ones then. 
 Name them. 
 
 The one. to save the money 
 that he spends in tiring; the other, that 
 
 Dro. 
 
 S. 
 
 Ant. 
 
 8. 
 
 Dro. 
 
 S. 
 
 Ant. 
 
 S. 
 
 falsing 
 
 
 Dro. 
 
 S. 
 
 Ant. 
 
 S. 
 
 Dro. 
 
 s. 
 
 at dinner they should not droj^ in his 
 porridge, 
 
 Atit. S. You would ail this time have 
 proved, there is no time for all things. 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, and did, sir; namely, 
 no time to recover hair lost by nature. 
 
 Ant. S. But your reason was not sub- 
 stantial, why there is no time to recover. 
 Dro. S. Thus I mend it: Time him- 
 self is bald, and therefore, to the world's 
 end, will have bald followers. 
 
 A)if. S. I knew it would be a bald 
 conclusion. But soft! who wafts us yon- 
 der? 
 
 Enter Adriana and Luciaita. 
 Adr. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange 
 and frown: 
 Some other mistress hath thy sweet as- 
 pects, 
 I am not Adriana, nor thy wife. 
 The time was once, when thou unurg'd 
 
 wouldst vow 
 That never words were music to thine ear, 
 That never object pleasing in thine eye. 
 That never touch well-welcome to thy 
 
 hand. 
 That never meat sweet-savour'd in thy 
 
 taste. 
 Unless I spake, look'd, touch'd, or carv'd 
 
 to thee. 
 How comes it now, my husband, oh, how 
 
 comes it 
 That thou art then estranged from thy- 
 self? 
 Thyself I call it, being strange to me, 
 That, individable, incorporate. 
 Am better than thy dear self's better part. 
 Ah, do not tear away thyself from me; 
 For know, my love, as easy mayst thou 
 
 fall 
 A drop of water in the breaking gulph, 
 And take unmingled thence that dro]? 
 
 again. 
 Without addition, or diminishing, 
 As take from me thyself, and not me too. 
 How dearly would it touch thee to the 
 quick, 
 
 291 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EEEORS. 
 
 SCEXE 11. 
 
 Sliouldst thou but hear I were licentious? 
 And that this bodj, consecrate to thee, 
 By ruffian lust should be contaminate? 
 "Wouldst thou not sj)it at me, and spurn 
 
 at me. 
 And hurl the name of husband in my face. 
 And tear the stain'd skin off my harlot 
 
 brow. 
 And from my false hand cut the wedding 
 
 ring. 
 And break it with a deep-divorcing vow? 
 Keep then fair league and truce with thy 
 
 true bed; 
 I live dis-stain'd, thou undishonored. 
 A7it. S. Plead you to me, fair dame? 
 I know you not: 
 In Ephesus I am but two hours old, 
 As strange unto your town, as to your 
 
 talk; 
 Who, every word by all my wit being 
 
 scann'd. 
 Want wit in all one word to understand. 
 Luc. Eye, brother! how the world is 
 chang'd with you : 
 When were you wont to use my sister 
 
 thus? 
 She sent for you by Dromio home to din- 
 ner. 
 A7it. S. By Dromio? 
 Bro. S. By me? 
 
 Adr. By thee: and this thou didst re- 
 turn from him, — 
 That he did buffet thee, and in his blows 
 Denied my house for his, me for his wife. 
 A7it. S. Did you converse, sir, with this 
 gentlewoman? 
 What is the force and drift of your com- 
 pact ? 
 Dro. S. 1, sir? I never saw her till 
 
 this time. 
 A7}t. S. Villain, thou liest; for even 
 her very words 
 Didst thou deliver to me on the mart. 
 I)7-o. S. I never spake with her in all 
 
 my life. 
 A7it. S. How can she thus then call us 
 by our names. 
 Unless it be by inspiration? 
 
 Adr. How ill agrees it with- your 
 gravity, 
 To counterfeit thus grossly with your 
 
 slave ? 
 Abetting him to thwart me in my mood? 
 Be it my wrong, you are from me exempt. 
 But wrong not that wrong with a more 
 
 contempt. 
 Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine: 
 Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine; 
 Whose Aveakness, married to th}' stronger 
 
 state. 
 Makes me with thy strength to communi- 
 cate: 
 If ought possess thee from me, it is dross. 
 Usurping ivy, briar, or idle moss; 
 Who, all for want of pruning, with in- 
 trusion 
 Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion. 
 A7it. S. To me she speaks; she moves 
 me for her theme: 
 What, was I married to her in my dream? 
 Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this? 
 What error drivesoureyes and ears amiss? 
 Until I know this sure uncertainty, 
 I'll entertain the oSer'd fallacy. 
 
 Ltic. Dromio, go bid the servants 
 
 spread for dinner. 
 Dro. S. 0, for my beads I I cross me 
 for a sinner. 
 This is the fairy land; — 0, spite of 
 
 spites I — 
 We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish 
 
 sprites; 
 If we obey them not, this will ensue. 
 They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black 
 and blue. 
 Liic. Why prat'st thou to thyself, and 
 answer'st not? 
 Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou 
 slug, thou sot! 
 Dro S. I am transform'd, master, am 
 
 not I? 
 Ant S. I think, thou art, in mind, and 
 
 so am I, 
 Dro. S. Xay, master, both in mind, 
 and in my shape. 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Scene XL 
 
 Ant. S. Thou hast thine own form. 
 Dro. S. No, I am an ape. 
 
 L7(c. If thou art chang'd to aught, 'tis 
 
 to an ass. 
 Dro. S. 'Tis true; she rides me, and I 
 long for grass. 
 'Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never 
 
 be, 
 But I should know her as well as she 
 knows me. 
 Adr. Come, come, no longer will I be 
 a fool, 
 To put the finger in the eye and weep, 
 Whilst man, and master, laugh my woes 
 
 to scorn. — 
 Come sir, to dinner; Dromio, keep the 
 
 gate : — 
 Husband, I'll dine above with you to-day. 
 
 And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks: 
 Sirrah, if any ask you for your master, 
 Say, he dines forth, and let no creature 
 
 enter. — 
 Come, sister : — Dromio, play the porter 
 well. 
 Ant. S. Am I in earth, in heaven, or 
 in hell? 
 Sleeping or waking? mad, or well-ad vis'd? 
 Known unto these, and to myself disguis'd 
 I'll say as they say, and persevere so. 
 And in this mist at all adventures go. 
 Dro. S. Master, shall I be porter at 
 
 the gate? 
 Adr. Ay; and let none enter, lest I 
 
 break your pate. 
 Luc. Come, come, Antipholus, we 
 dine too late. [Fxeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. The Same. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Ephesus, Drojiio 
 of Ephesus, Angelo, and Bal- 
 thazar. 
 
 Ant. E. Good signior, Angelo, you 
 must excuse us all; 
 My wife is shrewish, when I keep not 
 
 hours : 
 Say, that I linger'd with you at your 
 
 shop. 
 To see the making of her carkanet. 
 And that to-morrow you will bring it 
 
 home. 
 But here's a villain, that would face me 
 
 down 
 He met me on the mart ; and that I beat 
 
 him. 
 And charg'd him with a thousand marks 
 
 in gold, 
 And that I did deny my wife and house: — 
 Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou 
 
 mean by this ? 
 Dro, E. Say what you will, sir, but I 
 
 know what I know : 
 
 That you beat me at the mart, I have 
 
 your hand to show : 
 If the skin were parchment, and the 
 
 blows you gave were ink. 
 Your own handwriting would tell you 
 what I think. 
 Ant. E. I think, thou art an ass. 
 Dro. E. Marry, so it doth appear 
 
 By the wrongs I suffer, and the blows I 
 
 bear. 
 I should kick, being kick'd ; and, being at 
 
 that pass, 
 You would keep from my heels, and be- 
 ware of an ass. 
 A7it. E. You are sad, signior Baltha- 
 zar : 'Pray heaven, our cheer 
 May answer my good will, and your good 
 welcome here. 
 Bal. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, 
 
 and your welcome dear. 
 Ant. E. 0, signior Balthazar, either 
 at flesh or fish, 
 A table full of welcome makes scarce one 
 dainty dish. 
 
 293 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EREORS. 
 
 SCEKE I. 
 
 Bal. Good meat. Sir, is common ; fcliat 
 
 every churl afEords. 
 A7it. E. And welcome more common; 
 
 for that's nothing but words. 
 Bal. Small cheer and great welcome, 
 
 makes a merry feast. 
 Ant. E. Ay, to a niggardly host, and 
 
 rhore sparing guest ; 
 But though my cates be mean, take them 
 
 in good part ; 
 Better cheer may you have, but not with 
 
 better heart. 
 But, soft ; my door is lock'd : Go bid 
 
 them let us in. 
 Dro. E. Maud, Bridget, Marian, 
 
 Cicily, Gillian, Jen' !* 
 Dro. S. [WitJiiii.] Mome, malt-horse, 
 
 capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch ! 
 Either get thee from the door, or sit down 
 
 at the hatch. 
 Dro. E. What patch is made our 
 
 porter ? My master stays in the 
 
 street. 
 Dro. S. Let him walk from whence 
 
 he came, lest he catch cold on's 
 
 feet. 
 Ant. E. Who talks within there ? ho, 
 
 open the door. 
 Dro. 8. Right, sir, I'll tell you when, 
 
 an you'll tell me wherefore ? 
 Ant. E. Wherefore, for my dinner ; I 
 
 have not din'd to-day. 
 Dro. S. Nor to-day here you must 
 
 not ; come again when you may. 
 Ant. E. What art thou, that keep'st 
 
 me out from the house I owe ? 
 Dro. 8. The porter for this time, sir, 
 
 and my name is Dromio. 
 Dro. E. villain, thou hast stolen 
 
 both mine office and my name ; 
 The one ne'er got me credit, the other 
 
 mickle blame. 
 If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my 
 
 place. 
 Thou would'st have chang'd thy face for 
 
 a name, or thy name for an ass. 
 
 Luce. \_WitJiin.'] What a coil is there? 
 
 Dromio, who are those at the 
 
 gate ? 
 Dro. E. Let thy master in. Luce. 
 Luce. Faith, no ; he comes too late; 
 And so tell your master. 
 
 Dro. E. Lord, I must laugh : — 
 
 Have at you with a proverb . — Shall I set 
 
 in my staff ? 
 Luce. Have at you with another: 
 
 that's, — When ? can you tell ? 
 Dro. 8. If thy name be call'd Luce, 
 
 Luce, thou hast answer'd him 
 
 well. 
 Ant. E. Do you hear, you minion ? 
 
 you'll let us in, I hope ? 
 Luce. I thought to have ask'd you. 
 Dro. 8. And you said, no. 
 
 Dro. E. So, come, help; well struck; 
 
 there was blow for blow. 
 Ant. E, Thou baggage, let me in. 
 Luce. Can you tell for whose sake ? 
 Dro. E. Master, knock the door hard. 
 Luce. Let him knock till it ake. 
 
 Ant. E. You'll cry for this, minion, 
 
 if I beat the door down. 
 Luce. What needs all that, and a pair 
 
 of stocks in the town ? 
 Adr. \_Witliin.'\ Who is that at the 
 
 door, that keeps all this noise ? 
 Dro. 8. By my troth, your town is 
 
 troubled with unruly boys. 
 Ant. E. Are you there, wife ? you 
 
 might have come before. 
 Adr. Your wife, sir knave ! go, get 
 
 you from the door. 
 Dro. E. If you went in pain, master, 
 
 this knave would go sore. 
 Ayig. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor 
 
 welcome ; we would fain have ei- 
 ther. 
 Bal. In debating which was best, we 
 
 shall part with neither. 
 Dro. E. They stand at the door, mas- 
 ter ; bid them welcome hither. 
 Ant. E. There is something in the 
 
 wind that we cannot get in. 
 
 294 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Dro. E. You would say so, master, if 
 your garments were thin. 
 Your cake here 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. 
 Dro. 8. Break any breaking here, and 
 
 I'll break your knave's pate. 
 Dro. E. Here's too much, out upon 
 
 thee ! I pray thee, let me in. 
 Dro. S. Ay, when fowls have no 
 
 feathers, and fish have no fin. 
 Ant. E. Well, I'll break in ; Go, bor- 
 row me a crow. 
 Dro. E. A crow without a feather ; 
 master, mean you so ? 
 For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl 
 
 without a feather : 
 If a crow help us in, sirrah, we'll pluck a 
 crow together. 
 A7it. E. Go, get thee gone, fetch me 
 
 an iron crow. 
 Bal. Have patience, sir; 0, let it not 
 be so ; 
 Herein you war against your reputation. 
 And draw within the compass of suspect 
 The unviolated honor of your wife. 
 Once this, — Your long experience of her 
 
 wisdom. 
 Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, 
 Plead on her part some cause to you un- 
 known ; 
 And doubt not, sir, but she will well ex- 
 cuse 
 Why at this time the doors are made 
 
 against you. 
 Be rul'd 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 re- 
 straint. 
 If by strong hand you offer to break in. 
 Now in the stirring passage of the day, 
 A vulgar comment will be made on it ; 
 And that supposed by the common rout 
 
 Against your yet ungalled estimation, 
 
 That may with foul intrusion enter in. 
 
 And dwell upon your grave when you are 
 dead : 
 
 For slander lives upon succession ; 
 
 For ever hous'd, where it once gets pos- 
 session. 
 Ant. E. You have prevail'd ; I will 
 depart in quiet, 
 
 And, in despight of mirth, mean to be 
 merry. 
 
 I know a wench of excellent discourse, — 
 
 Pretty and witty ; wild, and, yet too, 
 gentle ; — 
 
 There will we dine : this woman that I 
 mean. 
 
 My wife (but, I protest, without desert,) 
 
 Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal ; 
 
 To her will we to dinner. — Get you 
 home. 
 
 And fetch the chain ; by this, I know, 
 'tis made ; 
 
 Bring it, I pray you, to the Porcupine ; 
 
 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 enter- 
 tain me, 
 
 I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll dis- 
 dain me. 
 Ang. I'll meet you at that place, 
 
 some hour hence. 
 Ant. E. Do so ; this jest shall cost 
 me some expense. \^Exetcnt. 
 
 Scene II. The Same. 
 
 Enter Luciana, a7id Antipholus of 
 Syracuse. 
 
 Luc. If you did wed my sister for 
 
 her wealth. 
 Then, for her wealth's sake, use her with 
 
 more kindness : 
 Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth; 
 
 295 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 SCEN^E II. 
 
 Muffle your false love with some show 
 
 of blindness. 
 Let not my sister read it in your eye; 
 Be not thy tongue thy own shame's 
 orator; 
 Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty; 
 
 Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger: 
 Bear a fair presence, though your heart 
 be tainted; 
 Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint; 
 Be secret-false: What need she be 
 acquainted? 
 What simple thief brags of his own 
 attaint? 
 'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed. 
 And let her read it in thy looks at board. 
 Shame hathabastardfame, well managed; 
 111 deeds are doubled with an evil 
 word. 
 Alas, poor woman! make us but believe. 
 Being compact of credit, that you love 
 us; 
 Though others have the arm, show us the 
 sleeve; 
 We in your motion turn, and you may 
 move us. 
 Then, gentle brother, get you in again; 
 Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her 
 wife: 
 'Tis holy sport, to be a little vain. 
 
 When the sweet breath of flattery con- 
 quers strife. 
 A7it. S. Sweet mistress, (what your 
 
 name is else, I know not. 
 Nor by what wonder you do hit on 
 mine,) 
 Less, in your knowledge, and your grace, 
 you show not. 
 Than our earth's wonder ; more than 
 earth divine. 
 Teach me, dear creature, how to think 
 and speak; 
 Lay open to my earthly gross conceit, 
 Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak. 
 The folded meaning of your words' 
 deceit. 
 
 Against my soul's pure truth why labor 
 you, 
 To make it wander in an unknown 
 field? 
 Are you a goddess? would you make me 
 new? 
 Transform me then, and to your power 
 I'll yield. 
 But if that I am I, then well I know. 
 
 Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, 
 ISTor to her bed no homage do I owe; 
 
 Far more, far more, to you do I decline. 
 0, train me not, sweet mermaid, with 
 thy note. 
 To drown me in the sister's flood of 
 tears; 
 Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote: 
 Spread o'er the silrer waves thy golden 
 
 hairs. 
 Luc. What, are you mad, that you do 
 
 reason so? 
 A)if. S. Not mad, but mated; how, I 
 
 do not know. 
 Luc. It is a fault that springeth from 
 
 your eye. 
 Ant. S. For gazing on your beams, 
 
 fair sun, being by. 
 Ltic. Gaze where you should, and that 
 
 will clear your sight. 
 Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, 
 
 as look on night. 
 Luc. Why call you me love? call my 
 
 sister so. 
 Ant. S. Thy sister's sister. 
 Lnc. 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. 
 Luc. All this my sister is, or else 
 
 should be. 
 A7it. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I 
 aim thee: 
 Thee will I love, and with thee lead my 
 
 life; 
 Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife; 
 Give me thv hand. 
 
 296 
 
Act hi. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Luc. 0, soft, sir, hold you still: 
 
 I'll fetch my sister, to get her good will. 
 
 l^Exit Luc. 
 
 Enter, from the House of Antipholus of 
 Epliesus, Dromio of Syracuse. 
 
 Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio? 
 where run'st thou so fast. 
 
 Dro. S. Do you know me, sir? am I 
 Dromio? am I your man? am I myself? 
 
 A7it. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art 
 my man, thou art thyself. 
 
 Dro. 8. I am an ass, I am a woman's 
 man, and besides myself. 
 
 Ant. S. What woman's man? and how 
 besides thyself? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I 
 am due to a woman; one that claims me, 
 one that haunts me, one that will have 
 me. 
 
 Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you 
 would lay to your horse. 
 
 Ant. S. Go, hie thee presently, post to 
 the road; 
 And if the wind blow any way from shore, 
 I will not harbor in this town to-night. 
 If any bark put forth, come to the mart. 
 Where I will walk, till thou return to me. 
 If every one know us, and we know none, 
 'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack, and 
 begone. 
 
 Dro. S. As from a bear a inan would 
 run for life. 
 So fly I from her that would be my wife. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Ant. S. There's none but witches do 
 
 inhabit here; 
 And therefore 'tis high time that I were 
 
 hence. 
 She, that doth call me husband, even my 
 
 soul 
 Doth for a wife abhor: but her fair sister. 
 Possessed with such a gentle sovereign 
 
 grace. 
 
 Of such enchanting presence and dis- 
 course, 
 Hath almost made me traitor to myself: 
 But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong, 
 I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's 
 song. 
 
 . Enter Angelo. 
 
 Atig. Master Antipholus. 
 Ant. S. Ay, that's my name. 
 Ang. 1 know it well, sir: Lo, here is 
 the chain; 
 I thought to have ta'en you at the Por- 
 cupine: 
 The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus 
 long. 
 A7it. S. What is your will, that I shall 
 
 do with this? 
 Ang. What please yourself, sir; I 
 
 have made it for you. 
 Ant. S. Made it for me, sir! I bespeak 
 
 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'll visit you. 
 And then receive my money for the chain, 
 A7it. S. I pray you, sir, receive the 
 money now. 
 For fear you ne'er see chain, nor money, 
 more. 
 A7ig. You are a merry 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 he meets such golden 
 
 gifts, 
 I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio 
 
 stay; 
 If any ship put out, then straight away. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 297 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERROES. 
 
 SCESTE I. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. The Same. 
 
 Enter a Merchant, Angelo, and an 
 Officer. 
 
 Mer. You know, since pentecost the 
 
 sum is due, 
 And since I have not much importuned 
 
 you; 
 Nor noAV I had not, but that I am bound 
 To Persia, and want gilders for my voyage: 
 Therefore make present satisfaction. 
 Or I'll attach you by this officer. 
 
 Ang. Even just the sum, that I do owe 
 
 to you. 
 Is growing to me by Antipholus: 
 And, in the instant that I met with you. 
 He had of me a chain; at five o'clock, 
 I shall receive the money for the same; 
 Pleaseth you walk with me down to his 
 
 house, 
 I will discharge my bond, and thank you 
 
 too. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Ephesiis, 
 Dromio of Ephesus. 
 
 and 
 
 see 
 
 Off. That labor may you save 
 
 where he comes. 
 A7it. E. "While I go to the goldsmith's 
 house, go thou 
 And buy a rope's end; that will I bestow 
 Among my wife and her confederates, 
 For locking me out of my doors by day. — 
 But soft, I see the goldsmith: — get thee 
 
 gone; 
 Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to 
 me. 
 Dro. E. I buy a thousand pound a 
 year! I buy a rope! Exit Dro. E. 
 Ant. E. A man is well holp up, that 
 trusts to you : 
 I promised your presence, and the chain; 
 But neither chain, nor goldsmith, came 
 
 tome: 
 Belike, you thought our love would last 
 too long, 
 
 If it were chain'd together; and there- 
 fore came not. 
 Ang. Saving your merry humor, here's- 
 
 the note. 
 How much your chain weighs to the 
 
 utmost carat; 
 The fineness of the gold, and chargeful 
 
 fashion. 
 Which doth amount to three odd ducats 
 
 more 
 Than I stand debted to this gentleman; 
 I pray you, see him presently discharg'd,. 
 For he is bound to sea, and stays but for 
 
 it. 
 Ant. E. I am not furnish'd with the- 
 
 present money; 
 Besides, I have some business in the town: 
 Good signior, take the stranger to my 
 
 house. 
 And with you take the chain, and bid my 
 
 wife 
 Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof ;, 
 Perchance I will be there as soon as you. 
 Ang. Then you will bring the chain 
 
 to her yourself ? 
 Ant. E. No; bear it with you, lest I 
 
 come not time enough. 
 Ang. Well, sir, I will: Have you the- 
 
 chain about you? 
 Ant. E. An if I have not. sir, I hope 
 
 you have; 
 Or else you may return without your 
 
 money. 
 Ang. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give- 
 
 me the chain; 
 Both wind and tide stays for this gentle- 
 man. 
 And I, to blame, have held him here too 
 
 long. 
 Ant. E. Good lord, you use this dalli- 
 ance, to excuse 
 Your breach of promise to the Porcupine: 
 I should have chid you for not bringing 
 
 it. 
 But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawL 
 
 298 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Mer. The hour steals on; I pray you, 
 
 sir, despatch. 
 A7ig. You hear, how he importunes 
 
 me; the chain — 
 Ant. E. Why give it to my wife, and 
 
 fetch your money. 
 Ang. Come, come, you know, I gave 
 it you even now; 
 Either send the chain, or send me by 
 some token. 
 Ant. E. Fye! how you run this humor 
 out of breath : 
 Come, Where's the chain? I pray you let 
 me see it. 
 Mer. My business cannot brook this 
 dalliance; 
 Good sir, say, whe'r you'll answer me or 
 
 no; 
 If not, I'll leave him to the officer. 
 Ant. E. I answer you! What should I 
 
 ainswer you? 
 Ang. The money that you owe me for 
 
 the chain. 
 Ant. E. I owe you none, till I receive 
 
 the chain. 
 Ang. You know, I gave it you half 
 
 an hour since. 
 Ant. E. You gave me none; you wrong 
 
 me much to say so. 
 Ang. You wrong me more, sir, in 
 denying it: 
 Consider, how it stands upon my credit. 
 Mer. Well, officer, arrest him at my 
 
 suit. 
 Off. I do; and charge you in the 
 
 duke's name, to obey me. 
 A ng. This touches me in reputation : — 
 Either consent to pay this sum for me, 
 Or I attach you by this officer. 
 
 Ant. E. Consent to pay thee that I 
 never had! 
 Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar'st. 
 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: — 
 But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as 
 
 dear 
 As all the metal in your shop will answer. 
 Ang. Sir, sir, I shall have law in 
 Ephesus, 
 To your notorious shame, I doubt it not. 
 
 E7iter Ti'RO^iio of Syracuse. 
 
 Dro. S. Master, there is a bark of 
 
 Epidamnum, 
 That stays but till her owner comes 
 
 aboard. 
 And then, sir, bears away: our fraughtage, 
 
 sir, 
 I have convey'd aboard; and I have bought 
 The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitfe. 
 The ship is in her trim; the merry wind 
 Blows fair from land : they stay for 
 
 nought at all. 
 But for their owner, master, and your- 
 self. 
 Ant. E. How now ! a madman! Why, 
 
 thou peevish sheep. 
 What ship of Epidamnum stays for me? 
 Dro. S. A ship you sent me to, to hire 
 
 waftage. 
 Ant. E. Thou drunken slave, I sent 
 
 thee for a rope; 
 And told thee to what purpose and what 
 
 end. 
 Dro. S. You sent me, sir, for a rope's 
 
 end as soon, . 
 You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. 
 Ant. E. I will debate this matter at 
 
 more leisure. 
 And teach your ears to listen with more 
 
 heed. 
 To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight: 
 Give her this key, and tell her, in the 
 
 desk 
 That's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry. 
 There is a purse of ducats : let her send 
 
 it; 
 
 209 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Tell her, I am arrested in the street. 
 
 And that shall bail me : hie thee, slave ; 
 be gone. 
 
 On, ofl&cer, to prison till it come. 
 
 [Exeunt 3£erchant, Angela, Officer, 
 and Ant. E. 
 Dro. S. To Adriana I that is where he 
 din'd. 
 
 Where Dowsabel did claim me for her hus- 
 band: 
 
 Thither I must, although against m}^ 
 will. 
 
 For servants must their master's minds 
 fulfil. {Exit. 
 
 ScEXE II. The Same. 
 Enter Adriana and Luciana. 
 
 Adr. Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee 
 
 so ? 
 Mightst thou perceive austerely his eye 
 That he did plead in earnest, yea or no? 
 Look'd he or red, or pale; or sad or 
 
 merrily ? 
 What observations mad'st thou in this 
 
 case. 
 Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face? 
 Luc. First, he denied you had in him 
 
 no right. 
 Adr. He meant, he did me none ; the 
 
 more my sf)ite. 
 Luc. Then swore he, that he was a 
 
 stranger here. 
 Adr. And true he swore, though yet 
 
 forsworn he were. 
 Luc. Then pleaded I for you. 
 Adr. And what said he? 
 
 Luc. That love I begg'd for you, he 
 
 begg'd of me. 
 Adr. With what persuasion did he 
 
 tempt thy love ? 
 Luc. With words that in an honest 
 
 suit might move. 
 First he did praise my beauty ; then, my 
 
 speech, 
 Adr. Didst speak him fair ? 
 Luc. Have patience, I beseech. 
 
 Adr. I cannot, nor I will not, hold me 
 still ; 
 My tongue, though not my heart, shall 
 
 have his will. 
 He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere, 
 Ill-fac'd, worse-bodied, shapeless every 
 
 where: 
 Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind; 
 Stigmatical in making, worse in mind. 
 L%ic. Who would be jealous then of 
 such a one ? 
 No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone. 
 Adr. Ah ! but I think him better than 
 
 I say. 
 And yet would herein others' eyes were 
 worse : 
 Far from her nest the lapwing cries away; 
 My heart prays for him, though my 
 tongue do curse. 
 Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 
 Dro. S. Here, go; the desk, the purse; 
 
 sweet now, make haste. 
 Luc. How hast thou lost thy breath? 
 Dro. S. By running 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 heart isbutton'd up with 
 
 steel ; 
 A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough ; 
 A wolf, nay worse, a fellow all m bufE; 
 A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one 
 
 that countermands 
 The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow 
 lands. 
 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 arrested? tell me, at 
 
 whose suit. 
 Dro. S. I know not at whose suit he is 
 arrested, well; 
 But he's in a suit of buS, which 'rested 
 him, that can I tell : 
 
 300 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EEEORS. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Will you seud him, mistress, redemption, 
 
 the money in the desk ? 
 
 Adr. Go fetch it, sister. — This I 
 
 wonder at, [Exit Liccia?ia. 
 
 That he, unknown to me, should be in 
 
 debt : 
 Tell me, was he arrested on a band ? 
 D)-o. S. Not on a band, but on a 
 stronger thing ; 
 A chain, a chain; do you not hear it ring? 
 Adr. What, the chain ? 
 Dro. S. No, no, the bell; 'tis time that 
 I were gone. 
 It was two ere I left him, and now the 
 clock strikes one. 
 Adr. The hours come back ! that did 
 
 I never hear. 
 Dro. S. yes, if any hour meet a 
 sergeant, a' turns back for every 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 sea- 
 son. 
 Nay, he's a thief too : Have you not 
 
 heard men say. 
 That time comes stealing on by night and 
 
 day? 
 If he be in debt, and theft, and a sergeant 
 
 in the way. 
 Hath he not reason to turn back an hour 
 in a day ? 
 
 Enter LuciANA. 
 
 Adr. GrO, Dromio; there's the money, 
 
 l^ear it straight ; 
 And bring thy master home immedi- 
 ately. — 
 Come, sister : I am jiress'd down with 
 conceit ; 
 Conceit my comfort, and my injury. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. The Same. 
 Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. 
 Ant. S. There's not a man I meet, but 
 
 doth salute me 
 
 As if I were their well-acquainted friend; 
 
 And every one doth call me by my name. 
 
 Some tender money to me, some invite 
 me; 
 
 Some other give me thanks for kind- 
 nesses : 
 
 Some offer me commodities to buy : 
 
 Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop. 
 
 And show'd me silks that he had bought 
 for me. 
 
 And, therewithal, took measure of my 
 body. 
 
 Sure, these are but imaginary wiles, 
 
 And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here. 
 
 Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 
 
 Dro. S. Master, here's the gold you 
 sent me for. 
 What, have you got the picture of old 
 Adam new apparel'd? 
 
 Ant. S. What gold is this? what Adam 
 dost thou mean? 
 
 Dro. S. He that came behind you, sir, 
 like an evil angel, and bid you for- 
 sake your liberty. 
 
 Ant. S. I understand thee not. 
 
 Dro. S. No? why, 'tis a plain case : he 
 that went like a base-viol, in a case of 
 leather ; the man, sir, that, when gentle- 
 men are tired, give them a fob, and 'rests 
 them ; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed 
 men, and give them suits of durance ; he 
 that sets up his rest to do more exploits 
 with his mace, than a morris-pike. 
 
 Ant. S. What ! thou mean'st an 
 officer? 
 
 Dro. S. A.J, 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, Ood 
 give you good rest! 
 
 A lit. S. Well, sir, tliere rest in your 
 foolery. Is there any ship puts forth to- 
 night ? may we be gone? 
 
 Dro. S. Why, sir, I brought you word 
 an hour since, that the bark Expedition 
 put forth to-night, and then were you 
 
 301 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EEROES. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 hindered by the sergeant, to tarry for the 
 hoy. Delay : Here are the angels that you 
 sent for, to deliver you. 
 
 Ant. S. The fellow is distract, and so 
 am I ; 
 
 And here we wander in illusions; 
 Some blessed power deliver us from hence! 
 
 Enter a Courtezan. 
 
 Cour. Well met, well met, master 
 Antipholus. 
 I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith 
 
 now ; 
 Is that the chain, you promis'd me to- 
 day ? 
 Ant. S. 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 pro- 
 mis'd; 
 And Fll be gone, sir, and not trouble you. 
 Dro. S. Some devils ask but the paring 
 of one's nail, 
 A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin, 
 A nut, a cherry-stone : but she, more 
 
 covetous. 
 Would have a chain. 
 Master, be wise ; and 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. 
 Ant. !S. Avaunt, thou witch ! Come, 
 
 Dromio, let us go. 
 Dro. S. Fly pride, says the peacock : 
 Mistress, that you know. 
 
 [Exeunt Ani. S. and Dro. S. 
 Cour. Now, out of doubt, Antipholus 
 is mad. 
 Else would he never so demean himself : 
 A ring he hath of mine M'orth forty 
 
 ducats. 
 And for the same he promis'd me a chain I 
 Both one, and other, he denies me now. 
 The reason that I gather he is mad. 
 
 (Besides this present instance of his rage,) 
 Is a mad tale, he told to-day at dinner. 
 Of his own doors being shut against his 
 
 entrance. 
 Belike, his wife, acquainted with his fits. 
 On purpose shut the door against his way. 
 My way is now, to hie home to his house. 
 And tell his wife, that, being lunatick. 
 He rush'd into my house, and took jaer- 
 
 force 
 My ring away : This course I fittest 
 
 choose ; 
 For forty ducats is too much to lose. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. The Same. 
 
 Enter AxTiPHOLrs of Ephesus, and an 
 Officer. 
 
 Ant. E. Fear me not, man, I will not 
 
 break away; 
 I'll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much 
 
 money 
 To warrant thee, as I am 'resteol for. 
 My wife is in a wayward mood to-day: 
 And will not lightly trust the messenger, 
 That I should be attach'd in Ephesus: 
 I tell you, 'twill sound harshly in her 
 
 ears. — 
 
 Enter Dromio of Ephesus, witli a Ropie's 
 Old. 
 
 Here comes my man ; I think, he brings 
 
 the money. 
 How now, sir ? have you that I sent you 
 
 for? 
 Dro. E. Here's that, I M'arrant you, 
 
 will pay them all. 
 Ant. E. But Where's the money ? 
 Dro. E. Why, sir, I gave the money 
 
 for the rope. 
 Ant. E. Five hundred ducats, villain, 
 
 for a rope ? 
 Dro. E. I'll serve you, sir, five hund- 
 red at the rate. 
 Ant. E. To what end did I bid thee 
 
 hie thee home ? 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EKROES. 
 
 SCEXE IV. 
 
 Dro. E. To a rope's end, sir ; and to 
 
 that end am I return'd. 
 Ant. E. And to that end, sir, I will 
 Avelcome you. 
 
 ^Beating him- 
 Off. Good sir, be patient. 
 Dro. E. May, 'tis 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 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 in an atss. 
 Dro. E. I am an ass indeed ; you may 
 prove it by my long ears. I have serv'd 
 him from the hour of my nativity to this 
 instant, and have nothing at his hands for 
 my service, but blows : when I am cold, 
 he heats me with beating: when I am 
 warm, he cools me with beating : I am 
 waked with it when I sleep ; raised with 
 it, when I sit ; driven out of doors 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. 
 
 Unter Adriana, Luciana, and the Cour- 
 tezan, and Pinch, with others. 
 
 Ant. E. Come, go along; my wife is 
 
 coming yonder. 
 Dro. E. Mistress, respice finem, res- 
 pect your end ; or rather the prophecy, 
 like the parrot, Betoare the rope's end. 
 Ant. E. Wilt thou still talk ? 
 
 \^Beats him. 
 Cour. How say you now? is not your 
 
 husband mad ? 
 Adr. His incivility confirms no less. — 
 Good doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer ; 
 Establish him in his true sense again, 
 And I will please you what you will de- 
 mand. 
 
 Luc. Alas, bow fiery and how sharp he 
 looks ! 
 
 Cour. Mark, how he trembles in his 
 ecstasy ! 
 
 Pinch. Give me your hand, and let me 
 feel your pulse. 
 
 Ant. E. There is my hand and let it 
 feel your ear. 
 
 Pinch. I charge thee, Satan, hous'd 
 within this man. 
 To yield possession to my holy prayers. 
 And to thy state of darkness hie thee 
 
 straight ; 
 I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven. 
 
 A7it. E. Peace, doting wizard, peace; 
 I am not mad. 
 
 Anr. 0, that thou wert not, poor dis- 
 tressed soul ! 
 
 Ant. E. You minion, you, are these 
 your customers ? 
 Did this companion with a saffron face 
 Revel and feast it at my house to-day, 
 "Whilst upon me the guilty doors were 
 
 shut. 
 And I denied to enter in my house ? 
 
 Adr. 0, husband, God doth know, 
 you din'd at home. 
 Where 'would you had remaiu'd until this 
 
 time. 
 Free from these slanders, and this open 
 shame ! 
 
 Ant. E. I din'd at home ! Thou vil- 
 lain, what say'st thou? 
 
 Dro. E. Sir, sooth to say, you did not 
 dine at home. 
 
 Ant. E. Were not my doors lock'd up, 
 and I shut out? 
 
 Dro. E. Percy, your doors were lock'd, 
 and you shut out. 
 
 Ant. E. And did not she herself re- 
 vile me there? 
 
 Dro. E. Sans fable, she herself revil'd 
 you there. 
 
 Ant. E. Did not her kitchen-maid 
 rail, taunt, arad scorn me? 
 
 Dro. E. Cartes, she did; the kitchen- 
 vestal scorn'd you. 
 
 303 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EREORS. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Ant. E. And did not I in rage depart 
 
 from thence? 
 Dro. E. In verity 3'ou did; — my bones 
 
 bear witness. 
 That since have felt the vigor of his rage. 
 Adr. Is't good to sooth him in these 
 
 contraries? 
 Pinch. It is no shame; the fellow 
 
 finds his vein, 
 And, yielding to him, humors well his 
 
 frenzy. 
 Ant. E. Thou hast subborn'd the 
 
 goldsmith to arrest me. 
 Adr. Alas, I sent you money to redeem 
 
 you. 
 By Dromio here, who came in haste for 
 
 it. 
 Dro. E. Money by me? heart and 
 
 good-will you might. 
 But, surely, master, not a rag of money. 
 Ani. E. Went'st not thou to her for a 
 
 purse of ducats? 
 Adr. He came to me, and I deliver'd 
 
 it. 
 Luc. And I am witness with her, that 
 
 she did. 
 Dro. E. Heaven and the rope-maker, 
 
 bear me witness, 
 That I was sent for nothing but a rope! 
 Pinch. Mistress, both man and mastei' 
 
 is possess'd; 
 I know it by their pale and deadly looks : 
 They must be bound, and laid in some 
 
 dark room. 
 Ant. E. Say, wherefore didst thor. 
 
 lock me forth to-day. 
 And why dost thou deny the bag of gold ? 
 Adr. I did not, gentle husband, lock 
 
 thee forth. 
 Dro. E. And, gentle master, I received 
 
 no gold; 
 But I confess, sir, that we were lock'"d 
 
 out. 
 Adr. Dissembling villain, thou speak'st 
 
 false in both. 
 Ant. E. Dissembling harlot thou art 
 
 false in all; 
 
 And art confederate with a wicked pack,. 
 To make a loathsome abject scorn of me : 
 But with these nails I'll pluck out these 
 
 false eyes, 
 That would behold in one this shameful 
 
 sport. 
 
 [Pinch and his Assistants lind Ant. 
 E. and Dro. E. 
 Adr. 0, bind him, bind him, let him 
 
 not come near me. 
 Pinch. More company ! — the fiend is 
 
 strong within him. 
 Ltic. Ah me, poor man, how pale and 
 
 wan he looks I 
 A7it. E. "What, will you murder me ? 
 Thou gaoler, thou, 
 I am thy prisoner; will thou suffer them 
 To make a rescue? 
 
 Off. Masters, let him go; 
 
 He is my prisoner, and you shall not have 
 him. 
 Pinch. Go, behind this man, for he is 
 
 frantic too. 
 Adr. What wilt thou do, thou peevish 
 officer? 
 Hast thou delight to see a wretched man 
 Do outrage and displeasure to himself? 
 Off. He is my prisoner; if I let him 
 
 go, 
 The debt he owes, will be required of me. 
 Adr. I will discharge thee, ere I go 
 from thee : 
 Bear me forth with unto his creditor. 
 And knowing how the debt grows, I will 
 
 pay it. 
 Good master doctor, see him safe convey'd 
 Home to my house. — most unhappy 
 day! 
 Aiit. E. most unhappy strumpet! 
 Dro. E. Master, I am here entered in 
 
 bond for you. 
 Ant. E. Out on thee, villain! where- 
 fore dost thoti mad me? 
 Dro. E. Will you be bound for nothing? 
 
 Good master: crv, the devil. — 
 
 304 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Liic. God help, poor souls, how idly 
 
 do they talk! 
 Adr. Go bear him hence. — Sister, go 
 you with me. — 
 
 \_Exeunt Pinch and Assistants, with 
 Ant. E. and Dro. E. 
 Say now, whose suit is he arrested at? 
 Off. One Angelo, a goldsmith; Do you 
 
 know him? 
 Adr. I know the man: What is the 
 
 sum he owes? 
 Off. Two hundred ducats. 
 Adr. Say, how grows it due? 
 
 Off\ Due for a chain, your husband 
 
 had of him. 
 Adr. He did be speak a chain for me, 
 
 but had it not. 
 Coior. When as your husband, all in 
 rage, to-day 
 Came to my house, and took away my 
 
 ring, 
 (The ring I saw upon his finger now,) 
 Straight after, did I meet him with a 
 chain. 
 Adr. It may be so, but I did never see 
 it:— 
 Come, gaoler, bring me where the gold- 
 smith is, 
 I long to know the truth hereof at large. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Syracuse, with his 
 rapier draw7i and Dromio of Si/racuse. 
 Luc. Heaven, 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'll kill us. 
 
 [Exeunt Officer, Adr. and Luc. 
 
 Ant. S. I see, these witches are afraid 
 
 of swords. 
 Dro. S. She, that would be your wife, 
 
 now ran from you. 
 A7it. S. Come to the Centaur; fetch 
 our stuff from thence: 
 I long, that we were safe and sound 
 aboard. 
 Dro. 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 nation, that but 
 for the mountain of mad flesh that claims 
 marriage of me, I could find in my heart 
 to stay here still, and turn witch. 
 
 Ant. 8. I will not stay to-night for all 
 the town; 
 Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. 
 
 \_Exeun'^ 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. The Same. 
 
 Enter 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. 
 Mer. How is the man esteem'd here in 
 
 the city? 
 Anrj. Of very reverend reputation, sir. 
 Of credit infinite, highly belov'd. 
 Second to none that lives here in the city; 
 His word might bear my wealth at any 
 time. 
 
 Mer. Speak softly : yonder, as I think, 
 he walks. 
 
 Enter Antipholus, and DiiOiiio, oj 
 Syracuse. 
 
 Ang. 'Tis so; and that self chain 
 
 about his neck, 
 Which he forswore, most monstrously, to 
 
 have. 
 Good sir, draw near to me, I'll speak to 
 
 him. 
 Signior Antipholus, I wonder much 
 That you would put me to this shame and 
 
 trouble; 
 
 305 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EKKOES. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 And Bot without some scandal to jonr- 
 
 self, 
 With circumstance, and oaths, so to 
 
 deny 
 This chain, which now you wear so 
 
 openly : 
 Besides the charge, the shame, imprison- 
 ment. 
 You have done wrong to this my honest 
 
 friend; 
 Who, but for staying on our controversy. 
 Had hoisted sail, and put to sea to-day : 
 This chain you had of me, can you deny 
 
 it? 
 Aiit. S. I think, I had; I never did 
 
 deny it? 
 Mer. Yes, that you did, sir; and for- 
 swore it too. 
 Ant. S. Who heard me to deny it, or 
 
 forswear it? 
 3Ier. These ears of mine, thou know- 
 
 est did hear thee: 
 Fye on thoe, wretch 1 'tis pity, that thou 
 
 liv'st 
 To walk where any honest men resort. 
 A7it. S. Thou art a villain, to impeach 
 
 me thus: 
 ril prove mine honor, and mine honesty 
 Against thee presently, if thou dar'st 
 
 stand. 
 Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a 
 
 villain. ['^^ey draw. 
 
 Enter Adriana, Luciana, Courtezan, 
 and others. 
 
 Adr. Hold, hurt him not, for heaven's 
 sake; he is mad; — 
 Some get within him, take his sword 
 
 away : 
 Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my 
 house. 
 Dro. S. Kun, master, run; for heaven's 
 . sake, take a house. 
 This is some priory; — In, or we are spoil'd. 
 
 Enter the Abbess. 
 
 Abb. Be quiet, people ; Wherefore 
 
 throng you hither? 
 A dr. To fetch my poor distracted hus- 
 band hence : 
 Let us come in, that we may bind him 
 
 fast. 
 And bear him home for his recovery. 
 Ang. I knew, he was not in his perfect 
 
 wits. 
 Mer. I am sorry now, that I did draw 
 
 on him. 
 Abb. How long hath this possession 
 
 held the man? 
 Adr. This week he had been heavy, 
 sour, sad. 
 And much, much different from the man 
 
 he was; 
 But, till this afternoon, his passion 
 Ne'er brake into extremity of rage. 
 
 Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by 
 wreck at sea? 
 Buried some dear friend? Hath not else 
 
 his eye 
 Stray'd his affection in unlawful love? 
 A sin, prevailing much in youthful men. 
 Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. 
 Which of these sorrows is he subject to? 
 Adr. To none of these, except it be 
 the last; 
 Namel}^ some love, that drew him oft 
 from home. 
 Abb. You should for that have repre- 
 hended him. 
 Adr. Why, so I did. 
 Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. 
 
 Adr. As roughlj^, as my modesty would 
 
 let me. 
 Abb. Haply, in private. 
 Adr. And in assemblies too. 
 
 Abb. Ay, but not enough. 
 Adr. It was the copy of our confer- 
 ence : 
 In bed, he slept not for my urging it; 
 At board, he fed not for my urging it; 
 
 [Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. to the Priory. I Alone, it was the subject of my theme; 
 
 306 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EERORS. 
 
 ScE^■E I, 
 
 In company, I often glanced it; 
 Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. 
 Abb. And thereof came it, that the 
 
 man was mad : 
 The venom clamors of a jealous woman 
 Poison more deadly than a mad dog's 
 
 tooth. 
 It seems his sleeps Avere hindr'd by thy 
 
 railing : 
 And thereof comes it that his head is 
 
 light. 
 Thou say'st his meat was sauc'd with thy 
 
 upbraidings : 
 Unquiet meals make ill digestions. 
 Thereof the raging fire of fever bred ; 
 And what's a fever but a fit of madness? 
 Thou say'st his sports were hindr'd by thy 
 
 brawls : 
 Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue. 
 But moody and dull melancholy, 
 (Kinsman to grim and comfortless des- 
 pair;) 
 And, at her heels, a huge infectuous 
 
 troop 
 Of pale distemperatures, and foes to life? 
 In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest 
 To be disturb'd, would mad or man, or 
 
 beast; 
 The consequence is then, thy jealous fits 
 Have scared thy husband from the use of 
 
 wits. 
 Luc. She never reprehended him out 
 
 mildly, 
 When he demean'd himself rough, rude, 
 
 and wildly, — 
 "Why bear you these rebukes, and answer 
 
 not? 
 Adr. She did betray me to my own 
 
 reproof. — 
 Good people, enter, and lay hold on him. 
 Abb. No, not a creature enters in my 
 
 house. 
 Adr. Then, let your servants bring 
 
 my husband forth. 
 Abb. Neither; he took his place for 
 
 sanctuary. 
 
 And it shall privilege him from your 
 
 hands. 
 Till I have brought him to his wits again. 
 Or lose my labor in essaying 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. 
 Abb, Be patient; for I will not let him 
 
 stir. 
 Till I have us'd the approved means I 
 
 have. 
 With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy 
 
 prayers. 
 To make of him a formal man again : 
 It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, 
 A charitable duty of my order ; 
 Therefore depart, and leave him here 
 
 with me. 
 Adr. I will not hence, and leave my 
 
 husband here ; 
 And ill it doth beseem 3'our holiness. 
 To separate the husband and the wife. 
 Abb, Be quiet, and depart, thou shalt 
 
 not have him. [Exit Abbess, 
 
 Luc. Complain unto the duke of this 
 
 indignity. 
 Adr, Come, go; I will fall prostrate 
 
 at his feet. 
 And never rise until my tears and prayers 
 Have won his grace to come in person 
 
 hither. 
 And take perforce my husband from the 
 
 abbess. 
 Mer, By this, I think, the dial points 
 
 at five : 
 Anon, I am sure, the duke himself iu. 
 
 person 
 Comes this way to the melancholy vale ; 
 The place of death and sorry execution. 
 Behind the ditches of the abbey here. 
 A)ig. Upon what cause? 
 Mer. To see a reverend Syracusan 
 
 merchant. 
 Who 2">ut unluckily into this bay 
 
 307 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERROKS. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Against the laws and statutes of this 
 
 town, 
 Belieaded publicly for his offence. 
 
 A ng. See, where they come ; we will 
 
 behold his death. 
 Luc. Kneel to the duke, before he 
 pass the abbey. 
 
 Entei' Duke attended; ^geon lare- 
 
 lieaded; with the Headsman and 
 
 other Officers. 
 
 Duke. Yet once again proclaim it juib- 
 
 licly. 
 If any friend will pay the sum for him. 
 He shall not die, so much we tender him. 
 Adr. Justice, most sacred duke, against 
 
 the abbess ! 
 Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend 
 
 lady ; 
 It cannot be, that she hath done thee 
 
 wrong. 
 Adr. May it j^lease your grace, Anti- 
 
 pholus, my husband, — 
 Whom I made lord of me and all I had, 
 At your important letters, — this ill day 
 A most outrageous fit of madness took 
 
 him ; 
 That desperately he hurried through the 
 
 street 
 (With him his bondman, all as mad as 
 
 he,) 
 Doing displeasure to the citizens 
 By rushing in their houses, bearing thence 
 Rings, jewels, any thing his rage did like. 
 Once did I get him bound, and sent him 
 
 home. 
 Whilst to take order for the wrongs I 
 
 went. 
 That here and there his fury had com- 
 mitted. 
 Anon, I wot not by what strong escape, 
 He broke from those that had the guard 
 
 of him ; 
 And, with his mad attendant and him- 
 self. 
 Each one with ireful passion, with draM'n 
 
 swords. 
 
 Met us again, and, madly bent on us, 
 Chas'd us away ; till raising of more aid. 
 We came again to bind them : then they 
 
 fled 
 Into this abbe}', whither we. pursued 
 
 them ; 
 And here the abbess shuts the gates on 
 
 us, 
 And will not suffer us to fetch him out. 
 Nor send him forth, that we may bear 
 
 him hence. 
 Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy 
 
 command. 
 Let him be brought forth, and borne 
 
 hence for help. 
 Duke. Long since, thy husband serv'd 
 
 me in my wars; 
 And I to thee engag'd a prince's word. 
 When thou didst make him master of thy 
 
 bed, 
 To do him all the grace and good I 
 
 could. — 
 Go some of you, knock at the abbey-gate. 
 And bid the lady abbess come to me ; 
 I will determine this before I stir. 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Serv. 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 fire ; 
 And ever as it blazed, they threw on him 
 Great pails of puddled mire to quench the 
 
 hair : 
 My master preaches patience to him, 
 
 while 
 His man with scissars nicks him like a 
 
 fool: 
 And, sure, unless you send some present 
 
 helji. 
 Between them they will kill the conjurer. 
 Adr. Peace, fool, thy master and his 
 
 man are here ; 
 And that is false thou dost report to us. 
 
 308 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EEROES. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Serv. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you 
 true ; 
 I have not breatli'd 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 ivithin. 
 Hark, hark, I hear him mistress ; fly, be 
 gone. 
 Dulce. Come, stand by me, fear noth- 
 ing : Gua^'d with halberts. 
 Aclr. Ah me, it is my husband I Wit- 
 ness you, 
 That he is borne about invisible : 
 Even now we hous'd him in the abbey 
 
 here ; 
 And now he's there, past thought of 
 human reason. 
 
 E)iter AxTiPHOLUS and Drojiio of 
 Epliesus. 
 
 A7it. E. Justice, most gracious duke, 
 
 oh, grant me justice I 
 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. 
 yEge. Unless the fear of death doth 
 
 make me dote, 
 I see my son Antipholus and Dromio. 
 Ant. E. Justice, sweet prince, against 
 
 that woman there. 
 She whom thou gav'st to me to be my 
 
 wife; 
 That hath abused and dishonor'd rae. 
 Even in the strength and height of in- 
 jury ! 
 Beyond imagination is the wrong. 
 That she this day hath shameless thrown 
 
 on me. 
 Duke. Discover how, and thou shalt 
 
 find me just. 
 
 Ant. E. This day, great duke, she shut 
 
 the doors upon me, 
 While she with harlots feasted in my 
 
 house. 
 Duhe. A grievous fault : Say, woman, 
 
 didst thou so ? 
 Aclr. No, my good lord : — myself, he, 
 
 and my sister. 
 To-day did dine together : so befal my 
 
 soul. 
 As this is false, he burdens me withal ! 
 Luc. Ne'er may I look on day, nor 
 
 sleep on night. 
 But she tells to your highness simple 
 
 truth ! 
 Ang. perjur'd woman! They are 
 
 both forsworn. 
 In this the madman justly chargeth them. 
 Ant. E. My liege, I am advised what 
 
 I say; 
 Neither disturb'd with the effect of wine. 
 Nor heady-rash, provok'd with raging ire. 
 Albeit, my wrongs might make one wiser 
 
 mad. 
 This woman lock'd me out this day from 
 
 dinner : 
 That goldsmith there, w^re he not pack'd 
 
 with her. 
 Could witness it, for he was with me 
 
 then ; 
 Who parted with me to go fetch a chain. 
 Promising to bring it to the Porcu2)ine, 
 Where Balthazar and I did dine together. 
 Our dinner done, and he not coming 
 
 thither, 
 I went to seek him : in the street I met 
 
 him ; 
 And in his company, that gentleman ; 
 There did this j^erjur'd goldsmith swear 
 
 me down, 
 Tiiat I this day of him receiv'd the chain. 
 Which, heaven knows, I saw not : for the 
 
 which. 
 He did arrest me with an officer. 
 I did obey ; and sent my peasant home 
 For certain ducats : he with none re- 
 
 turn'd. 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF EREOES. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Then fairly I bespoke the officer, 
 
 To go in person with me to my house. 
 
 By the way we met 
 
 My wife, her sister, and a rabble more 
 
 Of vile confederates : along with them 
 
 They brought one Pinch ; a hungry, lean- 
 fac'd villain, 
 
 A mere anatomy, a mountebank, 
 
 A thread-bare juggler, and a fortuue- 
 teller ; 
 
 A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking 
 wretch, 
 
 A living dead man : this pernicious slave. 
 
 Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer ; 
 
 And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my 
 pulse. 
 
 And with no face, as 'twere out-facing 
 me. 
 
 Cries out, I was possess'd : then alto- 
 gether 
 
 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. 
 
 I gain'd my freedom, and immediately 
 
 Eau hither to your grace ; whom I be- 
 seech. 
 
 To give me ample satisfaction 
 
 For these deep shames and great indig- 
 nities. 
 A}ig. My lord, in truth, thus far I 
 witness with him ; 
 
 That he dined not at home, but waslock'd 
 out. 
 Duke. But had he such a chain of 
 
 thee, or no? 
 Ang. He had, my lord : and when he 
 ran in here, 
 
 These people saw the chain about his 
 neck. 
 Mer. Besides, I will be sworn, these 
 ears of mine 
 
 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. 
 A7ii. E. I never came within these 
 abbey walls, 
 Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on 
 
 me : 
 I never saw the chain, so help me heaven ! 
 And this is false you burden me withal. 
 Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach 
 is this ! 
 I think, you all have drank of Circe's 
 
 cup. 
 If here you hous'd him, here he would 
 
 have been ; 
 If he were mad, he would not plead so 
 
 coldly : — 
 You say he dined at home ; the goldsmith 
 
 here 
 Denies that saying : — Sirrah, what say 
 you? 
 Dro. E. Sir, he dined with her there, 
 
 at the Porcupine. 
 Cour. He did ; and from my finger 
 
 snatch'd that ring. 
 Ant. E. 'Tis 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 gTace. 
 Duke. Why, this is strange : — Go call 
 the abbess hither ; 
 I think you are all mated, or stark mad. 
 \_Exit an Attendant, 
 ^ge. Most mighty duke, vouchsafe 
 me speak a word : 
 Haply I see a friend will save my life. 
 And pay the sum that may deliver me. 
 Duke. Speak freely, Syracusan, what 
 
 thou wilt. 
 ^ge. Is not your name, sir, called 
 Antipholus ? 
 And is not that your bondman Dromio ? 
 
 310 
 
/ 
 
 Act V. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Dro. E. Within this hour I was his 
 bondman, sir 
 But he, I thank him gnaw'd in two my 
 
 cords ; 
 !N"ow am I Dromio, and his man, un- 
 bound, 
 jEcje. I am sure, you both of you 
 
 remember me. 
 
 Dro. E. Ourselves we do remember, 
 
 sir, by you ; 
 
 For lately we were bound, as yon are now. 
 
 You are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir ? 
 
 ^ge. Why look you strange on me ? 
 
 you know me well. 
 Ant. E. I never saw you in my life, 
 
 till now. 
 ^cje. Oh ! grief hath chang'dme since 
 you saw me last ; 
 And careful hours, with Time's deformed 
 
 hand 
 Have written strange defeatures in my 
 
 face : 
 But tell me yet, dost thou not know my 
 voice ? 
 Ant. E. Neither. 
 ^(je. Dromio, nor thou ? 
 
 Dro. E. No, trust me, sir, nor I. 
 yEge. I am sure thou dost. 
 
 Dro. E. Ay, sir ? but I am sure I do 
 not ; and whatsoever a man denies, you 
 are now bound to believe him. 
 
 jEge. Not know my voice ! 0, time's 
 extremity ! 
 Hast thou so crack'd and splitted my 
 
 poor tongue. 
 In seven short years, that here my only 
 
 son 
 Knows not my feeble key of untun'd 
 
 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 lamp come fading glimmer 
 left. 
 
 My dull deaf ears a little use to hear : 
 All these old witnesses (I cannot err,) 
 Tell me, thou art my son Antipholus. 
 Ant. E. I never saw mv father in my 
 
 life. 
 ^Ege. But seven years since, in Syra- 
 
 cusa, boy. 
 Thou knowest we parted : but, perhaps, 
 
 my son. 
 Thou sham'st to acknowledge me in 
 
 misery. 
 Ant. E. The duke, and all that know 
 
 me in the city. 
 Can witness with me that it is not so ; 
 I ne'er saw Syracuse in my life. 
 Duhe. I tell thee, Syracusan, twenty 
 
 years 
 Have I been patron to Antipholus, 
 During which time he ne'er saw Syracuse : 
 I see, thy age and dangers make thee 
 
 dote. 
 
 Enter the Abbess, with Antipholus 
 Syracusan, and Dromio Syracusan. 
 
 Abb. Most mighty duke, behold a man 
 much wrong'd. 
 
 [All gather to see him. 
 Adr. I see two husbands, or mine eyes 
 
 deceive me. 
 Dulce. One of these men is Genius to 
 the other; 
 And so of these : Which is the natural 
 
 man. 
 And which the spirit ? AVho 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. 8. 0, my old master ! who hath 
 
 bound him here? 
 Abb. Whoever bound him, I M'ill loose 
 his bonds 
 And gain a husband by his liberty : — 
 Speak, old JEgQow, if tiiou be'st the man 
 
 311 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 That hadst a wife once called Emilia, 
 That bore thee at a burden two fair sons : 
 
 0, if thou be'st the same ^geon, speak. 
 And speak unto the same Emilia ! 
 
 ^ge. If I dreamnot, thou art^Emilia; 
 If thou art she, tell me where is that son 
 That floated with thee on the fatal raft? 
 
 Ahh. By men of Ejiidamnum, he and I, 
 And the twin Dromio, all were taken up; 
 But, by and by, rude fishermen of Corinth 
 By force took Dromio and my son from 
 
 them. 
 And me they left with those of Epidam- 
 
 num: 
 What then became of them I cannot tell; 
 
 1, to this fortune that you see me in. 
 Duke. Why, here begins his morning 
 
 story right; 
 These two Antipholu'ss, these two so like. 
 And these two Dromios, one in sembl- 
 ance, — 
 Besides her urging of her wreck at sea, — 
 These are the parents to these children. 
 Which accidentally are met together. 
 Antipholus, thou cam'st from Corinth 
 first. 
 Ant. S. jSTo, sir, not I; I came from 
 
 Syracuse. 
 Dulce. Stay, stand apart; I know not 
 
 which is which. 
 Ant. E. I came from Corinth, my most 
 
 gracious lord. 
 Bro. E. And I with him. 
 Ant. E. Brought to this town with that 
 most famous warrior 
 Duke Menaphon, your most renowned 
 uncle. 
 Adr. Which of you two did dine with 
 
 me to-day? 
 Ant. S. I, gentle mistress. 
 Adr. And are not you my husband? 
 Ant. S. No, I say nay to that. 
 Ant. S. And so do I, yet did she call 
 me so; 
 And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here, 
 Did call me brother: — What I told you 
 then. 
 
 I hope, I shall have leisure to make good; 
 If this be not a dream, I see, and hear. 
 Ang. That is the chain, sir, which you 
 
 had of me. 
 Ant. 8. I think it be, sir; I deny it 
 
 not. 
 Ant. E. And you, sir, for this chain, 
 
 arrested me. 
 Ang. I think I did, sir; I deny it not. 
 Adr-. I sent you money, sir, to be your 
 bail. 
 By Dromio; but I think he brought it not. 
 Dro. E. No, none by me. 
 Ant. 8. This purse of ducats I re- 
 ceived from you. 
 And Dromio my man did bring them me: 
 I see, we still did meet each others man. 
 And I was ta'en for him, and he for me, 
 And thereujDon these Errors are arose. 
 Ant. E. These ducats pawn I for my 
 
 father here. 
 Dulce. I shall not need, thy father hath 
 
 his life. 
 Cour. Sir, I must have that diamond 
 
 from you. 
 Ant. E. There, take it; and much 
 
 thanks for my good cheer. 
 Aht, Renowned duke, vouchsafe to 
 take the pains 
 To go with us into the abbey here. 
 And hear at large discoursed all our for- 
 tunes: — 
 And all that are assembled in this place. 
 That by this sympathized one day's error 
 Have sufEer'd wrong, go, keep us com- 
 pany. 
 And we shall make full satisfaction. — 
 Twenty-five years have I but gone in 
 
 travail 
 Of you, my sons; nor, till this present 
 
 hour. 
 My heavy burdens are delivered : — 
 The duke, my husband, and my children 
 
 both. 
 And you the calendars of their nativity. 
 Go to a gossip's feast, and go with me; 
 After so long grief, such nativity. 
 
 312 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERROES. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Duke. With all my heart, I'll gossip at 
 this feast. 
 
 \Exeunt Duke, Abbess, JEgeon, 
 Courtezan, Merchant, Anqelo, and 
 Attendants. 
 Dro. 8. Master, shall I fetch your stuff 
 
 from ship-board? 
 Ant. E. Dromio, what stuff of mine 
 
 hast thou embark'd ? 
 Dro. 8. Your goods that lay at host, 
 
 sir, in the Centaur. 
 Ant. 8. He speaks to me; I am your 
 master, Dromio: 
 Come, go with us: we'll look to that anon: 
 Embrace thy brother there, rejoice with 
 him. 
 
 [Exeunt Antipliolus 8. and E. Adr. 
 and Luc. 
 
 Dro, 8. There is a fat friend at your 
 master's house. 
 That kitchen'd me for you to-day at din- 
 ner; 
 She now shall be my sister, not my wife. 
 Dro. E. Methinks you are my glass, 
 and not my brother: 
 I see by you, I am a sweet-faced youth. 
 Will you walk in to see their gossiping? 
 Dro. 8. Not I, sir; you are my elder. 
 Dro. E. That's a question: how shall 
 
 we try it? 
 Dro. 8. We will draw cuts for the 
 senior: till then, lead thou first. 
 
 Dro. E. Nay, then thus: 
 AVe came into the world, like brother and 
 
 brother: 
 And now let's go hand in hand, not one 
 before another. ^ [Exe^mt. 
 
 313 
 
Familiar Quotations From Shakespeare. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Aktipholus S. 
 Here comes the almanac of my true date. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 3, I. 41. 
 
 Balthazar. 
 
 Small cheer and great welcome makes a 
 
 merry feast. 
 
 Acfi, Sc.l,l.2&. 
 
 Antipholus S. 
 
 Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote : 
 
 Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden 
 
 hairs, . 
 
 And as a bed I'll take thee, and there lie ; 
 
 And, in that glorious sujjposition, think. 
 
 He gains by death, that hath such means 
 
 to die. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 47. 
 
 Antipholus S. 
 It is thyself, mine own self s better part ; 
 Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's 
 dearer heart ; 
 
 My food, my fortune and my sweet hope's 
 
 aim. 
 My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's 
 
 claim. 
 
 ActZ, Sc. 2, 1. 61 
 
 Dkomio S. 
 
 I have but lean luck in the match, and 
 yet she is a wondrous fat marriage. 
 
 Act. 3, Sc. 2, I. 92. 
 
 Antipholl's of Ephesus. 
 
 A mere anatomy, a mountebank, . . 
 
 a living dead man. 
 
 Act 5. Sc. 1, I. 240. 
 
 ^GEON. 
 
 Yet hath my night of life some memory. 
 
 My wasting lamps some fading glimmer 
 
 left. 
 
 Act 5 Sc. 1, I. 315. 
 
 314 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. 
 
 THERE lived at the palace at Messina two ladies Avhose names were Hero 
 and Beatrice. Hero was the daughter and Beatrice the niece of Leonato, the 
 Governor of Messina. 
 
 Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert her cousin Hero, who was of 
 a more serious disposition, with her sprightly sallies. Whatever was going forward 
 was sure to make matter of mirth for the light-hearted Beatrice. 
 
 At the time the history of these ladies commences, some young men of high rank 
 in the army, as they were passing through Messina on their return from a war that 
 was just ended, in which they had distinguished themselves by their great bravery, 
 came to visit Leonato. Among these were Don Pedro, the Prince of Arragon, and 
 his friend Claudio, who was a lord of Florence ; and with them came the wild and 
 ■witty Benedick, and he was a lord of Padua. 
 
 These strangers had been at Messina before, and the hospitable governor intro- 
 duced them to his daughter and his niece as their old friends and acquaintance. 
 
 Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began a lively conversation with 
 Leonato and the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left out of any discourse, 
 interrupted Benedick by saying, "I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor 
 Benedick ; nobody marks you." Benedick was just such another rattlebrain as Bea- 
 trice, yet he was not pleased at this free salutation; he thought it did not become a 
 well-bred lady to be so flippant with her tongue; and he remembered, when he was 
 last at Messina, that Beatrice used to select him to make her merry jests upon. And 
 as there is no one who so little likes to be made a jest of as those who are apt to take 
 the same liberty themselves, so it was with Benedick and Beatrice; these two sharp 
 wits never met in former times but a perfect war of raillery was kept wp between 
 them, and they always parted mutually displeased with each other. Therefore, when 
 Beatrice stopped him in the middle of his discourse by telling him nobody marked 
 what he was saying, Benedick, affecting not to have observed before that she was 
 present, said, "What, my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?" And now war 
 broke out afresh between them, and a long, jangling argument ensued, during which 
 Beatrice, although she knew he had so well approved his valor in the late war, said that 
 she would eat all he had killed there; and observing the prince take delight in Bene- 
 dick's conversation, she called him " the prince's jester." This sarcasm sank deeper 
 into the mind of Benedick than all Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave him 
 that he was a coward, by saying she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard, 
 knowing himself to be a brave man; but there is nothing that great wits so much 
 dread as the imputation of buffoonery, because the charge comes sometimes a little 
 too near the truth; therefore Benedick perfectly hated Beatrice when she called him 
 "the prince's jester." 
 
 The modest Lady Hero was silent before the noble guests; and Avhile Claudio 
 was attentively observing the improvements which time had made in her beauty, and 
 was contemplating the exquisite graces of her fine figure (for she was an admirable 
 
MUCK ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 young lady), the prince was liigMy amused with listening to the humorous dialogue 
 between Benedick and Beatrice, and lie said in a whisper to Leonato, " This is a 
 pleasant, spirited young lady. She were an excellent wife for Benedick." Leonato 
 replied to this suggestion, " my lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, 
 they would talk themselves mad." But though Leonato thought they would make 
 a discordant pair, the prince did not give up the idea of matching these two keen 
 wits together. 
 
 When the prince returned with Claud io from the palace, he found that the mar- 
 riage he had devised between Benedick and Beatrice was not the only one projected 
 in that good company, for Claudio spoke in such terms of Hero as made the prince 
 guess at what was passing in his heart; and he liked it well, and he said to Claudio, 
 " Do you affect Hero?" To this question Claudio replied, "0 my lord, when 1 was 
 last at Messina, I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked but had no leisure 
 for loving; but now, in this happy time of peace, thoughts of war have left their 
 places vacant in my mind, and in their room come thronging soft and delicate 
 thoughts, all prompting me how fair young Hero is, reminding me that I liked her 
 before I went to the wars." Claudio's confession of his love for Hero so wrought upon 
 the prince that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to accept of 
 Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this proposal, and the prince found no 
 great difficulty in persuading the gentle Hero herself to listen to the suit of the noble 
 Claudio, who was a lord of rare endowments, and highly accomplished; and Claudio, 
 assisted by his kind prince, soon prevailed upon Leonato to fix an early day for the 
 celebration of his marriage with Hero. 
 
 Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was to be married to his fair lady; 
 yet lie complained of the interval being tedious, as indeed most young men are 
 impatient when they are waiting for the accomplishment of any event they have set 
 their hearts upon. The prince, therefore, to make the time seem short to him, pro- 
 posed, as a kind of merry pastime, that they should invent some artful scheme to 
 make Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with each other. Claudio entered with great 
 satisfaction into this whim of the prince, and Leonato promised them his assistance, 
 and even Hero said she would do any modest office to help her cousin to a good 
 husband. 
 
 The device the prince invented was, that the gentlemen should make Benedick 
 believe that Beatrice was in love with him, and that Hero should make Beatrice 
 believe that Benedick was in love with her. 
 
 The prince, Leonato and Claudio began their operations first; and, watching an 
 opportunity when Benedick was quietly seated reading in an arbor, the prince and 
 his assistants took their station among the trees behind the arbor, so near that Bene- 
 dick could not choose but hear all they said; and after some careless talk, the prince 
 said, " Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me the other day — that your 
 niece Beatrice was in love with Signor Benedick? I did never think that lady would 
 have loved any man." "No, nor I either, my lord," answered Leonato. ''It is most 
 wonderful that she should so dote on Benedick, whom she in all outward behavior 
 seemed ever to dislike." Claudio confirmed all this by saying that Hero had told 
 him Beatrice was so in love with Benedick that she would certainly die of grief if he 
 could not be brought to love her; which Leonato and Claudio seemed to agree was 
 impossible, he having always been such a railer against all fair ladies, and in particular 
 
 against Beatrice. 
 = 316 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIXG. 
 
 The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compassion for Beatrice, and 
 he said, "It "were good that Benedick were told of this." "To what end?"sai^ 
 Claudio ; " he would but make sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse." "And 
 if he should," said the prince, "it were a good deed to hang him ; for Beatrice is an 
 excellent sweet lady, and exceeding wise in everything but in loving Benedick." Then 
 the prince motioned to his companions that they should walk on, and leave Benedick 
 to meditate iipon what he had overheard. 
 
 Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to this conversation ; and he 
 said to himself when he heard Beatrice loved him, "Is it possible ? Sits the wind in 
 that corner ?" And when they were gone, he began to reason in this manner with 
 himself. "This can be no trick ! they were very serious, and they have the truth 
 from Hero, and seem to pity the lady. Love me ! Why it must be requited ! I did 
 never think to marry. But when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I 
 shovild live to be married. They say the lady is virtuous and fair. She is so. And 
 wise in everything but in loving me. Why, that is no great argument of her folly. 
 But here comes Beatrice. By this day, she is a fair lady. I do spy some marks of 
 love in her." Beatrice now approached him, and said with her usual tartness, 
 "Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner." Benedick, who never 
 felt himself disi^osed to speak so politely to her before, replied, " Fair Beatrice, I thank 
 you for your pains;" and when Beatrice, after two or three more rude speeches, left 
 him. Benedick thought he observed a concealed meaning of kindness under the un- 
 civil words she uttered, and he said aloud, " If I do not take pity on her, I am a vil- 
 lain. If I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture." 
 
 The gentleman being thus caught in the net they had spread for him, it was now 
 Heroes turn to play her part with Beatrice ; and for this jnirpose she sent for Ursula 
 and Margaret, two gentlew-omen who attended upon her, and she said to Margaret, 
 "Good Margaret, run to the parlor; there you will find my cousin Beatrice talking 
 with the prince and Claudio. Whisper in her ear that I and Ursula are walking in 
 the orchard, and that our discourse is all of her. Bid her steal into that pleasant 
 arbor, where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, like ungrateful minions, forbid the 
 sun to enter." This arbor, into which Hero desired Margaret to entice Beatrice, was 
 the very same pleasant arbor where Benedick had so lately been an attentive listener. 
 *• I will make her come, I warrant, presently," said Margaret. 
 
 Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard, said to her, "Now, Ursula, 
 ■when Beatrice comes, we will walk up and down this alley, and our talk must be only 
 of Benedick, and when I name him, let it be your part to praise him more than ever 
 man did merit. My talk to you must be how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. 
 Now begin; for look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear 
 our conference." They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer to something which 
 Ursula had said, "No, truly, Ursula. She is too disdainful; her sjiirits are as coy as 
 wild birds of the rock." "But t\re you sure," said Ursula, "that Benedick loves 
 Beatrice so entirely?" Hero replied, "So says the prince, and my Lord Claudio, 
 and they entreated me to acquaint her with it; but I persuaded them, if they loved 
 Benedick, never to let Beatrice know of it." "Certainly," replied Ursula, "it were 
 not good she knew his love, lest she made sport of it." "Why, to say truth," said 
 Hero, "I never yet saw a man, how wise soever, or noble, young or rarely featured, 
 but she would dispraise him." " Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable," said 
 
 317 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIXG. 
 
 Ursula. " Xo/" replied Hero, "but who dare tell her so? if I should speak, she 
 would mock me into air." "O you wrong your cousin," said Ursula: "she cannot 
 be so much without true judgment as to refuse so rare a gentleman as Signior 
 Benedick." "He hath an excellent good name," said Hero: " indeed he is the first 
 man in Italy, always excepting my dear Claudio." And now. Hero giving her attend- 
 ant a hint that it was time to change the discourse, Ursula said, "And when are you 
 to be married, madam ?" Hero then told her, that she was to be married to Claudio 
 the next day, and desired she would go in with her, and look at some new attire, as 
 she wished to consult with her on what she would wear on the morrow. Beatrice, 
 who had been listening with breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they went 
 away, exclaimed: " What fire is in my ears ? Can this be true ? Farewell, contempt 
 and scorn, and maiden pride, adieu! Benedick, love on; I will requite you, taming 
 my wild heart to your loving hand." 
 
 It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old enemies oonyerted into nev7 
 and loving friends; and to behold their first meeting after being cheated into mutual 
 liking by the merry artifice of the good-humored prince. But a sad reverse in the 
 fortunes of Hero must now be thought of. The morrow, which was to have been her 
 wedding-day, brought sorrow on the heart of Hero and her good father, Leonato. 
 
 The prince had a half-brother, who came from the wars along with him to 
 Messina. This brother (his name was Don John) was a melanchoh', discontented 
 man, whose spirit seemed to labor in the contriving of villainies. He hated the prince 
 his brother, and he hated Claudio, because he was the prince's friend, and determined 
 to prevent Claudio's marriage with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of making 
 Claudio and the prince unhappy: for he knew the prince had set his heart upon thia 
 marriage, almost as much as Claudio himself: and to effect this wicked jiurpose, he 
 employed one Borachio, a man as bad as himself, whom he encouraged with the offer 
 of a great reward. Thus Borachio paid his court to Margaret, Hero's attendant; and 
 Don John, knowing this, prevailed upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with, 
 him from her lady's chamber-window that night, after Hero was asleep, and also to 
 dress herself in Hero's clothes, the better to decei\:e Claudio into the belief that 
 it was Hero, for that was the end he meant to compass by this wicked plot. 
 
 Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that Hero was au 
 imiDrudent lady, and that she talked with men from her chamber window at mid- 
 night. Now this was the evening before the wedding, and he offered to take them 
 that night, where they should themselves hear Hero discoursing with a man from 
 her window; and they consented to go along with him, and Claudio said, "If I see 
 anything to-night why I should not marry her, to-morrow in the congregation, where 
 I intended to wed her, there will I shame her." The prince also said, "And as 1 
 assisted you to obtain her, I will join with you to disgrace her." 
 
 "When Don John brought them near Hero's chamber that night, they saw 
 Borachio standing under the window, and they saw Margaret looking out of Hero's 
 window, and heard her talking with Borachio ; and Margaret being dressed in the 
 same clothes they had seen Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed it was the 
 Lady Hero herself. 
 
 Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when he had made (as he thought) 
 this discovery. All his love for the innocent Hero was at once converted into hatred, 
 and he resolved to expose her in the church, as he had said he would, the next day; 
 
 318 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 and the prince agreed to this, thinking no punishment could be too severe for the 
 naughty lady, who talked with a man from her window the very night before she was 
 going to be married to the noble Claudio. 
 
 The next day they were all met to celebrate the marriage, and Claudio and Hero 
 were standing before the priest, and the priest, or friar, as he was called, was pro- 
 ceeding to pronounce the marriage ceremony, when Claudio, in the most passionate 
 language, proclaimed the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the 
 strange words he uttered, said meekly, 
 
 "Is my lord well, that he does speak so wide V 
 
 Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, 
 
 "My lord, why speak not you ? " '' Why should I speak ? " said the prince ; "I 
 stand dishonored, that have gone about to link my dear friend to an unworthy 
 woman. Leonato, upon my honor, myself, my brother, and this grieved Claudio, 
 did see and hear her last night at midnight talk with a man at her chamber-window." 
 
 Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said, "This looks not like a nup- 
 tial." 
 
 "True, God \" replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this hapless lady sank 
 down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. The prince and Claudio left the 
 church, without staying to see if Hero would recover, or at all regarding the dis- 
 tress into which they had thrown Leonato, so hard-hearted had their anger made 
 them. 
 
 Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover Hero from her swoon, say- 
 ing, "How does the lady ?" "Dead, I think," replied Beatrice in great agony, for 
 she loved her cousin ; and knowing her virtuous principles, she believed nothing of 
 what she had heard spoken against her. Not so the poor old father ; he believed the 
 story of his child's shame, and it was piteous to hear him lamenting over her, as she 
 lay like one dead before him, wishing she might never more open her eyes. 
 
 But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of observation on human nature, 
 and he had attentively marked the lady's countenance when she heard herself accused, 
 and noted a thousand blushing shames to start into her face, and then he saw an 
 angel-like whiteness bear away those blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that did 
 belie the error that the prince did speak against her maiden truth, and he said to the 
 sorrowing father, "Call me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my observation; trust 
 not my age, my reverence, nor my calling; if this sweet lady lie not guiltless here 
 under some biting error." • 
 
 When Hero recovered from the SAvoon into which she had fallen, the friar said 
 to her, "Lady, what man is he you are accused of?" Hero replied, "They know 
 that do accuse me; I know of none:" then turning to Leonato, she said, "Oh mv 
 father, if you can prove that any man has ever conversed with me at hours unmeet, 
 or that I yesternight changed words with any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture 
 me to death." 
 
 " There is," said the friar, " some strange misunderstanding in the prince and 
 Claudio; " and then he counseled Leonato, that he should report that Hero was dead; 
 and he said, that the death-like swoon in which they had left Hero, would make this 
 easy of belief; and he also advised him, that he should put on mourning, and erect a 
 monument for her, and do all rites that appertain to a burial. "What will this do?" 
 The friar replied, " This report of her death shall change slander into pity: that is 
 
 319 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 some good; but that is not all the good I hope for. When Claudio shall hear she 
 died upon hearing his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his imagi- 
 nation. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his heart, and wish he 
 had not so accused her: yea, though he thought his accusation truer." 
 
 Benedick now said, "Leonato, let the friar advise you; and though you know 
 how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honor I will not reveal this secret 
 to them. 
 
 Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrowfully, "I am so grieved, 
 that the smallest twine may lead me." The kind friar then led Leonato and Hero 
 away to comfort and console them, and Beatrice and Benedick remained alone; and 
 this was the meeting from which their friends, who contrived the merry plot against 
 them, expected so much diversion; those friends who were now overwhelmed with 
 affliction, and from whose minds all thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished. 
 
 Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, "Lady Beatrice, have you wept 
 all this while ?"' " Yea, and I will weep a while longer," said Beatrice. " Surely," 
 said Benedick, "I do believe your fair cousin is wronged." "Ah !" said Beatrice, 
 "how much might that man deserve of me who Avould right her !" Benedick then 
 said, "Is there any way to show such friendship ? I do love nothing in the world so 
 well as you: is not that strange?" " It were as possible," said Beatrice, "forme 
 to say I loved nothing in the world so well as you ; but believe me not, and yet I lie 
 not, I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin." " By my 
 sword," said Benedick, "you love me, and I protest I love you. Come, bid me do 
 anything for you." " Kill Claudio," said Beatrice. "Ha! not for the wide Avorld," 
 said Benedick ; for he loved his friend Claudio, and he believed he had been imposed 
 upon. " Is not Claudio a villain, that has slandered, scorned, and dishonored my 
 cousin?" said Beatrice : "0, that I were a man!" "Hear me, Beatrice!" said 
 Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing in Claudio^s defense ; and she contin- 
 ued to urge on Benedick to revenge her cousin's wrongs : and she said, " Talk with 
 a man out of the window ; a j^roper saying ! Sweet Hero ! she is wronged : she is 
 slandered ; she is undone. that I were a man for Hero's sake ! or that I had any 
 friend, who would be a man for my sake ! but valor is melted into courtesies and 
 compliments. I cannot be a man witli wishing, therefore I will die a woman with 
 grieving." "Tarry, good Beatrice," said Benedick: "' by this hand, I love you." 
 " Use it for n3.y love some other way than by swearing by it,'' said Beatrice. " Think 
 you, on your soul, that Claudio has wronged Hero?" asked Benedick. "Yea," 
 answered Beatrice; " as sure as I have a thought or a soul." " Enough," said Bene- 
 dick ; I am engaged; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. 
 By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account ! As j^ou hear from me, so 
 think of me. Go, comfort your cousin." 
 
 While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with Benedick, and working his 
 gallant temper by the spirit of her angry words to engage in the cause of Hero, and 
 fight even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato was challenging the prince and 
 Claudio to answer with their swords the injury they had done his child, who, he 
 affirmed, had died for grief . But they respected his age and his sorrow, and they 
 said, " Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man." And now came Benedick, and 
 he also challenged Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done to Hero; 
 and Claudio and the prince said to each other, " Beatrice has set him on to do this." 
 
 330 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Claudio nevertheless must have accepted this challenge of Benedick, had not the jus- 
 tice of Heaven at the moment brought to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero 
 than the uncertain fortune of a duel. 
 
 While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the challenge of Benedick, a 
 magistrate brought Borachio as a prisoner before the prince. Borachio had been 
 overheard talking with one of his companions of the mischief he had heen employed 
 by Don John to do. 
 
 Borachio made a full confession to the prince in Olaudio's hearing, that it was 
 Margaret dressed in her lady's clothes that he had talked with from the window, whom 
 they had mistaken for the Lady Hero herself ; and no doubt continued on the minds 
 of Claudio and the prince, of the innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had remained it 
 must have been removed by the flight of Don John, who, finding his villainies were 
 detected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of his brother. 
 
 The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he found he had falsely accused 
 Hero, who, bethought, died upon hearing his cruel words; and the memory of his 
 beloved Hero's image came over him, in the rare semblance that he loved it first; and 
 the prince asking him if what he heard did not run like iron through his soul, he 
 answered, that he felt as if he had taken poison while Borachio was speaking. 
 
 And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the old man Leonato for the 
 injury he had done his child; and promised that whatever penance Leonato would lay 
 upon him for his fault in believing the false accusation against his betrothed wife, 
 for her dear sake he would endure it. 
 
 The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the next morning a cousin of 
 Hero's, who, he said, was now his heir, and in person very like Hero. Claudio, 
 regarding the solemn promise he made to Leonato, said he would marry this unknown 
 lady, even though she were an Ethiop: hut his heart was very sorrowful, and he 
 passed that night in tears, and in remorseful grief, at the tomb which Leonato had 
 erected for Hero. 
 
 When the morning came, the prince accompanied Claudio to the church, where 
 the good friar, and Leonato and his niece were already assembled, to celebrate a 
 second nuptial; and Leonato presented to Claudio his promised bride ; and she wore a 
 mask, that Claudio might not discover her face. And Claudio said to the lady in 
 the mask, "Give me your hand, before this holy friar; I am your husband, if you 
 will marry me." " And when I lived I was your other wife," said this unknown lady; 
 and, taking off her mask, she proved to be no niece (as was pretended) but Leonato's 
 very daughter, the Lady Hero herself. We may be sure that this proved a most 
 agreeable surjirise to Claudio, who thought her dead, so that he could scarcely for joy 
 believe his eyes: and the prince, who was equally amazed at what he saw, exclaimed, 
 " Is not this Hero, Hero that was dead?" Leonato replied, " She died, my lord, but 
 while her slander lived." The friar promised them an explanation of this seeming 
 miracle, after the ceremony was ended ; and was proceeding to marry them, whe)i he 
 was interrupted by Benedick, who desired to be married at the same time to Beatrice. 
 Beatrice making some demur to this match, and Benedick challenging her with her 
 love for him, which he had learned from Hero, a pleasant explanation took jilace ; 
 and they found that they had both been tricked into a belief of love, which had never 
 existed, and had become lovers in truth by tne power of a false jest : but the affection, 
 which a merry invention had cheated them into was grown too powerful to be shaken 
 
 331 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 by a serious explanation ; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he was resolved to 
 think nothing to the purpose that the world could say against it ; and he merrily kept 
 up the jest, and swore to Beatrice that he took her but for pity, and because he 
 heard she was dying of love for him ; and Beatrice protested that she yielded but 
 upon great persuasion, and partly to save his life; for she heard he was in a consump- 
 tion. So these two mad wits were reconciled, and made a match of it, after Claudio 
 and Hero were married ; and to complete the history, Don John, the contriver of the 
 villainy, was taken in his flight and brought back to Messina ; and a brave punish- 
 ment it was to this gloomy and discontented man, to see the joy and feastings which, 
 by the disappointment of his plots, took place at the palace in Messina. 
 
 322 
 
Much Ado About Nothing. 
 
 DRAMATIS 
 
 Don" Pedro. Prince of Arragon. 
 Don" John", his Bastard Brother. 
 Claudio, a young Lord of Florence, 
 
 Favorite to Don Pedro. 
 Benedick, a young Lord of Padua, 
 
 Favorite likewise of Don Pedro. 
 Leonato, Governor of Messina. 
 Antonio, his Brother. 
 Balthazar, Servant to Don Pedro. 
 BORACHIO, ) „ ,^ ^ „ 
 
 Conrade, r ^^^^^^'^^^^ 'f^"'' •^^^"^• 
 
 SCENE- 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Dogberry, ) , ^7-7 r\xc 
 
 ■ V two foolish Officers. 
 
 V ERGES, ) 
 
 A Sexton. 
 A Friar. 
 A Boy. 
 
 Hero, Daughter to Leonato. 
 Beatrice, Niece to Leonato. 
 Margaret, ) Gentlewomen attending on 
 Ursula, ) Hero. 
 
 Messengers, Watch, and Attendants. 
 Messina. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I, Before Leonato's House. 
 
 Enter Leonato, Hero, Beatrice, and 
 
 others, ivitJi a Messenger. 
 
 Leonato. I learn in this letter, that 
 don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to 
 Messina. 
 
 Mess. He is very near by this ; he was 
 not three leagues off, when I left him. 
 
 Leon. How many gentlemen have you 
 lost in this action ? 
 
 Mess. But few of any sort, and none 
 of name. 
 
 Leon. A victory is twice itself, when 
 the achiever brings home full numbers. 
 I find here, that don Pedro liath bestowed 
 much honor on a young Florentine, called 
 Claudio. 
 
 Mess. Much deserved on his part, and 
 equally remembered by don Pedro : He 
 hath borne himself beyond the promise of 
 his age ; doing, in the figure of a lamb, 
 the feats of a lion : he hath, indeed, bet- 
 ter bettered expectation, than you must 
 expect of me to tell you how. 
 
 Leon. He hath an uncle here in Mes- 
 sina will be very much glad of it. 
 
 Mess. I have already delivered him let- 
 ters, and there appears much joy in him ; 
 even so much, that joy could not show 
 itself modest enough, without a badge of 
 bitterness. 
 
 Leon. Did he break out into tears ? 
 
 Mess. In great measure. 
 
 Leon. A kind overflow of kindness : 
 There are no faces truer than those that 
 are so washed. How much better is it to 
 weep at joy, than to joy at weeping ? 
 
 Beat. I pray you, is signior Montanto 
 returned from the wars, or no ? 
 
 Mess. I know none of that name, lady ; 
 there was none such in the army of any 
 sort. 
 
 Leon. What is he that you ask for, 
 niece ? 
 
 Hero. My cousin means signior Bene- 
 dick of Padua. 
 
 Mess. 0, he is returned ; and as pleas- 
 ant as ever he was. • 
 
 323 
 
Act I. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHIXG. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Beat. He set up his bills here in Mes- 
 sina, and challenged Cupid at the flight : 
 and my uncle's fool, readingthe challenge, 
 subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him 
 at the bird-bolt. — I pray you, how many 
 hath he killed and eaten in "these wars? 
 But how many hath he killed ? for, in- 
 deed, I promised to eat all of his killing. 
 
 Leon. Faith, niece, you tax signior 
 Benedick too much ; but he'll be meet 
 with you, I doubt it not. 
 
 Mess. He hath done good service, lady, 
 in these wars. 
 
 Beat. You had musty victual, and he 
 hath helped to eat it : he is a very valiant 
 trencher-man, he hath an excellent 
 stomach. 
 
 Mess. And a good soldier too, lady. 
 
 Beat. And a good soldier to a lady : — 
 But what is he to a lord ? 
 
 Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man. 
 
 Beat. Well, we are all mortal. 
 
 Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my 
 niece : there is a kind of merry war be- 
 twixt signior Benedick and her : they 
 never meet, but there is a skirmish of wit 
 between them. 
 
 Beat. Alas, he gets nothing by that. 
 In our last conflict, four of his five wits 
 went halting off, and now is the whole 
 man governed with one : so that if he have 
 wit enough to keep himself warm, let him 
 bear it for a difference between himself 
 and his horse : for it is all the wealth that 
 he hath left, to be known a reasonable 
 creature. — TVho is his companion now ? 
 He hath every month a new sworn brother. 
 
 Mess. Is it possible ? 
 
 Beat. Very easily possible : he wears 
 his faith but as the fashion of his hat, it 
 ever changes with the next block. 
 
 Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not 
 in your books. 
 
 Beat. jSTo : an he were, I would burn 
 my study. But, I pray you, who is his 
 companion ? •Is there no young squarer 
 
 now, that will make a voyage with him to 
 the devil ? 
 
 Mess. He is most in the company of 
 the right noble Claudio. 
 
 Beat. Lord ! he will hang uj^on him 
 like a disease ; he is sooner caught than 
 the pestilence, and the taker runs pres- 
 ently mad. Heaven hel]? the noble Claudio I 
 if he have caught the Benedick, it will 
 cost him a thousand pound ere he be 
 cured. 
 
 Mess. I will hold friends with you, 
 lady. 
 
 Beat. Do, good friend. 
 
 Leon. You will never run mad, niece. 
 
 Beat. Xo, not till a hot January. 
 
 Mess. Don Pedro is approached. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro, attended by Bal- 
 thazar and others, Don JoHX, 
 Claudio, and Bexedick. 
 
 D. Pedro. Good signior Leouato, you 
 are come to meet your trouble : the fash- 
 ion of the world is to avoid cost, and you 
 encounter it. 
 
 Leon. Xever came trouble to my house 
 in the likeness of your grace : for trouble 
 being gone, comfort should remain : Init, 
 when you depart from me, sorrow abides, 
 and hap^Diness takes his leave. 
 
 D. Pedro. You embrace vour charge 
 too willingly. — I think, this is your 
 daughter. 
 
 Leon. Her mother liatli many times 
 told me so. 
 
 Bene. "Were you iu doubt, sir. that vou 
 asked her ? 
 
 Leon. Signior Benedick, no : for then 
 were you a child. 
 
 D. Pedro. You have it full. Benedick : 
 we may guess by this what you are, being 
 a man. Truly, the lady fathers herself : 
 Be happy, lady ! for you are like an hon- 
 orable father. 
 
 Bene. If signior Leonato be her father, 
 she would not have his head on her shoul- 
 ders, for all Messina, as like him as she is. 
 
 334 
 
Act I. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Beat. I wonder that you will still be 
 talking, signior Benedick ; nobody marks 
 you. 
 
 Bene. What, my dear lady Disdain ! 
 are you yet living ? 
 
 Beat. Is it possible, disdain should die, 
 while she hath such meet food to feed it, 
 as signior Benedict ! Courtesy itself must 
 convert to disdain, if you come in her 
 presence. 
 
 Bene. Then is courtesy a turn-coat : — 
 But it is certain, I am loved of all ladies, 
 only you excepted : and I would I could 
 find in my heart that I had not a hard 
 heart ; for, truly, I love none. 
 
 Beat. A dear happiness to woman ; 
 they would else have been troubled with 
 a pernicious suitor. I am of your humor 
 for that ; I had rather hear my dog bark 
 at a crow, than a man swear he loves me. 
 
 Bene. Heaven keep your ladyship still 
 in that mind ! so some gentlemen or other 
 shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face. 
 
 Beat. Scratching could not make it 
 worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were 
 
 Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot- 
 teacher. 
 
 Beat. A bird of my tongue is better 
 than a beast of yours. 
 
 Bene. I would, my horse had the speed 
 of your tongue ; and so good a continuer : 
 But keep your way ; I have done. 
 
 Beat. You always end with a jade's 
 trick ; I know you of old. 
 
 D. Pedro. This is the sum of all: Don 
 John, — signior Claudio, and signior Ben- 
 edick, — my dear friend Leonato hath in- 
 vited you all. I tell him, we shall stay 
 here at the least a month ; and he heart- 
 ily prays, some occasion may detain us 
 longer : I dare swear he is no hypocrite, 
 but prays from his heart. 
 
 Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall 
 not be forsworn. — Let me bid you wel- 
 come, my lord : being reconciled to the 
 prince your brother, I owe you all duty. 
 
 D. John. I thank you : I am not of 
 many words, but I thank you. 
 
 Leon. Please it your grace lead on ? 
 
 D. Pedro. Your hand, Leonato ; we 
 will go together. \^Exeunt all hut Bene- 
 dick and Claudio. 
 
 Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the 
 daughter of signior Leonato ? 
 
 Bene. I noted her not; but I looked on 
 her. 
 
 Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ? 
 
 Bene. Do you question me, as an hon- 
 est man should do, for my simple true 
 judgment ; or would you have me speak 
 after m.y custom, as being a professed 
 tyrant to their sex ? 
 
 Claud. No, I pray thee, speak in sober 
 judgment. 
 
 Bene. Why, i'f aith, methinks she is too 
 low for a high praise, too brown for a fair 
 praise, and too little for a great praise : 
 only this commendation I can afford her; 
 that were she other than she is, she were 
 unhandsome ; and being no other but as 
 she is, I do not like her. 
 
 Claud. Thou thinkest, I am in sport ; 
 I pray thee, tell me truly how thou likest 
 her. 
 
 Bene. Would you buy her, that you in- 
 quire after her ? 
 
 Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel ? 
 
 Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. 
 But speak you this with a sad brow ? or 
 do you play the flouting jack ; to tell us 
 Cupid is a good hare-finder, and Vulcan a 
 rare carpenter ? Come, in what key shall 
 a man take you, to go in the song? 
 
 Clatid. In mine eye, she is the sweet- 
 est lady that ever I look'd on. 
 
 Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, 
 and I see no such matter : there's her 
 cousin, an she were not possessed with a 
 fury, exceeds her as much in beauty, as 
 the first of May doth the last of Decem- 
 ber. But I hope, you have no intent to 
 turn husband ; have you ? 
 
 325 
 
Act I. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHING. 
 
 SCE?fE I. 
 
 Claud. I would scarce trust myself, 
 though I had sworn the contrary, if Hero 
 would be my wife. 
 
 Bene. Is it come to this ? Hath not 
 the world one man, but he will wear his 
 cap with suspicion ? Shall I never see a 
 bachelor of three-score again ? Go to ; 
 an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a 
 yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh away 
 Sundays. Look, don Pedro is returned to 
 seek you. 
 
 . Re-enter Don Pedro. 
 
 D. Pedro. "What secret hath held you 
 here, that you followed not to Leonato's? 
 
 Bene. I would, your grace would con- 
 strain me to tell. 
 
 D. Pedro. I charge thee, on thy alle- 
 giance. 
 
 Bene. You hear, count Claudio ; I can 
 be secret as a dumb man, I would have 
 you think so ; but on my allegiance, — 
 mark you this, on my allegiance : — He is 
 in love. With who ? — now that is your 
 grace'spart. — Mark, how short his answer 
 is : — "With Hero, Leonato's short daughter. 
 
 Claud. If this were so, so were it 
 uttered. 
 
 Bene. Like the old tale, my lord : it is 
 not so, nor 'twas not so ; but, indeed, 
 heaven forbid it should be so. 
 
 Claud. If my passion change not 
 shortly, heaven forbid it should be other- 
 wise. 
 
 D. Pedro. Amen, if you love her ; for 
 the lady is very well worthy. 
 
 Claiid. You sj^eak this to fetch me in, 
 my lord. 
 
 D. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my 
 thought. 
 
 Claud. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke 
 mine. 
 
 Bene. And, by my two faiths and 
 troths, my lord, I spoke mine. 
 
 Claud. That I love her, I feel. 
 
 D. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know. 
 
 Bene. That I neither feel how she 
 should be loved, nor know how she should 
 be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot 
 melt out of me ; I will die in it at the stake. 
 
 D. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate 
 heretic in the despite of beauty. 
 
 Claiid. And never could maintain his 
 part, but in the force of his will. 
 
 Bene. That a woman conceived me, I 
 thank her ; that she brought me up, I 
 likewise give her most humble thanks: but 
 that I will have a recheat winded in my 
 forehead, all women shall pardon me. Be- 
 cause I will not do them the wrong to 
 mistrust any, I will do myself the right to 
 trust none ; and the fine is, (for which I 
 may go the finer,) T will live a bachelor. 
 
 D. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, 
 look pale with love. 
 
 Bene. With anger, with sickness, or 
 with hunger, my lord ! not with love : 
 prove, that ever I lose more blood with 
 love, than I will get again with drinking, 
 pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's 
 pen, and hang me up for the sign of blind 
 Cupid. 
 
 D. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall 
 from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable 
 argument. 
 
 Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle like 
 a cat, and shoot at me ; and he that hits 
 me, let him be clapped on the shoulder, 
 and called Adam. 
 
 D. Pedro. Well, as time shall try : 
 In time the savage hull doth bear the yoke. 
 
 Bene. The savage bull may ; but if 
 ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck 
 off the bull's horns, and set them in my 
 forehead : and let me be vilely painted ; 
 and in such great letters as they write, 
 Here is good horse to hire, let them signify 
 under my sign, — Here you may see Bene- 
 dick, the married man. 
 
 Claud. If this should ever happen, thou 
 wouldst be horn-mad. 
 
 D. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not 
 
 326 
 
Act I. 
 
 MUCPI ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 spent all his quiver in Venice, thou Avilt 
 quake for this shortly. 
 
 Bene. I look for an earthquake too 
 then. 
 
 D. Pedro. Well, you will temporize 
 with the hours. In the mean time, good 
 signior Benedick, repair to Leonato's ; 
 commend me to him, and tell him, I will 
 not fail him at supper ; for, indeed, he 
 hath made great preparation. 
 
 Bene. I have almost matter enough in 
 me for such an embassage ; and so I com- 
 mit you — 
 
 Claud. To the tuition of heaven : From 
 my house, (if I had it,) — 
 
 D. Pedro. The sixth of July : Your 
 loving friend. Benedick. 
 
 Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not : The 
 body of your discourse is sometime 
 guarded with fragments, and the guards 
 are but slightly basted on neither ; ere 
 you flout old ends any further, examine 
 your conscience ; and so I leave you. 
 \^Exit Benedick. 
 
 Claud. My liege, your highness now 
 may do me good. 
 
 D. Pedro. My love is thine to teach ; 
 teach it but how. 
 And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn 
 Any hard lesson that may do thee good. 
 
 Claud. Had Leonato any son, my lord ? 
 
 D. Pedro. No child but Hero, she's 
 his only heir : Dost thou affect her, 
 Claudio ? 
 
 Claud. my lord, 
 
 "When you went onward on this ended 
 
 action, 
 I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye, 
 That lik'd, but had a rougher task in 
 
 hand 
 Than to drive liking to the name of love : 
 But now I am return'd, and that war- 
 thoughts 
 Have left their places vacant, in their 
 
 rooms 
 Come thronging soft and delicate desires, 
 All prompting me how fair young Hero is. 
 
 Saying, I lik'd her ere I went to wars. 
 D. Pedro. Thou wilt be like a lover 
 
 presently. 
 And tire the hearer with a book of words: 
 If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it ; 
 And I will break with her, and with her 
 
 father. 
 And thou shalt have her : Was't not to 
 
 this end 
 That thou began'st to twist so fine a story? 
 Claud. How sweetly do you minister 
 
 to love. 
 
 That know love's grief by his complexion! 
 
 But lest my liking might too sudden seem, 
 
 I would have salv'dit with a longer treatise. 
 
 D. Pedro. What need the bridge much 
 
 broader than the flood ? 
 The fairest grant is the necessity: 
 Look, what will serve, is fit : 'tis once, 
 
 thou lov'st ; 
 And I will fit thee with the remedy. 
 I know, we shall have revelling to-night ; 
 I will assume thy part in some disguise. 
 And tell fair Hero I am Claudio ; 
 And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart. 
 And take her hearing prisoner with the 
 
 force 
 And strong encounter of my amorous tale: 
 Then, after, to her father will I break ; 
 And, the conclusion is, she shall be thine: 
 In practice let us put it presently. 
 
 l^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Room in Leonato's House. 
 Enter Leonato ayid Antonio. 
 
 Leon. How now, brother ? Where is 
 my cousin, your son ? Hath he provided 
 this music ? 
 
 Ant. He is very busy about it. But, 
 brother, I can tell you strange news that 
 you yet dreamed not of. 
 
 Leo7i. Are they good? 
 
 Ant. As the event stamps them; but 
 they have a good cover, they show well 
 outward. The prince and count Claudio, 
 walking in a thick-pleached alley in my 
 orchard, were thus much overheard by 
 
 337 
 
Act I. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHING. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 a man of mine: The prince discovered to 
 Claudio, that he loved my niece your 
 daughter, and meant to acknowledge it 
 this night in a dance; and, if he found 
 her accordant, he meant to take the pres- 
 ent time by the top, and instantly break 
 ■with you of it. 
 
 Leon. Hath the fellow any wit, that 
 told you this? ' 
 
 Ant. A good sharp fellow: I will send 
 for him, and question him yourself. 
 
 LeOn. No, no; we will hold it as a 
 dream, till it appear itself: — but I will 
 acquaint my daughter withal, that she 
 may be the better prepared for an answer, 
 if peradventure this be true. Go you, 
 and tell her of it. [^Several persons cross 
 tlie stage J\ Cousins, you know what you 
 have to do. — 0, I cry you mercy, friend; 
 you go with me, and I will use your skill: 
 — Good cousins, have a care this busy 
 time. {^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. Another Eoom in Leon^to's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Don John and Conkade, 
 
 Con. My lord! why are you thus out 
 of measure sad? 
 
 D. John. There is no measure in the 
 occasion that breeds it, therefore the sad- 
 ness is without limit. 
 
 Con. You should hear reason. 
 
 J). John. And when I have heard it, 
 what blessing bringeth it? 
 
 Con. If not a present remedy, yet a 
 patient sufferance. 
 
 D. John. I wonder, that thou being 
 (as thou say'st thou art) born under 
 Saturn, goest about to apply a moral 
 medicine to a mortifying mischief. I 
 cannot hide what I am: I must be sad 
 when I have cause, and smile at no man's 
 jests; eat when I have stomach, and wait 
 for no man's leisure; sleep when I am 
 drowsy, and tend to no man's business: 
 
 laugh when I am merry, and claw no man 
 in his humor. 
 
 Con. Yea, but you must not make the 
 full show of this, till you may do it with- 
 out controlment. You have of late stood 
 out against your brother, and he hath 
 ta'en you newly into his grace; where it 
 is impossible you should take true root, 
 but by the fair weather that you make 
 yourself: it is needful that you frame the 
 season for your own harvest. 
 
 D. John. I had rather be a canker in 
 a hedge, than a rose in his grace; and it 
 better fits my blood to be disdained of 
 all, than to fashion a carriage to rob love 
 from any: in this, though I cannot be 
 said to be a flattering honest man, it 
 must not be denied that I am a plain- 
 dealing villain. I am trusted with a 
 muzzle, and enfranchised with a clog; 
 therefore I have decreed not to sing in 
 my cage: If I had my mouth, I would 
 bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my 
 liking; in the meantime, let me be that 
 I am, and seek not to alter me. 
 
 Con. Can you make no use of your 
 discontent? 
 
 B. John. I make all use of it, for I 
 use it only. Who comes here? 
 
 Enter Borachio. 
 What news, Borachio? 
 
 Bora. I came yonder from a great 
 supper; the prince, your brother, is roy- 
 ally entertained by Leonato; and I can 
 give you intelligence of an intended mar- 
 riage. 
 
 Z>. John. Will it serve for any model 
 to build mischief on? What is he for a 
 fool, that betroths himself to unquiet- 
 ness? 
 
 Bora. Marry, it is your brother's right 
 hand. 
 
 D. John. Who? the most exquisite 
 Claudio? 
 
 Bora. Even he. 
 
 D. John. A proper squire! And who, 
 and who? which way looks he? 
 
Act I. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Bora. Marry, on Hero, the daughter 
 and heir of Leonato. 
 
 D. John. A very forward March-chick! 
 How came you to this? 
 
 Bora. Being entertained for a per- 
 fumer, as I was smoking a musty room, 
 comes me the prince and Claudio, hand 
 in hand, in sad conference: I whipt me 
 behind the arras; and there heard it 
 agreed upon, that the prince should woo 
 Hero for himself, and having obtained 
 her, give her to count Claudio. 
 
 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 
 both sure, and will assist me? 
 
 Con. To the death, my lord. 
 
 D. John. Let us to the great supper; 
 their cheer is the greater, that I am sub- 
 dued: ^Would the cook were of my mind! 
 — Shall we go prove what's to be done? 
 
 Bora. We'll wait upon your lordship. 
 
 [Bxeiitit. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. A Hall in Leonato's House. 
 
 Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, 
 
 Beatrice, aiid others. 
 
 Leon. Was not count John here at 
 supper? 
 
 Ant. I saw him not. 
 
 Beat. How tartly that gentleman 
 looks! I never can see him, but I am 
 heart-burned an hour after. 
 
 Hero. He is of a very melancholy 
 disposition. 
 
 Beat. He were an excellent man, that 
 were made just in the mid-way between 
 him and Benedick: the one is too like an 
 image, and says nothing; and the other, 
 too like my lady's eldest son, evermore 
 tattling. 
 
 Leo7i. Then half signior Benedick's 
 tongue in count John's mouth, and half 
 count John's melancholy in signior Ben- 
 edick's face, — 
 
 Beat. With a good leg, and a good 
 foot, uncle, and money enough in his 
 purse, such a man would win any woman 
 in the world, — if he could get her good 
 will. 
 
 Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt 
 never get thee a husband, if thou be so 
 shrewd of thy tongue. 
 
 Ant. Well, niece, [Jo Hero.] I trust, 
 you will be ruled by your father. 
 
 Beat. Yes, it is my cousin's duty to 
 make courtesy, and say. Father, as it 
 please you: — but yet for all that, cousin, 
 let him be a handsome fellow, or else 
 make another courtesy, and say. Father, 
 as it please me. 
 
 Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you 
 one day fitted with a husband. 
 
 Beat. Not till men. are made of some 
 other metal than earth. Would it not 
 grieve a woman to be overmaster'd with a 
 piece of valiant dust? to make an account 
 of her life to a clod of wayward marl? 
 No, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are 
 my brethren; and truly, I hold it a sin to 
 matclxin my kindred. 
 
 Leo7i. Daughter, remember what I 
 told you: if the prince do solicit you in 
 that kind, you know your answer. 
 
 Beat. The fault will be in the music, 
 cousin, if you be not woo'd in good time: 
 if the prince be too important tell him, 
 there is measure in every thing, and so 
 dance out the answer. For hear me. 
 Hero; Wooing, wedding, and repenting, 
 is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque- 
 pace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like 
 a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the 
 wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure 
 full of state and ancientry; and then 
 comes repentance, and, with his bad legs. 
 
 329 
 
Act II. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, 
 till he sink into his grave. 
 
 Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing 
 shrewdly. 
 
 Beat. I have a good eye, uncle; I can 
 see a church by day-light. 
 
 Leon, The revellers are entering; 
 
 brother, make good room. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, 
 
 Balthazar; Don John, Borachio, 
 
 Margaret, Ursula, and others, 
 
 masked. 
 
 D. Pedro. Lady, will you walk about 
 with your friend? 
 
 Hero. So you walk softly, and look 
 sweetly, and say nothing, I am yours for 
 the walk: and, especially, when I walk 
 away. 
 
 D. Pedro. With me in your company ? 
 
 Hero. I may say so, when I please. 
 
 D. Pedro. And when please you to 
 say so? 
 
 Hero. When I like your favor: for 
 heaven forbid the lute should like the 
 case! 
 
 D. Pedro. My visor is Philemon's roof; 
 within the house is Jove. 
 
 Hero. Why, then your visor should 
 be thatch'd. 
 
 D. Pedro. Speak low, if you speak 
 love. 
 
 \Tahes her aside. 
 
 Urs. I know you well enough: you 
 are signior Antonio. 
 
 A?it. At a word, I am not. 
 
 Urs. I know you by the waggling of 
 your head. 
 
 Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit 
 him. 
 
 ?7rs. You could never do him so ill- 
 well, unless you were the very man: Here's 
 his dry hand up and down; you are he, 
 you are he. 
 
 Ant. At a word, I am not. 
 
 Urs. Come, come; do you think I do 
 not know you by your excellent wit ? Can 
 virtue hide itself ? Go to, mum, you are 
 
 he : graces will appear, and there's an 
 end. 
 
 Beat. Will you not tell me who told 
 you so ? 
 
 Bene. No, you shall pardon me. 
 
 Beat. Nor will you tell me who you 
 are ? 
 
 Bene. Not now. 
 
 Beat. That I was disdainful, — and that 
 I had my good wit out of the Hundred 
 Merry Tales; — Well, this was signior 
 Benedick that said so. 
 
 Bene. What's he 1 
 
 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 slanders: none but libertines 
 delight in him; and the commendation is 
 not in his wit, but in his villainy; for he 
 both jjleaseth men, and angers them, and 
 then they laugh at him, and beat him. 
 
 Bene. When I know the gentleman, 
 I'll tell him what you say. 
 
 Beat. Do, do; he'll but break a com- 
 parison or two on me; which, peradven- 
 ture, not marked, or not laughed at, 
 strikes him into melancholy; and then 
 there's a partridge' wing saved, for the 
 fool will eat no supper that night. \^Music 
 within.^ We must follow the leaders. 
 
 Bene. In every good thing. 
 
 Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I 
 will leave them at the next turning. 
 
 \^Dance. Tlien exeunt all hit Don John, 
 Borachio, aiid Claudio. 
 
 D. John. Sure, my brother is amorous 
 on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father 
 to break with him about it: Tlie ladies 
 follow her, and but one visor remains. 
 
 Bora. And that is Claudio; I know 
 him by his bearing. 
 
 D. John. Are you signior Benedick? 
 
 Claud. You know me well: I am he. 
 
 330 
 
Act II. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 D. John. Signior, you are very near 
 my brother in his love; he is enamoured 
 on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him from 
 her: she is no equal for his birth; you may 
 do the part of an honest man in it. 
 
 Claud. How know you he loves her ? 
 D.Jolm. I heard him swear his affec- 
 tion. 
 
 Bora. So did I too; and he swore he 
 would marry her to-night. 
 
 D. John. Come, let us to the banquet. 
 
 \^Exeunt Don John and Borachio. 
 
 Claud. Tlius answer I in name of 
 
 Benedick, 
 
 But hear these ill news with the ears of 
 
 Claudio, — 
 'Tis certain so; — the prince woos for him- 
 self. 
 Friendship is constant in all other things. 
 Save in the office 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 there- 
 fore. Hero! 
 
 Be-enter Bekedick. 
 
 Bene. Count Claudio? 
 
 Claud. Yea, the same. 
 
 Bene. Come, will you go with me? 
 
 CMul. Whither? 
 
 Bene. Even to the next willow, about 
 your own business, count. What fashion 
 will you wear the garland of? About your 
 neck, like an usurer'schain?or underyour 
 arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must 
 wear it one way, for the prince hath got 
 your Hero. 
 
 Claiid. I wish him joy of her. 
 
 Bene. Why, that's sj^oken like an 
 honest drover, so they sell bullocks. But 
 did you think, the prince would have 
 served you thus. 
 
 Claud. I pray you, leave me. 
 
 Bene. Ho! now you strike like the 
 blind man; 'twas the boy that stole your 
 meat, and you'll beat the post. 
 
 Claud. If it will not be, I'll 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 this title, because I am 
 merry. — Yea ; but so ; I am apt to do 
 myself wrong: I am not so reputed: it is 
 the base, the bitter disposition of Beatrice, 
 that puts the world into her person, and 
 so gives me out. Well, I'll be revenged 
 as I may. 
 
 Re-enter Don Pedro. 
 
 D. Pedro. Now, signior, where's the 
 count ? Did you see him ? 
 
 Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played 
 the part of lady Fame. I found him here 
 as melancholy as a lodge in a warren ; I 
 told him, and, I think, I told him true, 
 that your grace had got the good will of 
 this young lady; and I offered him my 
 company to a willow-tree, either to make 
 him a garland, as being forsaken, or to 
 bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be 
 whipped. 
 
 D. Pedro. To be whipped! What's his 
 fault? 
 
 Bene. The flat transgression of a 
 school-boy; who, being overjoyed with 
 finding a bird's nest, shows it his compan- 
 ion and he steals it. 
 
 D. Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a 
 transgression? 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 him- 
 self; and the rod he might have bestow'd 
 on you, who, as I take it, have stol'n his 
 bird's nest. 
 
 D. Pedro. I will but teach them to 
 sing, and restore them to the owner. 
 
 331 
 
Act II. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 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. 0, she misused me past the 
 endurance of a block; an oak, but with 
 one green leaf on it, would have answered 
 her; my very visor began to assume life, 
 and scold with her. She told me, not 
 thinking I had been myself, that I was 
 the prince's jester; that I was duller than 
 a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest, 
 with such impossible conveyance, upon 
 me, that I stood like a man at a mark, 
 with a whole army shooting at me: She 
 speaks poniards, and every word stabs: 
 she would have made Hercules have 
 turned spit; yea, and have cleft his club 
 to make the fire too. Come, talk not of 
 her. 
 
 Re-enter Claudio, Beatrice, Leonato, 
 and Hero. 
 
 D. Pedro. Look, here she comes. 
 
 Bene. Will your grace command 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 toothpicker now from the 
 farthest inch of Asia: bring you the 
 length of Prester John's foot; fetch you 
 a hair off the great Cham's beard ; do you 
 any embassage to the Pigmies, rather 
 than hold three words' conference with 
 this harpy: You have no employment for 
 me? 
 
 D. Pedro. None, but to desire your 
 good company. 
 
 Bene. sir, here's a dish I love not. 
 I cannot endure my lady Tongue. [Exit, 
 
 D. Pedro. Come, lady, come; you 
 have lost the heart of signior Benedick. 
 
 Beat. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me 
 a while ; and I give him use for it, a 
 double heart for his single one: marry. 
 
 once before, he won it of me with false 
 dice, therefore your grace may well say 
 I have lost it. I have brought count 
 Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. 
 
 D. Pedro. Why, how now, count? 
 wherefore are you sad? 
 
 Clatid. 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. I'faith, lady, I think your 
 blazon to be true; though, I'll be sworn, 
 if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, 
 Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and 
 fair Hero is won; I have broke with her 
 father, and his good will obtained : name 
 the day of marriage, and God give thee 
 
 joy! 
 
 Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, 
 and with her my fortunes: his grace hath 
 made the match, and all grace say Amen to 
 
 it! 
 
 Beat. Speak, 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, and let him 
 not speak, neither. 
 
 B. Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a 
 merry heart. 
 
 Beat. Yea, my lord, I thank it, poor 
 fool, it keeps on the windy side of care: — 
 My cousin tells him in his ear, that he is 
 in her heart. 
 
 Claud. And so she doth, cousin. 
 
 Beat. Good lord, for alliance! — Thus 
 goes every one to the world but I, and I 
 am sun-burned; I may sit in a corner, and 
 cry, heigh ho! for a husband. 
 
 D. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get 
 you one. 
 
 332 
 
Act II. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 mercy, uncle. — By 
 
 [Exit Beatrice. 
 
 troth, a pleasant- 
 
 Beat. Hath your grace ne'er a brother 
 like you? 
 
 D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady? 
 
 Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have 
 another for working days; your grace is 
 too costly to wear every day: — But, I 
 beseech your grace, pardon me: I was 
 born to speak all mirth and no matter. 
 
 D. Pedro. Your silence most offends 
 me, and to be merry best becomes you; for 
 out of question, you were born in a merry 
 hour. 
 
 Beat. No, sure, my lord, my mother 
 cry'd; but then there was a star danced, 
 and under that was I born. — Cousins, God 
 give you joy! 
 
 Leon. Niece, will you look to those 
 things I told you of? 
 
 Beat. I cry you 
 your grace's pardon. 
 
 D. Pedro. By my 
 spirited lady. 
 
 Leon. There's little of the melan- 
 choly element in her, my lord: she is 
 never sad, but when she sleeps: and not 
 ever sad then; for I have heard my 
 daughter say, she hath often dreamed of 
 unhappiness, and waked herself with 
 laughing. 
 
 D. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear 
 tell of a husband. 
 
 Leon. By no means; she mocks all her 
 wooers out of suit. 
 
 D. Pedro. She were an excellent wife 
 for Benedick. 
 
 Leon. 0, my lord, if they were but a 
 week married, they would talk themselves 
 mad. 
 
 D. Pedro. Count 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 sou, 
 which is hence a just seven-night; and a 
 time too brief too, to have all things 
 answer niv mind. 
 
 D. 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, undertake 
 one of Hercules' labors ; which is, to 
 bring signior Benedick and the lady 
 Beatrice into a mountain of affection, the 
 one with the other. I would fain have it 
 a match; and I doubt not but to fashion 
 it, if you three will but minister such 
 assistance 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. 
 
 D. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero? 
 
 Hero. I will do any modest office, my 
 lord, to help my cousin to a good hus- 
 band. 
 
 D. Pedro. And Benedick is not the 
 unhopefulest husband that I know^: Thus 
 far can I praise him; he is of a noble 
 strain, of approved valor, and confirmed 
 honesty. I will teach you how to humor 
 your cousin, that she shall fall in love with 
 Benedick: — and I, with your two helps, 
 will so practice 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. 
 
 Another Eoom 
 House. 
 
 in Leonato's 
 
 Enter Don John and Borachio. 
 
 D. John. It is so; the count Claudio 
 shall marry the daughter of Leonato. 
 
 Bora. Yea, my lord; but I can cross 
 it. 
 
 D. John. Any bar, any cross, any 
 impediment will be medicinable to me: I 
 am sick in displeasure to him; and what- 
 soever comes athwart his affection, ranges 
 evenly with mine. How canst thou cross 
 this marriage? 
 
 333 
 
Act II, 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Bora. Not honestly, my lord; but so 
 covertly that no dishonesty shall appear 
 in me. 
 
 D. John. Show me briefly how. 
 
 Bora. I think, I told your lordship, a 
 year since, how much I am in the favor 
 of Margaret, the waiting- gentle woman to 
 Hero. 
 
 D. John. I remember. 
 
 Bora. I can, at any unreasonable instant 
 of the night, appoint her to look out at 
 her lady's chamber-window. 
 
 D. John. What life is in that, to be 
 the death of this marriage? 
 
 Bora. The poison of that lies in you 
 to temper. Go you to the prince your 
 brother; spare not to tell him, that he 
 hath wronged his honor in marrying 
 the renowned Claudio (whose estimation 
 do 3'ou mightily hold up) to a contami- 
 nated person, such a one as Hero. 
 
 D. John. What proof shall I make of 
 that? 
 
 Bora. Proof enough to misuse the 
 prince, to veil Claudio, to undo Hero, 
 and kill Leonato : Look you for any 
 other issue ? 
 
 D. John. Only to despite them, I 
 will endeavor anything. 
 
 Bora. Go then, find me a meet hour 
 to draw don Pedro and the count Claudio, 
 alone : tell them, that you know that 
 Hero loves me ; intend a kind of zeal 
 both to the prince and Claudio, as — in 
 love of your brother's honor who hath 
 made this match ; and his friend's repu- 
 tation, who is thus like to be cozened 
 with the semblance of a maid, — that 
 you have discovered thus. They will 
 scarcely believe this without trial : ofier 
 them instances ; which shall bear no less 
 likelihood, than to see me at her cham- 
 ber-window ; hear me call Margaret, 
 Hero ; hear Margaret term me Borachio ; 
 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 call'd 
 assurance, and all the preparation over- 
 thrown. 
 
 D. John. Grow this to what adverse 
 issue it can, I will put it in practice : Be 
 cunning in the working this, and thy fee 
 is a thousand ducats. 
 
 Bora. Be you constant in the accusa- 
 tion, and my cunning shall not shame 
 me. 
 
 D. John. I will presently go learn 
 their day of marriage. [Bxcunt. 
 
 Scene III. Leonato's Garden. 
 Enter Benedick and a Boy. 
 
 Bene. Boy, — 
 
 Boy. Signior. 
 
 Bene. In my chamber-window lies a 
 book ; bring it hither to me in the or- 
 chard. 
 
 Boy. I am here already, sir. 
 
 Bene. I know that; — but I would 
 have thee hence, and here again. \_Exit 
 Boy.} — I do much wonder, that one man, 
 seeing how much another man is a fool 
 when he dedicates his behaviors to love, 
 will, after he hath laughed at such shal- 
 low follies in others, become the argu- 
 ment of his own scorn by falling in love : 
 And such a man is Claudio. I have 
 known, when there was no music with 
 him but the drum and fife ; and now had 
 he rather hear the tabor and the pipe : I 
 have known, when he would have walked 
 ten mile afoot, to see a good armor ; and 
 now will he lie ten nights awake carving 
 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 turn'd orthographer; his words 
 are a very fantastical banquet, just so 
 many strange dishes. May I be so con- 
 verted, and see with these eyes ? I can- 
 not tell ; I think not : I will not be 
 
 334 
 
Act II. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 sworn, but love may transform me to an 
 oyster; but I'll take my oath on it, till 
 he have made an oyster of me, he shall 
 never make me such a fool. One woman 
 is fair ; yet I am well : another is wise ; 
 yet I am well : another virtuous ; yet I 
 am well : but till all graces be in one 
 woman, one woman shall not come in my 
 grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain ; 
 wise, or I'll none ; virtuous, or I'll never 
 cheapen her ; fair, or I'll never look on 
 her ; mild, or come not near ; noble, or 
 not I for an angel ; of good discourse, an 
 excellent musician, and her hair shall be 
 of what color it pleases. Ha ! the 
 prince and monsieur love ! I will hide me 
 in the arbour. [ Withdratos. 
 
 Enter Bon Pedro, Leonato, and 
 Claudio. 
 
 D. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this 
 
 music ? 
 Claud. Yea, my good lord : — How 
 
 still the evening is. 
 As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony ! 
 D. Pedro. See you where Benedick 
 
 hath hid himself? 
 Claud. 0, very well, my lord : the 
 
 music ended. 
 We'll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth. 
 
 Enter Balthazah wiUo music. 
 
 D. Pedro. Come, Balthazar, we'll hear 
 
 that song again. 
 Baltli. good my lord, tax not so bad 
 a voice 
 To slander music any more than once. 
 D. Pedro. It is the witness still of 
 excellency. 
 To put a strange face on his own perfec- 
 tion: — 
 I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no 
 more. 
 Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I 
 will sing : 
 Since many a wooer doth commence his 
 suit 
 
 To her he thinks not worthy ; yet he 
 
 woos; 
 Yet will he swear, he loves. 
 
 D. Pedro. Nay, pray thee, come : 
 
 Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument. 
 Do it in notes. 
 
 Balth. Note this before my notes, 
 There's not a note of mine that's Avorth 
 the noting. 
 D. Pedro. Why tliese are very crorchets 
 that he speaks ; 
 Note, notes, forsooth, and noting! 
 
 {^Mtisic. 
 Bene. Now, Divine air! now is his 
 soul ravish 'd ! — Is it not strange, that 
 sheep's guts should hale souls out of 
 men's bodies? — Well, a horn for my 
 money, when all's done. 
 
 Balthazar siiigs. 
 I. 
 Balth. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, 
 Men were deceivers ever; 
 One foot in sea, and one on shore; 
 To one thing constant never: 
 Tlien sigh not so. 
 But let them, go. 
 And le you blithe and honny : 
 Converting all your sounds of woe 
 Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 
 II. 
 Sing no more ditties, sing no ino 
 
 Of dumjjs so dull and heavy; 
 The fraud of men teas ever so. 
 Since summer first was leavy. 
 Tlien sigh not so, etc. 
 D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song. 
 Baltli. And an ill singer, my lord. 
 D. Pedro. Ha? no; no, faith; tiiou 
 singest well enough for a shift. 
 
 Bene. [Aside.^ And he had been a 
 dog, that should have howled thus, they 
 would have hanged him; and, I pray 
 heaven, his bad voice bode no mischief! 
 I had as lief have heard the night-raven, 
 come what plague could have come after 
 it. 
 
 335 
 
Act II. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHmG. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 D. Pedro. Yea, marry; [Jb Clav- 
 Dio.] ^ — Dost thou hear, Balthazar? I 
 pray thee, get us some excellent music ; 
 for to-morrow night we would have it at 
 the lady Hero's chamber-window. 
 
 Balth. The best I can, my lord. 
 
 D. Pedro. Do so: farewell. YExeu7it 
 Balthazar and music.'\ Come hither, 
 Leonato : What was it you told me of to- 
 day? that your niece Beatrice was in love 
 with signior Benedick? 
 
 Claud. 0, ay; — Stalk on, stalk on; 
 the fowl sits. [Aside to Pedro.] I did 
 never think that lady would have loved 
 any man. 
 
 Leon. No, nor I neither; but most 
 wonderful, that she should so dote on 
 signior Benedick, whom she hath in all 
 outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor. 
 
 Bene. Is't possible? 8its the wind in 
 that corner? \^Aside. 
 
 Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot 
 tell what to think of it; but that she loves 
 him with an enraged affection, — it is 
 past the infinite of thought. 
 
 D. Pedro. May be, she doth but count- 
 erfeit. 
 
 Claud. 'Faith, like enough. 
 
 Leon. Counterfeit! There never was 
 counterfeit of passion came so near the , 
 life of passion, as she discovers it. 
 
 D. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion 
 shows she? 
 
 Claud. Bait the hook M^ell ; this fish 
 will bite. [Aside. 
 
 Leon. What effects, my lord ! she will 
 sit you — 
 You heard my daughter tell you how. 
 
 Claud. She did, indeed. 
 
 D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you ? 
 You amaze me: I would have thought 
 her spirit had been invincible against all 
 assaults of affection. 
 
 Leon. I would have sworn it had, my 
 lord; especially against Benedick. 
 
 Bene. [Aside.l I should think this a 
 gull, but that the white-bearded fellow 
 
 336 
 
 speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide 
 itself in such reverence. 
 
 Claud. He hath ta'en the infection; 
 hold it up. [Aside. 
 
 D. Pedro. Hath she made her affec- 
 tion known to Benedick ? 
 
 Leon. No; and swears she never will: 
 that's her torment. 
 
 Claud. 'Tis true, indeed; so your 
 daughter says: Shall L, says she, that 
 have so oft e>ico2inte?''d him with scorn, 
 torite to him that L love him ? 
 
 Leon. This says she now when she is' 
 beginning to write to him : for she'll be 
 up twenty times a night; and there will 
 she sit till she have writ a sheet of paper: 
 — my daughter tells us all. Then will 
 she tear the letter into a thousand half- 
 pence; rail at herself, that she should 
 write to one that she knew would flout 
 her: I measure him, says she,l)y my oion 
 spirit; for L should flout him, if he writ to 
 me; yea, though 1 love him, I should. 
 
 Claud. Then down upon her knees she 
 falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears 
 her hair, and cries, stoeet Benedick ! 
 
 Leon. She doth, indeed; my daughter 
 says so: and the ecstasy hath so much 
 overborne her, that my daughter is some- 
 time afraid she will do a desperate out- 
 rage to herself: It is very true. 
 
 D. Pedro. It were good, that Benedick 
 knew of it by some other, if she will not 
 discover it. 
 
 Claud. To what end ? He would but 
 make a sport of it, and torment the poor 
 lady worse. 
 
 D. Pedro. An he should, it were an 
 alms to hang him: She's an excellent 
 sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion, she 
 is virtuous. 
 
 Claud. And she is exceeding wise. 
 D. Pedro. In everything but in loving 
 Benedick. 
 
 Leon. I am sorry for her, as I have just 
 cause, being her uncle and her guardian,. 
 
Act II. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCEJfE III. 
 
 D. Pedro. I would she had bestowed 
 this dotage on me; I would have dafE'd all 
 other respects, and made her half my- 
 self: I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and 
 hear what he 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 makes 
 her love known; and she will die if he woo 
 her, rather than she will bate one breath 
 of her accustomed crossness. 
 
 D. Pedro. She doth well : if she should 
 make tender of her love, 'tis very possible 
 he'll scorn it; for the man, as you know 
 all, hath a contemptuous spirit. 
 
 Claud. He is a very proper man. 
 
 D. Pedro. He hath indeed a good out- 
 ward happiness. 
 
 Caud. And in my mind, very wise. 
 
 D. Pedro. He doth, indeed, show some 
 sparks that are like wit. 
 
 Leon. And I take him to be valiant. 
 
 D. Pedro. As Hector, I assure you : and 
 in the managing of quarrels you may say 
 he is wise; for either he avoids them with 
 great discretion, or undertakes them with 
 a most Christian-like fear. 
 
 Leon. If he do fear God, he must 
 necessarily keep peace; if he break the 
 peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel 
 with fear and trembling. 
 
 D. Pedro. And so will he do ; for the 
 man doth fear God. Well, I am sorry for 
 your niece: Shall we go see 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. 
 
 D. Pedro. Well, we'll hear further of 
 it by your daughter; let it cool the while. 
 I love Benedick well ; and I could wish he 
 would modestly examine himself, to see 
 how much he is unworthy so good a lady. 
 
 Leon. My lord, will you walk? dinner 
 is ready. 
 
 Claud. If he do not dote on her upon 
 this, I will never trust my expectation. 
 
 \^Aside. 
 D. Pedro. Let there be the same net 
 spread for her; and that must your daugh- 
 ter and her gentlewoman carry. The 
 sport will be, when they hold one an opin- 
 ion of another's dotage, and no such mat- 
 ter; that's the scene that I would see, 
 which will be merely a dumb show. Let 
 us send her to call him into dinner. 
 
 \^Aside. 
 
 \_Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudia and Leonato. 
 
 Benedick advances from the Arbor. 
 
 Bene. This can be no trick: The con- 
 ference was sadly borne. — They have the 
 truth of this from Hero. They seem to 
 pity the lady; it seems, her affections have 
 their full bent. Love me! why, it must 
 be requited. I hear how I am censured: 
 they say I will bear myself proudly, if I 
 perceive the love come from her; they say 
 too, that she will rather die than give any 
 sign of affection. — I did never think to 
 marry: — I must not seem proud: — 
 Happy are they that hear their detrac- 
 tions, and can put them to mending. 
 They say, the lady is fair; 'tis a truth I 
 can bear them witness: and virtuous; — 
 'tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but 
 for loving me: — By my troth, it is no 
 addition to her wit; — nor no great 
 argument of her folly, for I will be hox-- 
 ribly in love with her. — I may chance have 
 some odd quirks and remnants of wit 
 broken on me, because I have railed so 
 long against marriage: — But doth not 
 the appetite alter? A man loves the meat 
 in his youth, that he cannot endure in his 
 age: Shall quips, and sentences, and these 
 paper bullets of the brain, awe a man 
 from the career of his humor? No: The 
 world must be peoiiled. When I said, I 
 would die a batchelor, I did not think I 
 should live till I were married. — Here 
 
 337 
 
Act II. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHING. 
 
 ScE^-E III. 
 
 comes Beatrice: By this day, she's a fair 
 lady; I do spy some marks of love in her. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat, Against my will, I am sent to 
 bid you come in to dinner. 
 
 Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for 
 your pains. 
 
 Beat. I take no more pains for those 
 thanks, than you take pains to thank me; 
 if it had been painful I would not have 
 come. 
 
 Bene. You take pleasure in the mess- 
 age? 
 
 Beat. Yea, just so much as you may 
 take upon a knife's point, and choke a 
 daw withal: — You have no stomach, sign- 
 ior; fare you well. \^Exit. 
 
 Bene. Hal J gainst my will, I am sent 
 to hid you come to dinner — there's a 
 double meaning in that, / tooTc no more 
 pains for those tliaiiks, than you took 
 paiiis to thank me — that's as much as to 
 say. Any pains that I take for you is as 
 easy as thanks: — If I do not take pity of 
 her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I 
 am a Jew: I will go get her picture. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 kScENE I. Leonato's Garden. 
 Enter Heeo, Makgaret, and Ursula 
 
 Hero. Good Margaret, run thee into 
 the parlor: 
 There shalt thou find my cousin Beat- 
 rice 
 Proposing with the prince and Claudio : 
 Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and 
 
 Ursula 
 Walk in the orchard, and our whole dis- 
 course 
 Is all of her; say, that thou overheard'st 
 
 us; 
 And bid her steal into the pleached bower, 
 Where honey-suckles, ripen'd by the 
 
 sun, 
 Forbid the sun to enter; — like favorites. 
 Made proud by princes, that advance their 
 
 pride 
 Against that power that bred it: — there 
 
 will she hide her. 
 To listen our propose: This is thy office. 
 Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone. 
 Marg. I'll make her come, I warrant 
 you, presently. [Exit. 
 
 Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice 
 doth come, 
 As we do trace this alley up and down, 
 Our talk must only be of Benedick : 
 
 When I do name him, let it be thy part 
 To praise him more than ever man did 
 
 merit : 
 
 My talk to thee must be, how Benedick 
 Is sick in love with Beatrice : Of this 
 
 matter 
 Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made, 
 That only wounds by hearsay. Xow be- 
 gin ; 
 Enter Beatrice, behind. 
 
 For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, 
 runs 
 
 Close by the ground, to hear our confer- 
 ence. 
 Urs. The jDleasant'st angling is to see 
 the fish 
 
 Cut with her golden oars the silver 
 stream, 
 
 And greedily devour the treacherous bait: 
 
 So angle we for Beatrice; who even now 
 
 Is couch'd in the woodbine coverture : 
 
 Fear you not my part of the dialogue. 
 Hero. Then go we near her, that her 
 ear lose nothing 
 
 Of the false sweet bait that w'e lay for 
 it.— 
 
 [They advance to the hciuer. 
 
 No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ; 
 
 I know, her spirits are as coy and wild 
 
 As haggards of the rock. 
 
 SJS 
 
Act in. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTIIIXG. 
 
 SCEIfE I. 
 
 Urs. But are you sure, 
 
 That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely? 
 Hero. So says the prince, and my new- 
 
 trotlied lord. 
 Urs. And did they bid you tell her of 
 
 it, madam? 
 Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint 
 
 her of it : 
 But I persuaded them, if they loved 
 
 Benedick, 
 To wisli him wrestle with affection. 
 And never to let Beatrice know of it. 
 Urs. Why did you so? Doth not the 
 
 gentleman 
 Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed, 
 As ever Beatrice shall couch ujwn? 
 
 Jlcro. God of love! I know, he doth 
 
 deserve 
 As much as may be yielded to a man : 
 But nature never fram'd a woman's heart 
 Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice : 
 Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her 
 
 eyes. 
 Misprising what they look on; and her 
 
 wit 
 Values itself so highly, that to her 
 All matter else seems weak : she cannot 
 
 love. 
 Nor take no shape nor project of affec- 
 tion. 
 She is so self -endeared. 
 
 Urs. Sure, I think so ; 
 
 And therefore, certainly, it were not 
 
 good 
 She knew his love, lest she make sport at 
 
 it. 
 Jlcro. Why, you speak truth : I never 
 
 yet saw man. 
 How wise, how noble, young, how rarely 
 
 featur'd. 
 But she would spell him backward : if 
 
 fair-faced. 
 She'd swear the gentleman should be her 
 
 sister; 
 n black, why, nature, dirawing of an 
 
 antic, 
 
 Made a foul blot : if tall, a lance ill- 
 headed; 
 
 If low, an agate very vilely cut : 
 
 If speaking, wliy, a vane blown with all 
 wind : 
 
 If silent, why, a block moved with none. 
 
 So turns she every man the wrong side 
 out; 
 
 And never gives to truth and virtue, that 
 
 Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. 
 Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not 
 
 commendable. 
 Hero. No : not to be so odd, and from 
 all fashions. 
 
 As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable : 
 
 But, who dare tell her so? If I should 
 speak. 
 
 She'd mock me into air; 0, she would 
 laugh me 
 
 Out of myself, press me to death with 
 Avit. 
 
 Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire. 
 
 Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly : 
 
 It were a better death than die with 
 mocks. 
 Urs. Yet tell her of it; hear what she 
 
 will say. 
 Hero. No; rather I will go to Bene- 
 dick, 
 
 And counsel him to fight against his 
 passion : 
 
 And, truly, I'll devise some honest slan- 
 ders 
 
 To stain my cousin with : One doth not 
 knoA\', 
 
 How much an ill word may empoison 
 liking. 
 Urs. 0, do not do your cousin such & 
 wrong. 
 
 She cannot be so much without true judg- 
 ment, 
 
 (Having so swift and excellent a wit. 
 
 As she is priz'd to have,) as to refuse 
 
 So rare a gentleman as signior Benedick. 
 Hero. He is the only man of Italy, 
 
 Always excepted my dear Claudio. 
 
 339 
 
Act III. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTIIIXG. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Urs. I pray you, be not angry with 
 me, madam. 
 Speaking my fancy; signior Benedick, 
 For shape, for bearing, argument, and 
 
 valor. 
 Goes foremost in report through Italy. 
 Hero. Indeed he hath an excellent 
 
 good name. 
 Urs. His excellence did earn it, ere he 
 had it. — 
 "When are you married, madam? 
 
 Hero. Why, every day; — to-morrow : 
 Come go in; 
 I'll show thee some attires; and have thy 
 
 counsel. 
 Which is the best to furnish me to-mor- 
 row. 
 Urs. She's lim'd, I warrant you; we 
 
 have caught her, madam. 
 Hero. If it prove so, then loving goes 
 by haps : 
 Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with 
 traps. \_Exeunt Hero and Ursula. 
 
 Beatrice advances. 
 Beat. What fire is in mine ears? Can 
 this be true? 
 Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so 
 
 much? 
 Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, 
 adieu ! 
 No glory lives behind the back of such. 
 And, Benedick, love on, I will requite 
 thee; 
 Taming my wild heart to thy loving 
 hand. 
 If thou dost love, my kindness shall in- 
 cite thee 
 To bind our loves up in a holy band : 
 For others say, thou dost deserve; and I 
 Believe it better than reportingly. [Exit. 
 
 ScEKE XL A Room in Leonato's House. 
 
 Enter Don Pedeo, Claudio, Bexedick, 
 atid Leonato. 
 D. Pedro. I do but stay till your mar- 
 riage be consummate, and then I go 
 toward Arragon. 
 
 Claud. I'll bring you thither, my lord, 
 if you'll vouchsafe me. 
 
 D. Pedro. Nay, that would be as great 
 a soil in the new gloss of your marriage, 
 as to show a child his new coat, and for- 
 bid him to wear it. I will only be bold 
 with Benedick for his company; for, from 
 the crown of his head to the sole of his 
 foot, he is all mirth; he hath twice or 
 thrice ciit Cupid's bow-strings, and the 
 little hangman dared not shoot at him : 
 he hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his 
 tongue is the clapper; for what his heart 
 thinks, his tongue speaks. 
 
 Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have 
 been. 
 
 Leon. So say I; methinks you are 
 sadder. 
 
 Claud. I hope, he be in love. 
 
 D. Pedro. Hang him, truant; there's 
 no true droj? of blood in him, to be truly 
 touched with love : if he be sad, he wants 
 money. 
 
 Bene. I have the tooth-ache. 
 
 D. Pedro. Draw it. 
 
 Bene. Hang it ! 
 
 Claud. You must hang it first, and 
 draw it afterwards. 
 
 D. Pedro. What? sigh for the tooth- 
 ache. 
 
 Leon. Where is but a humor, or a 
 worm? 
 
 Bene. Well, every one can master a 
 grief, but he that has it. 
 
 Claud. Yet say I, he is in love. 
 
 D. Pedro. There is no appearance of 
 fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he 
 hath to strange disguises; as,to be a Dutch- 
 man to-day; a Frenchman to-morroAv; or 
 in the shape of two countries at once. 
 Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as 
 it appears he hath, he is no fool forfancy^ 
 as you would have it appear he is. 
 
 Claud. If he be not in love with some 
 woman, there is no believing old signs : 
 he brushes his hat o' mornings; What 
 should that bode? 
 
 310 
 
Act III. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 D. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at 
 the barber's? 
 
 Claud. No, but the barber's man hath 
 been seen with him ; and the old orna- 
 ment of his cheek hath already stuffed 
 tennis-balls. 
 
 Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than 
 he did by the loss of a beard. 
 
 D. Pedro. Nay, he rubs himself with 
 civet : Can you smell him out by that? 
 
 Claud. That's as much as to say, The 
 sweet youth's in love. 
 
 D. Pedro. The greatest note of it is 
 his melancholy. 
 
 Claud. And when was he wont to wash 
 his face? 
 
 D. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself ? 
 for the Avhich, I hear what theysay of him. 
 
 Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit; 
 which is now crept into a lutestring, and 
 now governed by stops. 
 
 D. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy 
 tale for him : Conclude, conclude, he is 
 in love. 
 
 Claud. Nay, but I know who loves 
 him. 
 
 D. Pedro. That would I know too; I 
 warrant, one that knows him not. 
 
 Claud. Yes, and his ill-conditions; 
 and, in despite of all, dies for him. 
 
 Bene. Yet is this no charm for the 
 tooth-ache. — Old signior, walk aside with 
 mo : I have studied eight or nine wise 
 words to sj^eak to you, which these hobby- 
 horses must not hear. 
 
 \Exeunt Benedick and Leonalo. 
 
 D. Pedro. For my life to break with 
 him about Beatrice. 
 
 Claud. 'Tis even so : Hero and Mar- 
 garet have by this played their parts with 
 Beatrice; and then the two bears will not 
 bite one another, when they meet. 
 
 Enler Don" John. 
 
 D. John. My lord and brother, God 
 save you. 
 
 D. Pedro. Good den, brother. 
 
 D. John. If your leisure served, I 
 would speak with you. 
 
 D. Pedro. In private? 
 
 D. John. If it please you; — yet count 
 Claudio may hear; for what I would speak 
 of, concerns him. 
 
 D. Pedro. What's the matter? 
 
 D. John. Means your lordship to be 
 married to-morrow? [Tb Claudio. 
 
 D. Pedro. You know, he does. 
 
 D. Johri. I know not that, when he 
 knows what I know. 
 
 Claud. If there be any impediment, I 
 pray you discover it. 
 
 D. John. You may think I love you 
 not; let that appear hereafter, and aim 
 lietter at me by that I now will manifest: 
 For my brother, I think he holds you 
 well; and in dearness of heart hath helj? 
 to effect your ensuing marriage : surely, 
 suit ill spent, and labor ill bestowed! 
 
 D. Pedro. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 D. John. I came hither to tell you; 
 and, circumstances shortened, (for she 
 hath been too long a talking of,) the lady 
 is disloyal. 
 
 Claud. Who? Hero? 
 
 D. John. Even she; Leonato's Hero, 
 your Hero, every man's Hero. 
 
 Claud. Disloyal ? 
 
 D. John. The word is too good to paint 
 out her wickedness; I could say, she were 
 worse; think you of a worse title, and I 
 will fit her to it. Wonder not till further 
 warrant : go but with me to-night, you 
 shall see her chamber-window entered; 
 even the night before her wedding day : if 
 you love her then, to-morrow wed her; 
 but it would better fit your honor to 
 change your mind. 
 
 Claud. May this be so? 
 
 D. Pedro. I will not think it. 
 
 D. John. If you dare not trust that 
 you see, confess not that you know : if 
 you will follow me, I will show j'ou enough; 
 and when you have seen more and heard 
 more, proceed accordingly. 
 
 341 
 
Act III. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Claud. If I see any thing to-night 
 why I should not marry her to-morrow; in 
 the congregation, where I should wed, 
 there will I shame her. 
 
 D. Pedro. And as I wooed for thee to 
 obtain her, I will join with thee to dis- 
 grace her. 
 
 D. Jolin. I will disparage her no 
 farther, till you are my witness : bear it 
 coldly but till midnight, and let the issue 
 show itself. 
 
 D. Pedro. day untowardly turned! 
 Claud. mischief strangely thwart- 
 ing! 
 D. John. plague right well pre- 
 vented! 
 So will you say, when you have seen the 
 sequel. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. A Street. 
 
 Enter Dogberry and Verges, with 
 Watch. 
 
 the 
 
 Dogl. Are you good men, and true? 
 Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but 
 they should suffer salvation. 
 
 Dogi. Nay, that were a punishment 
 too good for them, if they should have any 
 allegiance in them, being chosen for the 
 prince's watch. 
 
 Verg. "Well, give them their charge, 
 neighbor Dogberry. 
 
 Dogb. First, who think you the most 
 disheartless man to be constable? 
 
 1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George 
 Seacoal; for they can write and read. 
 
 Dogi. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. 
 Heaven hath blessed you with a good 
 name : to be a well-favored man is the gift 
 of fortune; but to write and read comes 
 by nature. 
 
 2 Watch. Both which, master consta- 
 ble, 
 
 Dogb. You have; I knew it would be 
 your answer. Well, for your favor, sir, 
 make no boast of it; and for your writing 
 and reading, let that appear when there is 
 
 no need of such vanity. You are thought 
 here to be the most senseless and fit man 
 for the constable of the watch; therefore 
 bear you the lantern : This is your 
 charge ; You shall comprehend all vagrom 
 men; you are to bid any man stand, in 
 the prince's name. 
 
 2 Watch. How. if he will not stand? 
 
 Dogi. Why then, take no note of him, 
 but let him go; and presentl}^ call the rest 
 of the watch together, and thank heaven 
 you are rid of a knave. 
 
 Verg. If he will not stand when he is 
 bidden, he is none of the prince's subjects. 
 
 Dogi. True, and they are to meddle 
 with none but the prince's subjects: — 
 You shall also make no noise in the 
 streets; for, for the watch to babble and 
 talk is most tolerable and not to be 
 endured. 
 
 2 Watch. "We will rather sleep than 
 talk; we know what belongs to a watch. 
 
 Dogb. Why, j'ou speak like an ancient 
 and most quiet watchman; for I cannot 
 see how sleeping should offend: only, have 
 a care that your bills be not stolen: — Well, 
 you are to call at all the ale-houses, and 
 bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 
 
 2 Watch. How, if they will not? 
 
 Dogb. Why then, let them alone till 
 they are sober; if they make you not then 
 the better answer, you may say, they are 
 not the men you took them for. 
 
 2 Wcdch. Well, sir. 
 
 Dogb. If you meet a thief, you may 
 suspect him, by virtue of your office, to 
 be no true man; and for such kind of 
 men, the less you meddle or make with 
 them, why, the more is for your honest}'. 
 
 2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, 
 shall we not lay hands on him? 
 
 Dogb. Truly, by your office, you may; 
 but, I think, they that touch pitch will 
 be defiled : the most peaceable way for you, 
 if you do take a thief, is, to let him show 
 himself what he is, and steal out of your 
 company. 
 
 343 
 
Act III. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Ve7-g. You have been always called a 
 merciful man, j^^-rtner. 
 
 Dogh. Truly, I would not hang a dog 
 by my will; much more a man who hath 
 any honesty in him. 
 
 Verg. If you hear a child cry in the 
 night, you must call to the nurse, and bid 
 her still it. 
 
 2 Watch. How, if the nurse be asleep, 
 and will not hear us? 
 
 DogI). Wliy, then depart in peace, and 
 let the child wake her with crying; for 
 the ewe that will not hear her lamb when 
 it baes, will never answer a calf Avhen he 
 bleats. 
 
 Verg. "Tis very true. 
 
 Dogb. This is the end of the charge. 
 You, constable, are to present the prince's 
 own person: if you meet the prince in the 
 night, you may stay him. 
 
 Verg. Nay by'r lady, that, I think, 
 he cannot. 
 
 Dogd. Five shillings to one on't, with 
 any man that knows tlae statues, he may 
 stay him: marry, not without the prince 
 be willing: for, indeed, the watch ought 
 to offend no man; and it is no offense to 
 stay a man against his will. 
 
 Verg. Bj^'r lady, I think it be so. 
 
 Dogt. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, 
 good night: an there be any matter of 
 weight chances, call up me: keep your 
 fellows' counsels and your own, and good 
 night. — Come, neighbor. 
 
 2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our 
 charge: letusgo sit here upon the church- 
 bench till two, and then allto-bed. 
 
 Dogb. One word more, honest neigh- 
 bors- I pray you, Avatch about signior 
 Leonato's door; for the wedding being 
 there to-morrow, there is a great coil to- 
 night: Adieu, be vigilant, I beseech you. 
 [^Exeunt Dogberry and Verges. 
 
 Enter Borachio mid Coiq"rade. 
 
 Bora. AVhat! Conrade, — 
 
 Watch. Peace, stir not. [^Aside. 
 
 Bora. Conrade, I say! 
 
 Con. Here, man, I am at thy elbow. 
 
 Bora. Stand thee close then under 
 this penthouse, for it drizzles rain; and I 
 will, like a true drunkard, utter all to 
 thee . 
 
 Watch. ]_Aside.^ Some treason mas- 
 ters; yet stand close. 
 
 Bora. Therefore know, I have earned 
 of Don John a thousand ducats. 
 
 Con. Is it possible that any villainy 
 should be so dear? 
 
 Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask, if it 
 were possible any villainy should be so 
 rich, for when rich villains have need of 
 poor ones, poor ones may make Avhat 
 price they will. 
 
 Co7i. I wonder at it. 
 
 Bora. That shows thou art uncon- 
 firmed: Thou knowest that the fashion 
 of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is noth- 
 ing to a man. 
 
 Con. Yes, it is apparel. 
 
 Bora. I mean the fashion. 
 
 Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. 
 
 Bora. Tush! I may as well say, the 
 fool's the fool. But seest thou not what 
 a deformed thief this fashion is? 
 
 Watch. I know that Deformed; he has 
 been a vile thief this seven year; he goes 
 up and down like a gentleman: I remem- 
 ber his name. 
 
 Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody? 
 
 Con. No; 'twas the vane on the house. 
 
 Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a 
 deformed thief this fashion is? how gid- 
 dily he turns about all the hot bloods, 
 between fourteen and five-and- thirty? 
 
 Con. All this I see ; and see, that the 
 fashion wears out more apparel than the 
 man : But art not thou thyself giddy with 
 the fashion too, that thou hast sliiftcd 
 out of thy tale into telling me of the 
 fashion ? 
 
 Bora. Not so, neither : but know, that 
 I have to-night wooed Margaret, the lady 
 Hero's gentlewoman, by the name of 
 
 313 
 
Act III. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIXG. 
 
 SCEXE IT. 
 
 Hero ; she leans me out at her mistress' 
 ehamber-Avindow, bids me a thousand 
 times good night,- — I tell this tale vilely: 
 — I should first tell thee, how the prince, 
 Claudio, and my master, }3lanted, and 
 placed, and possessed by my master don 
 John, saw afar off in the orchard this 
 amiable encounter. 
 
 Con. And thought they Margaret 
 was Hero ? 
 
 Bora. Two of them did, the prince 
 and Claudio ; but the devil my master 
 knew she was Margaret ; and partly by 
 his oaths, which first possessed them, 
 partly by the dark night, which did de- 
 ceive them, but chiefly by my villainy, 
 which did confirm any slander that don 
 John had made, away went Claiidio en- 
 raged; swore he would meet her as he 
 was appointed, next morning at the tem- 
 ple, and there, before the whole congre- 
 gation, shame her w^ith what he saw over- 
 night, and send her home again without 
 a husband. 
 
 1 Watch. We charge you in the 
 prince's name, stand. 
 
 2 Watch. Call uj) the right master 
 constable : We have here recovered the 
 most dangerous piece of lechery that ever 
 was known in the commonwealth. 
 
 1 Watch. And one Deformed is one 
 of them ; I know him, he wears a lock. 
 Con. Masters, masters. 
 
 3 Watch. You'll be made bring De- 
 formed forth, I warrant you. 
 
 Con. Masters, — 
 
 1 Watch. Never speak ; we charge 
 you, let us obey you to go with us. 
 
 Bora. We are like to prove a goodly 
 commodity, being taken up of these 
 men's bills. 
 
 Co7i. A commodity in question, I war- 
 rant you. 
 Come, we'll obey you. [Exeunt. 
 
 ScEXE IV. A Room in Leonato's House. 
 Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. 
 
 Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin 
 Beatrice, and desire her to rise. 
 
 Urs. I will, lady. 
 
 Hero. And bid her come hither. 
 
 Urs. Well. [Exit Ursula. 
 
 Marg. Troth, I think, your other 
 rabato were better. 
 
 Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll 
 wear this. 
 
 Marg. By my troth, it's not so good ; 
 and I warrant, your cousin will say so. 
 
 Hero. My cousin's a fool, and thou art 
 another ; I'll wear none but this. 
 
 Marg. I like the new tire within ex- 
 cellently, if the hair were a thought 
 browner : and your gown's a most rare 
 fashion, I saw the duchess of Milan's 
 gown, that they praise so. 
 
 Hero. that exceeds, they say. 
 
 Marg. By my troth, it's but a night- 
 gown in respect of yours : Cloth of gold, 
 and cuts, and laced with silver ; set with 
 pearls, down sleeves, side-sleeves, and 
 skirts round, nnderborne with a bluish 
 tinsel : but for a fine, quaint, graceful, 
 and excellent fashion, yours is worth 
 ten on't. 
 
 Hero. God give me joy to wear it, for 
 my heart is exceeding heavy ! 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Hero. Good morrow, coz. 
 
 Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero. 'Tis 
 almost five o'clock, cousin ; 'tis time you 
 were ready. By my troth, I am exceed- 
 ing ill : — hey ho ! 
 
 Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a hus- 
 band ? 
 
 Beat. By my troth, I am sick. 
 
 Marg. Get jovl some of this distilled 
 Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your 
 heart ; it is the only thing for a qnalm. 
 
 344 
 
Act hi. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCEXE IV. 
 
 Hero. Thei-e tliou prick'st her witli 
 a thistle. 
 
 Beat. Benedictus ! why Benedictns ? 
 3'ou have some moral in this Benedictus. 
 
 Marg. Moral ! no, by my troth, I have 
 no moral meaning ; I meant, plain holy 
 thistle. You may think, perchance, that 
 I think you are in love : nay, by'r lady, 
 I am not such a fool to think what I list ; 
 nor I list not to think what I can ; nor, 
 indeed, I cannot think, if I would think 
 my heart out of thinking, that you are 
 in love, or that you will be in love, or 
 that you can be in love ; yet Benedick 
 was such another, and now is he become 
 a man : he swore he would never marry ; 
 and yet now, in despite of his heart, he 
 eats his meat without grudging : and how 
 you may be converted, I know not ; but, 
 methinks, you look with your eyes as 
 other women do. 
 
 Beat. What pace is tliis that thy 
 tongue keeps ? 
 
 Marg. Not a false gallop. 
 Re-enter Ursula. 
 
 Urs. Madam, withdraw ; the prince, 
 the count, signior Benedick, don John, 
 and all the gallants of the town, are 
 come to fetch you to church. 
 
 Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, 
 good Meg, good Ursula. [Exeunt. 
 
 ScEXE Y. Another Room in Leonato's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Leonato witli Dogberry and 
 Verges. 
 
 Leon. What would you with me, hon- 
 est neighbor ? 
 
 Dogh. Marry, sir, I would have some 
 confidence with you, that decerns you 
 nearly. 
 
 Leon. Brief, I pray you ; for you see, 
 ■'tis a busy time with me. 
 
 Dogb. Marry, this it is, sir. 
 
 Verg. Yes, in truth, it is, sir. 
 
 Leon. What is it, my good friends ? 
 
 Dngt). Good man Verges, sir, speaks a 
 little off the matter ; an old man, sir, and 
 his wits are not so blunt, as I would de- 
 sire they were ; but, in faith, honest, as 
 the skin between his brows. 
 
 Verg. Yes, I thank God, I am as hon- 
 est as any man living, that is an old man, 
 and no honester than I. 
 
 Dogb. Comparisons are odorous : ^jot^ 
 abras, neighbor Verges. 
 
 Leon. Neighbors, you are tedious. 
 
 Dogb. It pleases your worship to say 
 so, but we are the poor duke's oflQcers ; 
 but truly, for mine own part, if I were as 
 tedious as a king, I could find in my 
 heart to bestow it all of your worship. 
 
 Leon. All thy tediousness on me ! ha ! 
 
 Dogb. Yea, and 'twere a thousand 
 times more than 'tis : for I hear as good 
 exclamation on your worship, as of any 
 man in the city ; and though I be but a 
 poor man, I am glad to hear it. 
 
 Verg. And so am I. 
 
 Leon. I would fain know what you 
 have to say. 
 
 Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, 
 excepting your worship's presence, have 
 ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any 
 in Messina. 
 
 Dogh. A good old man, sir ; he will be 
 talking ; as they say. When the age is in, 
 the wit is out : it is a world to see ! — Well 
 said, i'faith, neighbor Verges : — well, an 
 two men ride of a horse, one must ride 
 behind: — An honest soul, i'faith, sir; by 
 my troth he is, as ever broke bread : but, 
 all men are not alike ; alas, good neigh- 
 bor ! 
 
 Leon. Indeed, neighbor, he comes too 
 short of you ; but I must leave you. 
 
 Dogh. One word, sir ; our watch, sir, 
 have, indeed, comprehended two aspicious 
 persons, and we would have them this 
 morning examined before 3'our worship. 
 
 Leon. Take their examination your- 
 self, and bring it me ; I ani now in great 
 haste, as it may appear unto you. 
 
 345 
 
Act III. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHING. 
 
 Scene V 
 
 Dogh, It shall be suffigance. 
 Leon. Drink some wine ere you go ; 
 fare yon well. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 2fess. My lord, they stay for you to 
 ^ive your daughter to her husband. 
 Leon. I will wait upon them ; I am 
 ready. 
 
 [Exeunt Leonato and Messenger. 
 
 Dogh. Go, good partner, go, get you 
 to Francis Seacoal, bid hini bring his pen 
 and inkhorn to the gaol ; we are now tO' 
 examination these men. 
 
 Verg. And we must do it wisely. 
 
 Dogl). We will spare for no wit, I 
 warrant you, here's that [^Touching his 
 forehead,'\ shall drive some of them to a. 
 non com: only get the learned writer to- 
 set down our excommunication, and meet 
 me at the gaol. \^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 ScEXE I. The Inside of a Church. 
 
 Ejiter Don Pedro, Don Johx, Leoi^ato, 
 Friar, Claudio, Beistedick, Hero, and 
 Beatrice, etc. 
 
 Leon. Come, friar Francis, be brief; 
 only to the plain form of marriage, and 
 you shall recount their particular duties 
 afterwards. 
 
 Friar. You come hither, my lord, to 
 marry this lady? 
 
 Claud. No. 
 
 Leon. To be married to her, friar; you 
 come to marry her. 
 
 Friar. Lady, you come hither to be 
 mai'ried to this count? 
 
 Hero. I do. 
 
 Friar. If either of you know any in- 
 ward impediment why you should not be 
 conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to 
 litter it. 
 
 Claud. Know you any, Hero? 
 
 Hero. None, my lord. 
 
 Friar. Know you any, count? 
 
 Leon. I dare make his answer, none. 
 
 Claud. 0, what men dare do! what 
 men may do! what men daily do! not 
 knowing what they do! 
 
 Bene. How now! Interjections? Why, 
 then some be of laughing, as, ha! ha! he! 
 
 Claud. Stand thee by, friar: — Father, 
 by your leave! 
 Will you with free and unconstrained soul 
 Give me this maid, your daughter? 
 
 Leon. As freely, son, as God did give- 
 
 her me. 
 Claud. And what have I to give you 
 back, whose worth 
 May counterpoise this rich and precious 
 gift? 
 D. Pedro. Nothing, unless you render 
 
 her again. 
 Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me- 
 noble thankfulness. — 
 There, Leonato, take her back again; 
 Give not this rotten orange to your friend;. 
 She's but the sign and semblance of her 
 
 honor: — 
 Behold, how like a maid she blushes here: 
 0, what authority and show of truth 
 Can cunning sin cover itself M'ithal! 
 Comes not that blood, as modest evidence 
 To witness simple virtue? Would you noy 
 
 swear. 
 All you that see her, that she were a maid. 
 By these exterior shows? But she is none: 
 Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. 
 Leon. What do you mean, my lord? 
 Claud. Not to be married. 
 
 Not knit my soul to an approved wanton. 
 Leon. Dear my lord, if you in your 
 own proof 
 Have vanquish'd the resistance of her 
 youth, 
 
 And made defeat of her virginity, 
 
 Olatid. I know what you would say; if 
 I have known her. 
 
Act IV 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHIXG. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 You'll say, she did embrace me as a hus- 
 band, 
 And so extenuate the 'forehand sin: 
 No, Leonato, 
 
 I never tempted her with word too large, 
 But, as a brother to his sister, show'd 
 Bashful sincerity, and comely love. 
 
 Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to 
 
 you? 
 Claud. Out on thy seeming! I will 
 write against it: 
 You seem to me as Dian in her orb; 
 As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; 
 But you are more intemperate in your 
 
 blood 
 Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals 
 That rage in savage sensuality. 
 
 Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth 
 
 speak so wide? 
 
 Leon. Sweet prince, why speak not you? 
 
 D. Pedro. What should I speak? 
 
 I stand dishonored, that have gone about 
 
 To link my dear friend to a common stale. 
 
 Leon. Are these things spoken? or do 
 
 I but dream? 
 D. John. Sir, they are spoken, and 
 
 these things are true. 
 Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. 
 Hero. True? God! 
 
 Claud. Leonato, stand I here? 
 Is this the prince? Is this the prince's 
 
 brother? 
 Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own? 
 Leon. All this is so; But what of this, 
 
 my lord? 
 Claud. Let me but move one question 
 to your daughter; 
 And, by that fatherly and kindly power 
 That you have in her, bid her answer 
 truly. 
 Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art 
 
 my child. 
 Hero. God defend me! how am I 
 beset! — 
 What kind of catechising call you this? 
 Claxid. To make you answer truly to 
 your name. 
 
 Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot 
 that name 
 
 With any just reproach? 
 
 Claud. Marry, that can Hero; 
 
 Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue. 
 
 What man was he talk'd with you yester- 
 night 
 
 Out at your window, betwixt twelve and 
 one? 
 
 Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. 
 Hero. I talk'd with no man at that 
 
 hour, my lord, 
 D. Pedro. Why, then are you no maid- 
 en. — Leonato, 
 
 I am sorry you must hear; Upon mine 
 honor. 
 
 Myself, my brother, and this grieved count. 
 
 Did see her, hear her, at that hour last 
 night. 
 
 Talk with a rufl&an at her chamber-win- 
 dow; 
 
 Who hath, indeed, most like a liberal 
 villain, 
 
 Confess'd the vile encounters they have 
 had 
 
 A thousand times in secret. 
 
 D. John. Fye, fye! they are 
 
 Not to be nam'd, my lord, not to be spoke 
 of; 
 
 There is not chastity enough in language. 
 Without offense to utter them: Thus, 
 
 pretty lady, 
 I am sorry for thy much misgovernment, 
 Claud. Hero! what a Hero hadst 
 
 thou been. 
 If lialf thy outward graces had been 
 
 placed 
 About thy thoughts, and counsels of thy 
 
 heart! 
 But, fare thee well, most foul, most fair! 
 
 farewell. 
 Thou pure impiety, and impious purity! 
 For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love^ 
 And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang^ 
 To turn all beauty into tlioughts of harm. 
 And never shall it more be gracious. 
 
 347 
 
Act it 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHIXO. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a 
 point for me? 
 
 [Hero sivoons. 
 Beat. Whj^, how now, cousin? where- 
 fore sink you down ? 
 D. John. Come, let us go; these things, 
 come thus to light, 
 Smother her spirits up. 
 
 \_Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John, and 
 
 Claudio. 
 Bene. How doth the lady? 
 Beat. Dead, I think; — helji, uncle; — 
 Hero! why. Hero! — Uncle! — Signior Bene- 
 dick! friar! 
 Leon. fate, take not away thy heavy 
 hand ! 
 Death is the fairest cover for her shame, 
 That may be wish'd for. 
 
 Beat. How now, cousin Hero? 
 
 Friar. Have comfort, lady. 
 Leon. Dost thou look up? 
 
 Friar. Yea; wherefore should she not? 
 Leon. Wherefore? Why, doth not 
 every earthly thing 
 Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny 
 The story that is printed in her blood? 
 Do not live. Hero: do not ope thine eyes: 
 For did I think thou wouldst not quickly 
 
 die. 
 Thought I 'thy spirits were stronger than 
 
 thy shames, 
 Myself would, on the rearAvard of re- 
 proaches, 
 Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but 
 
 one? 
 Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame, 
 0, one too much by thee! Why had I 
 
 one? 
 Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes? 
 Why had I not, with charitable hand. 
 Took up a beggar's issue at my gates; 
 Who smirched thus, and mir'd Avith in- 
 famy, 
 I might have said, No j^nrt of it is mine, 
 Tliis shame derives itself from unTcnov^n 
 loins 9 
 
 But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I 
 
 prais'd. 
 And mine that I was proud on; mine so 
 
 much. 
 That I myself was to myself not mine. 
 Valuing of her; why, she — 0, she is fallen 
 Into a pit of ink! that the wide sea 
 Hath drops too few to wash her clean 
 again. 
 Be7ie. Sir, sir, be patient: 
 For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder, 
 I know not what to say. 
 Beat. 0, on my soul, my coiisin is be- 
 lied! 
 Be7ie. Lady, were you her bedfellow 
 
 last night? 
 Beat. Xo, truly, not: although, until 
 last night, 
 I liave this twelvemonth been her bedfel- 
 low. 
 Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd! 0, that is 
 stronger made, 
 Which was before barr'd up with ribs of 
 
 iron ! 
 Would the two princes lie? and Claudio 
 
 lie? 
 Who lov'd her so, that, speaking of her 
 
 foulness, 
 Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her; 
 let her die. 
 Friar. Hear me a little; 
 For I have only been silent so long. 
 And given way unto this course of fortune. 
 By noting of the lady: I have mark'd 
 A thousand blushing apparitions start 
 Into her face; a thousand innocent shames 
 In angel whiteness bear away those 
 
 blushes; 
 And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire. 
 To burn the errors that these princes hold 
 Against her maiden truth: — Call me a 
 
 fool; 
 Trust not my reading, nor my observa- 
 tions, 
 Which with experimental seal doth war- 
 rant 
 The tenor of my book; trust not my age. 
 
 31S 
 
Acx IV. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 My reverence, calling, nor divinity. 
 If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here 
 Under some biting error. 
 
 Leon. Friar, it cannot be: 
 
 Thou seest, thai all the grace that she 
 
 hath left. 
 Is, that she will not add unto her guilt 
 A sin of perjury; she not denies it. 
 Why seek'st thou then to cover with ex- 
 cuse 
 That which appears in proper nakedness? 
 Friar. Lady, what man is he you are 
 
 accus'd of? 
 Hero. They know, that do accuse me; 
 
 I know none: 
 If I know more of any man alive, 
 Than that which maiden modesty doth 
 
 warrant. 
 Let all my sins lack mercy! — my father. 
 Prove you that any man with me convers'd 
 At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight 
 Maintain'd the change of words with any 
 
 creature, 
 Eefuse me, hate me, torture me to death. 
 Friar. There is some strange misprision 
 
 in the princes. 
 Bene. Two of tliem have the very bent 
 
 of honor; 
 And if their wisdoms be misled in this. 
 The practice of it lives in John the bas- 
 tard, 
 Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies. 
 Lco7i. I know not; If they speak but 
 
 truth of her; 
 These hands shall tear her; if they wrong 
 
 her honor. 
 The proudest of them shall well hear of it. 
 Time hath not yet so dried this blood of 
 
 mine. 
 Nor age so eat up my invention. 
 Nor fortune made such havock of my 
 
 means. 
 Nor my bad life reft me so much of 
 
 friends. 
 But they shall find, awak'd in such a kind. 
 Both strength of limb, and policy of mind, 
 
 Ability in means, and choice of friends. 
 To quit me of them thoroughly. 
 
 Friar. Pause a while, 
 And let my counsel sway you in this case. 
 Your daughter here the princes left for 
 
 dead; 
 Let her a while be secretly kept in, 
 And publish it, that she is dead indeed: 
 Maintain a mourning ostentation: 
 And on your family's old monument 
 Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites 
 That appertain unto a burial. 
 
 Leo7i. What shall become of this? 
 
 What will this do? 
 Friar. Marry, this, well carried, shall 
 
 on her behalf 
 Change slander to remorse; that is some 
 
 good: 
 But not for that, dream I on this strange 
 
 course. 
 But on this travail look for greater birth. 
 She dying, as it must be so maintain'd. 
 Upon the instant that she was accus'd. 
 Shall be lamented, pitied and excus'd. 
 Of every hearer: For it so falls out. 
 That what we have we prize not to the 
 
 worth, 
 Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and 
 
 lost, • 
 
 Why, then we rack the value; then we 
 
 find 
 The virtue, that possession would not show 
 
 us 
 Whiles it was ours: — So will it fare with 
 
 Claudio : 
 When he shall hear she died upon his 
 
 words, 
 The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
 Into his study of imagination; 
 And every lovely organ of her life 
 Shall come apparell'd in more precious 
 
 habit. 
 More moving delicate, and full of life. 
 Into the eye and jirospect of his soul 
 Than when she liv'd indeed: — then shall 
 
 he mourn, 
 And wish he had not accus'd her,- 
 
 310 
 
Act IY. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHIXG. 
 
 SCEN-E I. 
 
 Xo, though he thought his accusation 
 
 true. 
 Let this be so, and doubt not but success 
 Will fashion the event in better shape 
 Than I can lay it down in likelihood. 
 But if all aim but this be levell'd false, 
 The supposition of the lady's death 
 "Will quench the wonder of her infamy: 
 And, if it sort not well, you may conceal 
 
 her 
 (As best befits her wounded reputation) 
 In some reclusive and religious life. 
 Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and in- 
 juries. 
 
 Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar 
 advise you: 
 And though, you know, my inwardness 
 
 and love 
 Is very much unto the i^rince and Claudio, 
 Yet, by mine honor, I will deal in this 
 As secretly, and justly, as your soul 
 Should with your body. 
 
 Leo7i. Being that I flow in grief. 
 
 The smallest twine may lead me. 
 
 Friar. 'Tis well consented; presently 
 away ; 
 For to strange sores strangely they strain 
 
 the cure: — 
 Come, lady, die to live: this wedding day. 
 Perhaps, is but prolong'd; have patience, 
 and endure. 
 {^Exeunt Friar, Hero, and Leonato. 
 
 Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept 
 all this while? 
 
 Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while 
 longer. 
 
 Bene. I will not desire that. 
 
 Beat. You have no reason, I do it 
 freely. 
 
 Bene. Surely, I do believe your fair 
 cousin is wrong'd. 
 
 Beat. Ah, how much might the man 
 deserve of me, that would right her I 
 
 Bene. Is there any way to show such 
 friendship? 
 
 Beat. A ver}' even way, but no such 
 friend. 
 
 350 
 
 Bene. Maya man do it? 
 
 Beat. It is a man's office, but not 
 yours. 
 
 Bene. I do love nothing in the world 
 as well as you: Is not that strange? 
 
 Beat. As strange as the thing I know 
 not: It were as possible for me to say, I 
 loved nothing so well as you: but believe 
 me not; and yet I lie not; I confess noth- 
 ing, nor, I deny nothing: — I am sorry 
 for my cousin. 
 
 Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou 
 lovest me. 
 
 Beat. Do not swear by it, and eat it. 
 
 Bene. I will swear by it, that you love 
 me; and I will make him eat it, that says I 
 love not you. 
 
 Beat. Will you not eat your word. 
 
 Bene. With no sauce that can be de- 
 vised to it: I protest, I love thee. 
 
 Beat. Why then, heaven forgive me! 
 
 Bene. What offense, sweat Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. You have staid me in a happy 
 hour; I was about to protest, I loved you. 
 
 Bene. And do it with all thy heart. 
 
 Beat. I love you with so much of my 
 heart, that none is left to protest. 
 
 Bene. Come, bid me do anything for 
 thee. 
 
 Beat. Kill Claudio. 
 
 Bene. Ha! not for the wide world. 
 
 Beat. You kill me to deny it: Fare- 
 well. 
 
 Bene. Tarrj-, sweet Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. I am gone, though I am here: 
 — There is no love in you: — Xay, I pray 
 you, let me go. 
 
 Bene. Beatrice, — 
 
 Beat. In faith, I will go. 
 
 Bene. We'll be friends first. 
 
 Beat. You dare easier be friends with 
 me, than fight with mine enemy. 
 
 Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy? 
 
 Beat. Is he not approved in the height 
 a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, 
 dishonored my kins-woman? — 0, that I 
 were a man! — What! bear her in hand 
 
Act IV. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIXG. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 until they come to take hands; and then 
 with public accusation, uncovered slander, 
 •unmitigated rancor, — 0, that I were a 
 man! I would eat his heart in the market- 
 place. 
 
 Bene. Hear me, Beatrice; — 
 
 Beat. Talk with a man out at a win- 
 dow? — a proper saying! 
 
 Bene. ' Nay, but, Beatrice; — 
 
 Beat. Sweet Hero! — she is wronged, 
 she is slandered, she is undone. 
 
 Bene. Beat — 
 
 Beat. Princes and counties! Surely, a 
 princely testimony, a goodly count-con- 
 fect; a sweet gallant, surely! 0, that I 
 were a man for his sake! or that I had 
 any friend would be a man for my sake! 
 But manhood is melted into courtesies, 
 valor into complement, and men are 
 only turned into tongue, and trim ones 
 too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that 
 •only tells a lie, and swears it: — I can not 
 be a man with wishing, therefore I will 
 die a woman with grieving. 
 
 Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice : By this 
 hand, I love thee. 
 
 Beat. Use it for my love some other 
 Tvay than swearing by it. 
 
 Bene. Think you in your soul the 
 count Claudio hath wronged Hero? 
 
 Beat. Yea, as sure as I have a thought 
 ■or a soul. 
 
 Bene. Enough, I am engaged, I will 
 challenge him; I will kiss your hand, and 
 so leave you: By this hand, Claudio' shall 
 render me a dear account: As you hear of 
 me, so think of me. Go, comfort your 
 cousin: I must say, she is dead; and so, 
 farewell. [Fxe^mt. 
 
 Scene II. A Prison. 
 
 Bute?- Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, 
 in gowns; and the Watch luith Com- 
 rade and Borachio. 
 Dogb. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? 
 Verg. 0, a stool and a cushion for the 
 sexton! 
 
 Sexton. Which be the malefactors? 
 
 Dogb. Marry, that am I and my part- 
 ner. 
 
 Verg. Nay, that's certain ; we liave 
 the exhibition to examine. 
 
 Sexton. But which are the offenders 
 that are to be examined? let them come 
 before master constable. 
 
 Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come be- 
 fore me. — What is your name, friend? 
 
 Bora. Borachio. 
 
 Dogb. Pray write down — Borachio. 
 Yours, sirrah ? 
 
 Oon. I am a gentleman, sir, and my 
 name is Conrade. 
 
 Dogb. Write down — master gentleman 
 Conrade. — Masters, it is proved already 
 that you are little better than false knaves; 
 and it will go near to be thought so 
 shortly. How answer you for yourselves ? 
 
 Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. 
 
 Dogb. A marvellous witty fellow, I' 
 assure you; but I will go about with him. 
 — Come you hither, sirrah: a word in 
 your ear, sir; I say to you, it is thought 
 you are false knaves. 
 
 Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none. 
 
 Dogb. Well, stand aside. — They are 
 both in a tale: Have you writ down — • 
 that they are none? 
 
 Sexton. Master constable, you go not 
 the way to examine: you must call forth 
 the watch that are their accusers. 
 
 Dogb. Yea, marry, that's the eftest 
 way: — ■ Let the watch come forth — Mas- 
 ters, I charge you, in the prince's name, 
 accuse these men. 
 
 1 Watch. This man said, sir, that 
 Don John, the prince's brother, was a 
 villain. 
 
 Dogb. Write down — prince John a 
 villain: — Why this is flat perjury, to call 
 a prince's brother — villain. 
 
 Bora. Master constable, — 
 
 Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace; I do 
 not like thy look, I promise thee. 
 
 Sexton. What heard you him say else? 
 
 351 
 
Act IV 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHING. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 2 Watch. ]\rarry, that he had. received 
 a thousand ducats of Don John, for 
 accusing the lady Hero wrongfully. 
 
 Dogb. Flat burglary, as ever was com- 
 mitted. 
 
 Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is. 
 
 Sexton. What else, fellow? 
 
 1 Watch. And that Count Claudio did 
 mean upon his words, to disgrace Hero 
 before the whole assembly, and not marry 
 her. 
 
 Dogb. villain I thou wilt be con- 
 demned into everlasting redemption for 
 this. 
 
 Sexton. What else? 
 
 2 Watch. This is all. 
 
 Sexton. And this is more, masters, 
 than you can deny. Prince John is this 
 morning secretly stolen aAvay; Hero was 
 in this manner accused, in this very 
 manner refused, and upon the grief 
 of this, suddenly died. — Master con- 
 stable, let these men be bound, and 
 brought to Leonato's; I will go before, 
 and show him their examination. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Dogb. Come, let them be oj)inioned. 
 
 Verg. Let them be in band. 
 
 Con. Off, coxcomb. 
 
 Dogb. Where's the sexton; let him 
 write down — the pi'ince's oflBcer, cox- 
 comb. — Come, bind them:— — Thou 
 naughty varlet! 
 
 Con. Away! you are an ass, you are 
 an ass. 
 
 Dogb. Dost thou not suspect my place? 
 Dost thou not susj^ect my years? — that 
 he were here to write me down — an ass! 
 — but, masters, remember, that I am an 
 though it be not written down, yet for- 
 get not that I am an ass: — ISTo, thou vil- 
 lain, thou art full of piety, as shall be 
 proved upon thee by good witness. I am 
 a wise fellow; and, which is more, an 
 officer; and, which is more, a house-hol- 
 der: and, which is more, as pretty a piece 
 of flesh as any is in Messina; and one that 
 knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow 
 enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had 
 losses; and one that hath two gowns, and 
 every thing handsome about him: — 
 Bring him away. 0, that I had been writ 
 down — an ass. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ScESTE I. Before Leonato's House. 
 
 Enter LEOaSTATO and AxTOXio. 
 
 Ant. If you go on thus, you will kill 
 yourself; 
 And 'tis not wisdom, thus to second grief 
 Against yourself. 
 
 Bene. I pray thee, cease thy counsel, 
 Which falls into mine ears as profitless 
 As water in a sieve: give not me counsel; 
 Nor let no comforter delight mine ear, 
 But such a one whose wrongs do suit with 
 
 mine. 
 Bring me a father, that so lov'd 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; 
 And 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 : 
 Cry — sorrow, wag! and hem, when he 
 
 should groan; 
 Patch grief with proverbs, make misfor- 
 tune drunk 
 With candle-wasters; bring him yet to 
 
 me, 
 And I of him will gather patience. 
 
 352 
 
Act y. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 But there is no such man: For, brother, 
 men 
 
 Can counsel, and speak comfort to that 
 grief 
 
 Which they themselves not feel; but tast- 
 ing it. 
 
 Their counsel turns to passion, which be- 
 fore 
 
 Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 
 
 Fetter strong madness in a silken thread. 
 
 Charm ache with air, and agony with 
 words: 
 
 No, no: 'tis all men's office to speak pa- 
 tience 
 
 To those that wring under the load of 
 sorrow. 
 
 But no man's virtue, nor sufficiency. 
 
 To be so moral when he shall endure 
 
 The like himself : therefore give me no 
 counsel : 
 
 My griefs cry louder than advertisement. 
 Ant. Therein do men from children 
 
 nothing differ. 
 Leon. I pray thee, peace : I will be 
 flesh and blood ; 
 
 For there was never yet philosopher, 
 
 That could endure the tooth-ache pa- 
 tiently ; 
 
 However they have writ the style of gods, 
 
 And made a pish at chance and suffer- 
 ance. 
 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 dishonor 
 her. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, 
 
 Ant. Here comes the prince, and 
 
 Claudio, liastily. 
 D. Pedro. Good den, good den. 
 
 Ctaud. Good day to both of you. 
 
 Leon. Hear you, my lords, — 
 
 D. Pedro. We have some haste, Leon- 
 
 ato. 
 Leon. Some haste, my lord ! — well, 
 fare you well, my 'lord : — 
 Are you so hasty, now ? — well, all is one. 
 D. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with 
 
 us, good old man. 
 Ant. If he could right himself with 
 quarreling. 
 Some of us would lie low. 
 
 Claud. Who wrongs him ? 
 
 Leon. Marry, 
 
 Thou, thou dost wrong me : thou dis- 
 sembler, thou : — 
 Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword, 
 I fear thee not. 
 
 Claud. Marry, beshrew my hand. 
 
 If it should give your age such cause of 
 
 fear : 
 In faith, my hand meant nothing to my 
 sword. 
 Leon. Tush, tush, man, never fleer 
 and jest at me : 
 I speak not like a dotard, nor a fool ; 
 As, under privilege of age, to brag 
 What I have done being young, or what 
 
 would do. 
 Were I not old : Know, Claudio, to thy 
 
 head. 
 Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent 
 
 child and me. 
 That I am forc'd to lay my reverence by ; 
 And, with gray hairs, and bruise of many 
 
 days. 
 Do challenge thee to trial of a man. 
 I say, thou hast belied mine innocent 
 
 child ; 
 Thy slander hath gone through and 
 
 through her heart. 
 
 And she lies buried with her ancestors : 
 
 ! in a tomb where never scandal slept. 
 
 Save this of hers fram'd by thy villainy ! 
 
 Claud. My villainy ! 
 
 Leon. Thine, Claudio: tliine, I say. 
 
 D. Pedro. You say not right, old man. 
 
 353 
 
Act V. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHI^'G. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Leon. My lord, my lord, 
 
 I'll prove it on his body, if he dare ; 
 Despite his nice fence, and his active 
 
 practice. 
 His May of youth, and bloom of lusty- 
 hood. 
 Claud. Away, I will not have to do 
 
 with you. 
 Leon. Canst thou so daff me ? Thou 
 
 hast kiird my child ; 
 If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a 
 
 man. 
 Ajit. 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, — 
 Come, follow me, boy ; come, boy, follow 
 
 me : 
 Sir boy, I'll whip you from your foining 
 
 fence ; 
 Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. 
 Leon. Brother,: — 
 Ant. Content yourself: God knows, 
 
 I lov'd my niece ; 
 And she is dead, slander'd to death by 
 
 villains ; 
 
 That dare as well answer a man, indeed. 
 
 As I dare take a serpent by the tongue : 
 
 Boys, aj^es, braggarts. Jacks, milksops ! — 
 
 Leon. Brother Antony, — 
 
 Ant. Hold you content; What, man ! 
 
 I know them, yea. 
 And what they weigh, even to the utmost 
 
 scruple : 
 Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong'ring 
 
 boys, 
 That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave and 
 
 slander, 
 Go anticly, and show outward hideous- 
 
 ness, 
 And speak ofP half a dozen dangerous 
 
 words. 
 How they might hurt their enemies, if 
 
 they durst. 
 And this is all. 
 
 354 
 
 Leon. But, brother Antony, — 
 Ant. Come, 'tis no matter ; 
 
 Do not you meddle, let me deal in this. 
 D. Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not 
 wake your jiatience. 
 My heart is sorry for your daughter's 
 
 death ; 
 But, on my honor, she was charg'd with 
 
 nothing 
 But what was true, and very full- of proof. 
 Leon. My lord, my lord, — 
 D. Pedro. I will not hear you. 
 
 Leon. Xo ? 
 
 Brother, away : — I will be heard ; — 
 
 Ant. And shall. 
 
 Or some of us will smart for it. 
 
 YExeunt Leonato and Antonio. 
 
 Enter Bekedick. 
 
 D. Pedro. See, see ; here comes the 
 man we went to seek. 
 
 Claud. Now, signior ! what news ? 
 
 Bene. Good day, my lord. 
 
 D. Pedro. Welcome, signior : You are 
 almost come to part almost a fray. 
 
 Claud. We had like to have had our 
 two noses snapped off with tv/o old men 
 without teeth. 
 
 D. Pedro. Leonato and his brother : 
 What think'st thou ? Had we fought, I 
 doubt we should have been too young for 
 them. 
 
 Bene. In a false quarrel there is no 
 true valor. I came to seek you both. 
 
 Claud. We have been up and down to 
 seek thee; for we are high-proof melan- 
 choly, and would fain have it beaten 
 away : Wilt thou use thy wit ? 
 
 Bene. It is in my scabbard ; shall I 
 draw it ? 
 
 D. Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by 
 thy side .'' 
 
 Claud. Never any did so, though very 
 many have been beside their wit. — I will 
 bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; 
 draw, to jileasure us. 
 
Act V 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 D. Pedro. As I am an honest man, he 
 looks pale : — Art thou sick, or angry ? 
 
 Glaxid. What ! courage, man ! "What 
 thougli care killed a cat, thou hast mettle 
 enough in thee to kill care. 
 
 Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the 
 career, an you charge it against me : — 
 I pray you, choose another subject. 
 
 Claud. Nay, then give him another 
 staff ; this last was broke cross. 
 
 D. Pedro. By this light, he changes 
 more and more ; I think, he be angry 
 indeed. 
 
 Claud. If he be, he knows how to 
 turn his girdle. 
 
 Bene. Shall I speak a word in your 
 ear ? 
 
 Claud. Heaven bless me from a chal- 
 lenge ! 
 
 Bene. You are a villain ; — I jest not : — 
 I will make it good how you dare, with 
 what you dare, and when you dare : — Do 
 me right, or I M'ill protest your cowardice. 
 You have killed a sweet lady, and her 
 death shall fall heavy on you : Let me 
 hear from you. 
 
 Claud. Well, I will meet you, so I 
 may have good cheer. 
 
 D. Pedro. What, a feast-? a feast ? 
 
 Glaiid. I'faith, I thank him ; he hath 
 bid me to a calf's head and a capon ; the 
 which if L do not carve most curiously, 
 say, my knife's naught. — Shall I not find 
 a woodcock too ? 
 
 Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well; it 
 goes easily. 
 
 D. Pedro. I'll tell thee how Beatrice 
 praised thy wit the other day : I said, thou 
 hadst a fine wit: True, says &\\q., a fine 
 little one: No, said I, a great xoit ; Right, 
 says she, a great gross one : Nay, said I, 
 a good zvit ; Just, said she, it hurts 
 nobody : Nay, said I, the gentleman is 
 wise; Cei-tain, said she, a wise gentleman : 
 Nay, said I, he hath the tongues j Tliat I 
 believe, said she, for he sioore a thing to 
 me on Monday night, which he forswore 
 
 on Tuesday morni7ig ; there's a double 
 tongue; there's two tongues. Thus did 
 she, an hour together, trans-shape thy 
 particular virtues ; yet, at last, she con- 
 cluded with a sigh, thou wast the prop- 
 erest man in Italy. 
 
 Claud. For the which she wept heart- 
 ily, and said, she cared not. 
 
 D. Pedro. Yea, that she did ; but yet 
 for all that, an if she did not hate him 
 deadly, she would love him dearly : the 
 old man's daughter told us all. 
 
 Claud. All, all. 
 
 D. Pedro. But when shall we set the 
 savage bull's horns on the sensible Bene- 
 dick's head ? 
 
 Claud. Yea, and text underneath, 
 Here dtvells Benedick the married man. ? 
 
 Bene. Fare you well, boy ; you know 
 my mind ; I will leave you now to your 
 gossip-like humor : you break jests as 
 braggarts do their blades, which hurt 
 not. — My lord, for your many courtesies, 
 I thank you : I must discontinue 3'our 
 company : your brother, the bastard, is 
 fled from Messina : you have, among you, 
 killed a sweet and innocent lady : For my 
 lord lack-beard, there, he and I shall 
 meet ; and till then, peace be with him. 
 
 \^Exit Benedick. 
 
 D. Pedro. He is in earnest. 
 
 Clatid. In most profound earnest ; 
 and, I'll warrant you, for the love of 
 Beatrice. 
 
 D. Pedro. And hath challenged thee. 
 
 Claud. Most sincerely. 
 
 D. Pedro. What a pretty thing man 
 is, when he goes in his doublet and hose, 
 and leaves off his wit ! 
 
 Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, 
 . loith CoNRADE and Borachio. 
 
 Claud. He is then a giant to an ape : 
 but then is an ape a doctor to such a 
 man. 
 
 D. Pedro. But, soft you, let be ; pluck 
 up, my heart, and be sad ! Did he not 
 say, my brother was lied ? 
 
 355 
 
Act V, 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCEIsE I. 
 
 Dogb. Come, j'ou, sir ; if justice can- 
 not tame you, slie shall ne'er weigh more 
 reasons in her balance : nay, an you be a 
 cursing hypocrite once, you must be 
 looked to. 
 
 D. Pedro. How now, two of my 
 brother's men bound ! Borachio, one ! 
 
 Claud. Hearken after their ofEense, 
 my lord ! 
 
 D. Pedro. Officers, what offense have 
 these men done ? 
 
 Dogb. ilarry, sir, they have com- 
 mitted false report ; moreover, they have 
 spoken untruths; secondarily, they are 
 slanders; sixth and lastly, they have 
 belied a lady ; thirdly, they have verified 
 unjust things ; and, to conclude, they 
 are lying knaves. 
 
 D. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they 
 have done ; thirdly, I ask thee what's 
 their ofEense ; sixth and lastly, why they 
 are committed ; and, to conclude, what 
 you lay to their charge ? 
 
 Claud. Kightly reasoned, and in his 
 own division ; and, by my troth, there's 
 one meaning well suited. 
 
 D. Pedro. Whom have you offended, 
 masters, that you are thus bound to your 
 answer ? this learned constable is too 
 cunning to be imderstood : What's your 
 offense ? 
 
 Bora. Sweet prince, let me go no 
 farther to mine answer ; do you hear me, 
 and let this count kill me. I have 
 deceived even your very eyes ; what your 
 wisdoms could not discover, these shallow 
 fools have brought to light ; who, in the 
 night, overheard me confessing to this 
 man, how don John your brother incensed 
 me to slander the lady Hero : how you 
 were brought into the orchard, and saw 
 me court Margaret in Hero's garment ; 
 how you disgraced her, when j'ou should 
 marry her ; my villainy they have upon 
 record ; which I had rather seal with my 
 death, than repeat over to my shame : 
 the lady is dead upon mine and my 
 
 master's false accusation ; and, briefly, j 
 desire nothing but the reward of a 
 villain. 
 
 D. Pedro. Euns 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 ? 
 
 Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the 
 practice of it. 
 
 D. Pedro. He is compos'd and fram'd 
 of treachery : — 
 And fled he is upon this villainy. 
 
 Claud. Sweet Hero ! now thy image 
 doth appear 
 In the rare semblance that I loved it flrst. 
 
 Dogb. Come, bring away the plaintiffs ; 
 by this time our sexton hath reformed 
 signior Leonato of the matter : And, 
 masters, do not forget to specify, when 
 time and place shall serve, that I am an 
 ass. 
 
 Verg. Here, here comes master signior 
 Leonato, and the sexton too. 
 
 Re-enter 
 
 Leonato and Antonio, 
 the Sexton. 
 
 loitli 
 
 Let me 
 
 Leon. Which is the villain? 
 see his eyes; 
 That when I note another man like him, 
 I may avoid him: Which of these is he? 
 Bora. If you woiild know your 
 
 wronger, look on me. 
 Leon. Art thou the slave, that with 
 thy breath hast kill'd 
 Mine innocent child? 
 
 Bora. Yea, even I alone. 
 Leon. No, not so, villain; thou bely'st 
 thyself; 
 Here stand a jsair of honorable men. 
 A third is fled, that had a hand in it: — 
 I thank you, princes, for my daughter's- 
 
 death ; 
 Record it with your high and worthy 
 deeds; 
 
 356 
 
Act V. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCEJfE I. 
 
 ^Twas 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 inven- 
 tion 
 Can lay upon my sin: yet sinned I not. 
 But in mistaking. 
 
 D. Pedro. By my soul, nor I; 
 
 And yet, to satisfy this good old man, 
 I would bend under any heavy weight 
 That he'll enjoin me to. 
 
 Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daugh- 
 ter live, 
 .That were impossible: But, I pray you 
 
 both. 
 Possess the people in Messina here 
 How innocent she died: and, if your love 
 Can labor aught in sad invention. 
 Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb. 
 And sing it to her bones; sing it to- 
 night: — 
 To-morrow morning come you to my 
 
 house; 
 And since you could not be my son-in-law. 
 
 Be yet my nephew: my brother hath a 
 
 daughter. 
 Almost the copy of my child that's dead. 
 And she alone is heir to both of us; 
 Give her the right you should have given 
 
 her cousin. 
 And so dies my revenge. 
 
 Claud. 0, noble sir. 
 
 Your over-kindness doth ring tears from 
 
 me! 
 I do embrace your offer; and dispose 
 For henceforth of poor Claudio. 
 
 Leon. To-morrow then I will expect 
 
 your coming; 
 To-night I take my leave. — This naughty 
 
 man 
 Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, 
 Who, I believe, M'as pack'd in all this 
 
 wrong, 
 Hir'd to it by your brother. 
 
 BoiYi. No, by my soul, she was not; 
 Nor knew not what she did, when she 
 
 spoke to me; 
 But always hath been just and virtuous. 
 In anything that I do know by her. 
 
 Bogb. Moreover, sir, (which, indeed, 
 is not under white and black,) this plain- 
 tiff here, the offender, did call me ass: I 
 beseech you, let it be remembered in his 
 punishment: And also the watch heard 
 them talk of one Deformed: they say, he 
 wears a key in his ear, and a lock hang- 
 ing by it; and borrows money; the which 
 he hath used so long, and never paid, 
 that now men grow hard-hearted, and will 
 lend nothing: Pray you, examine him 
 upon that point. 
 
 Leon. I thank thee for thy care and 
 honest jiains. 
 
 Dogh. Your worship speaks like a most 
 thankful and reverend youth. 
 
 Leon. There's for thj' pains. Go, I 
 discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank 
 thee. 
 
 Dogh. I leave an arrant knave with 
 your worship; which, I beseech your wor- 
 ship, to correct yourself, for the example 
 of others. I wish your worship well: I 
 humbly give you leave to dejDart. — Come, 
 neighbor. 
 
 \Exeunt Dogberry, Verges, and 
 Watch. 
 
 Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, 
 
 farewell. 
 Ant. Farewell, my lords; we look for 
 
 you to-morrow. 
 D. Pedro. We will not fail. 
 Claud. To-night I'll mourn with 
 
 Hero. 
 
 \^Exe%int Don Pedro u)id Claudio. 
 
 Leon. Bring you these f elloM-s on ; we'll 
 talk Avith Margaret, 
 How her acquaintance grew with this lewd 
 fellow. 
 
 YExevmt. 
 
 357 
 
Act V. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Scene II. Leonato's Garden. 
 
 Enter Benedict and Margaret, 
 meeting. 
 
 Bene. Pray tliee, sweet mistress Mar- 
 garet, deserve well at my hands, by help- 
 ing me to the speech of Beatrice. 
 
 Marg. Will you then write me a son- 
 net in praise of my beauty ? 
 Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, 
 that no man living shall come over it; for 
 in most comely truth, thou deservest it. 
 Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to 
 you. 
 
 [Exit Margaret. 
 Bene. [Singing.'] 
 
 The god of love, 
 That sits above, 
 And knotos me, and knoivs me. 
 How pitiful I deserve, — 
 I mean, in singing: but in loving. — Lean- 
 der the good swimmer, Troilus the first 
 employer of pandars, and a whole book 
 full of these quondam carpet mongers, 
 whose names yet run smoothly in the even 
 road of a blank verse, why, they were 
 never so truly turned over and over as my 
 poor self, in love: Marry, I cannot show 
 it in rhyme; I have tried; I can find out 
 no rhyme to lady but haby, an innocent 
 rhyme; tov scorn, horn, a hard rhyme; for 
 school, fool, a babbling rhyme; very omi- 
 nous endings: No, I was not born under 
 a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in 
 festival terms. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou com.e when 
 I called thee? 
 
 Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when 
 you bid me. 
 
 Bene. Oh, stay but till then! 
 
 Beat. TJien, is spoken; fare you well 
 now : — and yet, ere I go, let me go with 
 that I came for, which is, with know- 
 ing what has passed between you and 
 Claud io. 
 
 Bene. Only foul words; and thereupon 
 I will kiss thee. 
 
 Beat. Foul words are but foul breath, 
 and foul breath is noisome; therefore I 
 will depart unkissed. 
 
 Be7ie. Thou has frighted the word out 
 of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit: 
 But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio 
 undergoes my challenge; and either I 
 must shortly hear from him, or I will 
 subscribe 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 altogether; which 
 maintained so politick 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? 
 
 Be7ie. Suffer love; a good epithet! I 
 do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee 
 against my will. 
 
 Bene. In spite of your heart, I think; 
 alas! poor heart! If you spite it for my 
 sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will 
 never love that which my friend hates. 
 
 Bene. Thou and I are too wise to 
 woo peaceably. 
 
 Beat. It appears not in this confess- 
 ion: there's not one wise man among 
 twenty that will praise himself. 
 
 Bene. An old, an old instance, Beat- 
 rice, that lived in the time of good neigh- 
 bors: if a man do not erect in this age 
 his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no 
 longer in monument than the bell rings, 
 and the widow weeps. 
 
 Beat. And how long is that, think you ? 
 
 Bene. Question? — Why, an hour in 
 clamor, and a quarter in rheum: There- 
 fore it is most expedient for the wise, (if 
 don Worm his conscience find no impedi- 
 ment to the contrary,) to be the trumpet 
 of his own virtues, as I am to myself: So 
 much for praising myself, (who, I m3'self 
 will bear witness, is praiseworthy,) and 
 now tell me, How doth vour cousin? 
 
 358 
 
Act V. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Beat. Very ill. 
 
 Bene. And how do you? 
 
 Beat. Very ill too. 
 
 Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend: 
 there will I leave you too, for here comes 
 one in haste. 
 
 Entei' Ursula. 
 
 Urs. Madam, you must come to your 
 uncle; yonder's old coil at home: it is 
 proved, my lady Hero hath been falsely 
 accused, the prince and Claudio mightily 
 abused; and don John is the author of all, 
 who is fled and gone: will you come pres- 
 ently? 
 
 Beat. Will you go hear this news, 
 signior? 
 
 Bene. I will live in thy heart, be bur- 
 ied in thy eyes, and will go with thee to 
 thy uncle^s. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. The Inside of a Church. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Attend- 
 ants, tuith music and tapers. 
 
 Clatid. Is this the monument of Leon- 
 
 ato? 
 Atten. It is, my lord. 
 Claud. [Reads from a scroll.^ 
 Done to death by slanderous tongues, 
 
 Was the Hero that here lies : 
 Death in guerdon of her turongs, 
 
 Gives her fame which never dies : 
 So the life, that died with shame, 
 Lives in death tvith glorious fame. 
 Hang thou there upon the tomh. [Affixing 
 Praising her tvhen I am dumb. — it. 
 Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn 
 hymn. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Pardon, goddess of the night, 
 Those that slew thy virgin knight, 
 For the lohich, with songs of ivoe, 
 Bound about her tomh they go. 
 Midnight, assist otcr moaii; 
 Help us to sigh and groati, 
 
 Heavily, heavily: 
 Graves yawn, and yield your dead, 
 Till death be uttered. 
 Heavily, heavily, 
 Claiid. Now, unto thy bones good 
 night! 
 Yearly will I do this rite. 
 D. Pedro. Good morrow, masters; put 
 your torches out: 
 The wolves have prey'd; and look, the 
 
 gentle day, 
 Before the wheels of Phoebus round about 
 Dapples the drowsy east with spots of 
 grey: 
 Thanks to you all, aud leave us; fare you 
 well. 
 Claud. Good morrow, masters; each 
 
 his several way; 
 D. Pedro. Come, let us hence, and put 
 on other weeds; 
 And then to Leonato's we will go. 
 
 Claud. And, Hymen, now with luckier 
 issue speeds. 
 Than this, for whom we render'd up this 
 woe! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. A Koom in Leonato's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, 
 Beatrice, Ursula, Friar, and Hero. 
 
 Friar. Did I not tell you she was 
 
 innocent? 
 Leon. So are tlie prince and Claudio, 
 who accused her, 
 Upon the error that you heard debated: 
 But Mai-garet was in some fault for this; 
 Although against her will, as it appears 
 In the true course of all the question. 
 Ant. Well, I am glad that all things 
 
 sort so well. 
 Bene. And so am I, being else by faith 
 enforc'd 
 To call young Claudio to a reckoning for 
 it. 
 
 359 
 
Act V. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCEJTE IV. 
 
 Leon. Well, daughter, and you gen- 
 tlewomen all, 
 Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves. 
 And, when I send for you, come hither 
 
 mask'd : 
 The prince and Claudio promis'd by this 
 
 hour 
 To visit me: — You know your office, 
 
 brother; 
 You must be father to your brother's 
 
 daughter. 
 And give her to young Claudio. \_Exeunt 
 Ladies. 
 Ant. Which I will do with confirm^ 
 
 countenance. 
 Bene. Friar, I must entreat your 
 
 pains, I think. 
 Friar. To do what, signior? 
 Bene. To bind me, or undo me, one 
 of them. — 
 Signior Leonato, truth it is good signior. 
 Your niece regards me with an eye of 
 favour. 
 Leon. That eye my daughter lent her: 
 
 'Tis most true. 
 Bene. And I do with an eye of love 
 
 requite her. 
 Leon. The sight whereof, I think, you 
 had from me. 
 From Claudio and the prince; But what's 
 your will? 
 Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical: 
 But, for my will, my will is, your good 
 
 will 
 May stand with ours, this day to be con- 
 
 join'd 
 In the estate of honorable marriage; — 
 In which, good friar, I shall desire your 
 help. 
 Leon. My heart is with your liking. 
 Friar. And my help. 
 
 Here comes the j^rince, and Claudio. 
 
 Enter Bon Pedro and Claudio, with 
 Attendants. 
 D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair 
 assembly. 
 
 Leon Good morrow, prince: Good 
 morrow Claudio; 
 We here attend you; are you yet deter- 
 
 min'd 
 To-day to marry with my brother's 
 daughter? 
 Claud. I'll hold my mind, were she an 
 
 Ethiope. 
 Leon. Call her forth, brother, here's 
 the friar ready. \^Exit Antonio. 
 D. Pedro. Good morrow. Benedick: 
 Why, what's the matter. 
 That you have such a February face. 
 So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness? 
 Claud. I think, he thinks upon the 
 savage bull: — 
 Tush, fear not,. man, we'll tip thy horns 
 with gold. 
 
 Re-enter AjjTOJ^io,?vitIi the Ladies unasked 
 
 For this I owe you : here come other reck- 
 onings. 
 Which is the lady I must seize upon ? 
 Ant. This same is she, and I do give 
 
 you her. 
 Claud. Why, then she's mine : Sweet, 
 
 let me see your face. 
 Leon. No, that you shall not, till you 
 take her hand, 
 Before this friar, and swear to marry her. 
 Claud. Give me your hand before this 
 holy friar ; 
 I am your husband, if you like of me. 
 jffero. And when I lived, I was your 
 other wife. [ Unmashing. 
 
 And when you loved, you were my other 
 husband. 
 Claud. Another Hero ? 
 Hero. Nothing certainer : 
 
 One hero died defam'd ; 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 ; 
 
 361) 
 
Act V. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 IVhen, after that tlie holy rites are ended, 
 I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death : 
 Mean time, let wonder seem familiar. 
 And to the chapel let us presently. 
 
 Bene. Soft and fair, friar. — Which is 
 
 Beatrice ? 
 Beat. I answer to tliat name ; 
 
 [ Uiimaskiiig.l 
 What is your will ? 
 Be)ie. Do not you love me? 
 Beat. No, no more than reason. 
 
 Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the 
 prince, and Claudio, 
 Have been deceived; for they swore you 
 did. 
 Beat. Do you not love me? 
 Bene. 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 al- 
 most sick for me. 
 Beat. They swore that you were well- 
 nigh dead for me. 
 Bene. 'Tis no such matter: — Then 
 
 you do not love me? 
 Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recom- 
 pense. 
 Le07i. Come, cousin, I am sure you 
 
 love the gentleman. 
 Claud. And I'll be sworn upon't, that 
 he loves her; 
 Por here's a paper, written in his hand, 
 A halting sonnet of his own j^ure brain, 
 Pashion'd to Beatrice. 
 
 Hero. And here's another, 
 
 Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her 
 
 pocket, 
 ■Containing her afEection 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 per- 
 
 suasion; and, partly to save your life; for I 
 was told you were in a consumption. 
 
 Bene. Peace, I will stop your mouth. — ■ 
 
 [Kissing her. 
 
 D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick 
 the married man? 
 
 Bene. I'll tell thee what, prince ; a 
 college of witcrackers cannot flout me out 
 of my humor: Dost thou thiuk, I care for 
 a satire, or an epigram? No: If a man 
 will be beaten with brains, he shall wear 
 nothing handsome about him: In brief, since 
 I do propose to marry, I will think nothing 
 to any purpose that the world can say 
 against it; and therefore never flout at me 
 for what I have said against it; for man is 
 a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. — 
 For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have 
 beaten thee; but in that thou art like to 
 be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love 
 my cousin. 
 
 Claud. I had well hoped, thouwould'st 
 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 might lighten our own hearts and our 
 wives' heels. 
 
 Leon. We'll have dancing afterwards. 
 
 Bene. First, o'my word; therefore, 
 play, music. — Prince, thou art sad ; get 
 thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no 
 staff more reverend than one tipped with 
 horn. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Mess. My lord, your brother John is 
 ta'en in flight, 
 And brought with armed men back to 
 Messina. 
 Bene. Think not on him till to-mor- 
 row; I'll devise thee 1)rave punishments 
 for him. — Strike up, pipers. 
 
 [Dance. — Exeunt. 
 
 361 
 
Familiar Quotations From Shakespeare. 
 
 MUCH ADO AB 
 
 Dox Pedro. 
 And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart, 
 And take her hearing prisoner with the 
 
 force 
 And strong encounter of my amorous 
 tale. 
 
 Act. 1, Sc.\, 1.211. 
 
 Claudio. 
 
 Silence is the perfectest herald of ]oy : 
 
 I were little happy, could I say how 
 
 much. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 1, Z. 299. 
 
 Claudio. 
 Time goes on crutches, till love have all 
 his rites. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 1,1. 348. 
 
 Balthazar. 
 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. 
 Men were deceivers ever ; 
 One foot in sea, and one on shore ; 
 To one thing constant never. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 3, I. 62. 
 
 Hero, 
 
 If it prove so, then loving goes by haps : 
 
 Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with 
 
 traps. 
 
 Acts, Sc. 1,Z. 106. 
 
 Bexedick. 
 Well, every one can master a grief, but 
 he that has it. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 28. 
 
 FT NOTHING. 
 
 Bexedick. 
 
 0, what men dare do I what men may 
 do I what men daily do, not knowing 
 
 what they do ! 
 
 Act 4:, Sc. 1, I. 17.- 
 
 Friar. 
 The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
 Into his study of imagination. 
 And every lovely organ of her life 
 Shall come apparallel'd in more precious 
 
 habit. 
 More moving-delicate and full of life. 
 Into the eye and prospect of his soul. 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, I. 225. 
 
 Leonato. 
 For there was never yet jihilosopher, 
 That could endure the toothache pa- 
 tientlv. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 36. 
 
 Bexedick. 
 
 If a man do not erect, in his age, his 
 
 own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no 
 
 longer in monument, than the bell rings, 
 
 and the widow weeps. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 2, I. 62. 
 
 Dox Pedro, 
 "Why, whafs the matter. 
 That you have such a February face ? 
 
 Acts, Sc.4, 1.40.- 
 
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. 
 
 SEBASTIAN and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady of Messaline, were 
 twins, and (which was accounted a great wonder) from their birth they so much 
 resembled each other, that, but for the difference in their dress, they could not be 
 known apart. They were both born in one hour, and in one hour they were both in 
 danger of perishing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria as they were 
 making a sea-voyage together. The ship on board of which they were split on a 
 rock in a violent storm, and a very small number of the ship's company escaped with 
 their lives. The captain of the vessel, with a few of the sailors that were saved, got 
 to land in a small boat, and with them they brought Viola safe on shore, where she, 
 poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own deliverance, began to lament her brother's 
 loss; but the captain comforted her with the assurance that he had seen her brother, 
 when the ship split, fasten himself to a strong mast, on which, as long as he could see 
 anything of him for the distance, he perceived him borne up above the waves. Viola 
 was much consoled by the hope this account gave her, and now considered how she 
 was to dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from home; and she asked the 
 captain if he knew anything of Illyria. " Ay, very well, madam," replied the captain, 
 " for I was born not three hours' travel from this place." "Who governs here?" 
 said Viola. The captain told her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke noble in 
 nature as well as dignity. Viola said she had heard her father speak of Orsino, and 
 that he was unmarried then, "And he is so now," said the captain; " or was so 
 very lately, for but a month ago I went from here, and then it was the general talk 
 (as you know what great ones do the people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the 
 love of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count who died twelvemonths 
 ago, leaving Olivia to the protection of her brother, who shortly after died also; and 
 for the love of this dear brother, they say, she has abjured the sight and company of 
 men." Viola, who was herself in such a sad affliction for her brother's loss, wished 
 she could live with this lady, who so tenderly mourned a brother's death. She asked 
 the captain if he could introduce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly serve this 
 lady. But he replied this would be a hard thing to accomplish, because the Lady 
 Olivia would admit no person into her house since her brother's death, not even the 
 duke himself. Then Viola formed another project in her mind, which was, in a 
 man's habit, to serve the Duke Orsino as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young 
 lady to put on male attire, and pass for a boy; but the forlorn and unprotected state 
 of Yiola, who was young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreign land, must 
 plead her excuse. 
 
 She having observed a fair behavior in the captain, and that he showed a friendly 
 concern for her welfare, intrusted him with her design, and he readily engaged to 
 assist her. Viola gave him money, and directed him to furnish her with suitable 
 apparel, ordering her clothes to be made of the same color and in the same fashion 
 her brother Sebastian used to wear; and when she was dressed in her manly garb she 
 looked so exactly like her brother that some strange errors happened by means of 
 
 363 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 their being mistaken for eacli other; for as will afterward appear, Sebastian was also 
 saved. 
 
 Yiola's good friend, the captain, when he had transformed this pretty lady into 
 a gentleman, having some interest at court, got her presented to Orsino under the 
 feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully pleased with the address and 
 graceful deportment of this handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that 
 being the office Viola wished to obtain; and she so well fulfilled the duties of her new 
 station, and showed snch a ready observance and faithful attachment to her lord, that 
 she soon became his most favored attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the whole 
 history of his love for the Lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful 
 suit he had made to one who, rejecting his long services, and despising his person, 
 refused to admit him to her presence; and for the love of this lady who had so 
 unkindly treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports of the field and all 
 manly exercises in which he used to delight, passed his hours in ignorable sloth, lis- 
 tening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs, and passionate love-songs; 
 and neglecting the company of the wise and learned lords with whom he used to asso- 
 ciate, he was now all day long conversing with young Cesario. Unmeet companion, 
 no doubt his grave courtiers thought Cesario was for their once noble master, the 
 great Duke Orsino. 
 
 It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidants of handsome 
 young dukes; which Viola too soon found to her sorrow, for all that Orsino told her 
 he endured for Olivia, she presently perceived she suffered for the love of him: and 
 much it moved her wonder that Olivia could be so regardless of this her peerless lord 
 and master, whom she thought no one should behold without the deepest admiration, 
 and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino, that it was pity he should affect a lady who 
 was so blind to his worthy qualities; and she said, ''If a lady were to love you, my 
 lord, as you love Olivia (and perhaps there may be one who does), if you could not 
 love her in return, would you not tell her that you could not love, and must not she 
 be content with this answer?" But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he 
 denied that it was possible for any woman to love as he did. He said no woman's 
 heart was big enough to hold so much love, and therefore it was unfair to compare 
 the love of any lady for him to his love for Olivia. Now, though Viola had the 
 utmost deference for the duke's opinions, she could not help thinking this was not 
 quite true, for she thought her heart had full as much love in it as Orsino's had; and 
 she said, "Ah, but I know, my lord." "What do you know, Cesario.''" said Orsino. 
 "Too well I know," rej)lied Viola, "what love women may owe to men. They are 
 aa true of heart as we are. My father had a daughter loved a man, as I joerhaps, were 
 I a woman, should love your lordship." "And what is her history?" said Orsino. 
 " A blank, my lord," replied Viola; "slie never told her love, but let concealment, 
 like a worm in the bud, prey on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with 
 a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at 
 grief." The duke inquired if this lady died of her love, but to this question Viola 
 returned an evasive answer; as probably she had feigned the story to speak words 
 expressive of the secret love and silent grief she suffered for Orsino. 
 
 While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke had sent to Olivia, 
 and he said, " So please you, my lord, I might not be admitted to the lady, but by her 
 handmaid she returned you this answer: Until seven years hence, the element itself 
 
 361 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU W^ILL. 
 
 shall not behold her face ; but like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her 
 chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of her dead brother." On hearing 
 this the duke exclaimed, " she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this debt 
 of love to a dead brother, how will she love when the rich golden shaft has touched 
 her heart ! " And then he said to Viola, " You know, Cesario, I have told you all 
 the secrets of my heart ; therefore, good youth, go to Olivia's house. Be not denied 
 access ! stand at the doors, and tell her there your fixed foot shall grow till you have 
 audience." " And if I do speak to her, my lord, what then ? " said Viola. " then, " 
 replied Orsino, " unfold to her the passion of my love. Make a long discourse to her 
 of my dear faith. It will well become you to act my woes, for she will attend more 
 to you than to one of graver aspect." 
 
 Away then went Viola ; but not willingly did she undertake this.courtship, for 
 she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she wished to marry : but having under- 
 taken the affair, she performed it with fidelity ; and Olivia soon heard that a youth 
 was at her door who insisted upon being admitted to her presence. " I told him," 
 said the servant, "that you were sick: he said he knew you were, and therefore he 
 came to speak with you. I told him that you were asleep: he seemed to have a fore- 
 knowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he must speak with you. What is to 
 be said to him, lady ? for he seems fortified against all denial, and will speak with 
 you, whether you will or no." Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory mes- 
 senger might be, desired he might be admitted ; and throwing her veil over her face, 
 she said she would once more hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting but that he came 
 from the duke, by his importunity. Viola entering, put on the most manly air she 
 could assume, and affecting the fine courtier's language of gieat men's pages, she said 
 to the veiled lady, " Most radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me 
 if you are the lady of the house ; for I should be sorry to cast away my speech upon 
 another ; for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to 
 learn it." " Whence come you, sir ? " said Olivia. " I can say little more than I have 
 studied," replied Viola ; " and that question is out of my part." " Are you a come- 
 dian ?" said Olivia. "No," replied Viola ; "and yet I am not that which I play;" 
 meaning, that she being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. And again she asked 
 Olivia if she were the lady of the house. Olivia said she was ; and then Viola, having 
 more curiosity to see her rival's features than haste to deliver her master's message, 
 said, "Good madam, let me see your face." With this bold request Olivia was not 
 averse to comply: for this haughty beauty, whom the Duke Orsino had loved so long 
 in vain, at first sight conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario. 
 
 When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, "Have you any commission from 
 your lord and master to negotiate with my face ?" And then, forgetting her deter- 
 mination to go veiled for seven long years, she drew aside her veil, saying, " But I 
 will draw the curtain and show the picture. Is it not well done?" Viola replied, 
 "It is beauty truly mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks is by Nature's own 
 cunning hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead these 
 graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy." "0, sir," replied Olivia, "I will 
 not be so cruel. The world may have an inventory of my beauty. As, item, two 
 lips, indifferent red; Hem, two gray eyes, with lids to them ; one neck, one chin, and 
 so forth. Were you sent here to praise me ?" Viola replied, "I see what you are : 
 yon are too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves you. such a love 
 
 365 
 
TAYELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 could but be recompensed, tliougli you were crowned the queen of beauty : for Orsino 
 loves you with adoration and with tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs of 
 fire." " Your lord," said Olivia, "knows well my mind, I cannot love him; yet I 
 doubt not he is virtuous ; I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh and 
 spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and valiant ; yet I can, 
 not love him — he might have taken his answer long ago." ''If I did love 3'ou as my 
 master does," said Viola;. "I Avould make me a willow cabin at your gates, and call 
 upon your name. I would write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in 
 the dead of the night : your name should sound among the hills, and I would make 
 Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, cry out Olivia. you should not rest between 
 the elements of earth and air, but you should pity me." "You might do much," 
 said Olivia; ''what is your parentage?" Viola replied, "Above my fortunes, yet 
 my state is well. I am a gentleman." Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola, say- 
 ing, "Go to your master, and tell him I cannot love him. Let him send no more, 
 unless perchance you come again to tell me how he takes it." And Viola departed, 
 bidding the lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. When he was gone, Olivia 
 repeated the words, " Ahove my fortunes, yet my state is zoell. I am a gentleman." 
 And she said aloud, " I will be sworn he is ; his tongue, his face, his limbs, action, 
 and spirit plainly show he is a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario was the 
 duke ; and perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed her- 
 self for her sudden love ; but the gentle blame which 23eo23le lay upon their own 
 faults has no deep root : and jjresently the noble Lady Olivia so far forgot the ine- 
 quality between her fortunes and those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenly 
 reserve which is the chief ornament of a lady's character, that she resolved to court 
 the love of young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under 
 the pretense that he had left it with her as a present from Orsino. She hoped, by 
 thus artfully making Cesario a present of the ring, she should give him some inti- 
 mation of her design ; and truly it did make Viola suspect ; for knowing that Orsino 
 had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect that Olivia's looks and manner were 
 expressive of admiration, and she presently guessed her master's mistress had fallen 
 in love with her. "Alas," said she, "the poor lady might as well love a dream. 
 Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruitless sighs for me 
 as I do for Orsino." 
 
 Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her lord the ill success of the 
 negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia, that the duke should trouble her no 
 more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping that the gentle Cesario would in time 
 be able to persuade her to show some pity, and therefore he bade him he should go to 
 her again the next day. In the mean time, to pass away the tedious intervals, he 
 commanded a song which he loved, to be sung ; and he said, "My good Cesario when 
 I heard that song last night, methought it did relieve my passion much. Mark it, 
 Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitters when they sit in the sun, 
 and the young maids that weave their thread with bone, chant this song. It is silly, 
 yet I love it, for it tells of the innocence of love in the old times." 
 
 366 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 SONG. 
 Come away, come away, Death, 
 
 And in sad cypress let me be laid; 
 Fly away, fly away, breath, 
 I am slain by a fair, cruel maid. 
 My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it. 
 My part of death no one so true did share it. 
 
 Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
 
 On my black coffin let there be strown : 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown, 
 A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where 
 Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there. 
 
 Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such true simplic- 
 ity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore testimony in her countenance 
 of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said 
 to her, "My life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked u^Don 
 some face that it loves; has it not, boy?" "A little, with your leave," replied 
 Viola. "And what kind of woman, and of what age is she ?" said Orsino. " Of your 
 age, and of your complexion, my lord," said Viola; which made the duke smile to 
 hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older than himself, and of a 
 man's dark complexion ; but Viola secretly meant Orsino, and not a woman like 
 him. 
 
 When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty in gaining 
 access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies ^delight to convei'se with 
 handsome young messengers ; and the instant Viola arrived, the gates were thrown 
 wide open, and the duke's page was shown into Olivia's apartment with great respect; 
 and when Viola told Olivia that she was come once more to plead in her lord's behalf 
 this lady said, "I desire you never to speak of him again; but if you would under- 
 take another suit, I had rather hear you solicit than music'from the spheres." This was 
 pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained herself still more plainly, and openly 
 confessed her love; and when she saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in Viola's 
 face, she said, " what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and ange'r 
 of his lip ! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidenhood, honor, and by truth, 
 I love you so, that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor reason to conceal 
 my passion. But in vain the lady wooed ; Viola hastened from her jDi-esence, threat- 
 ening never more to come to plead Orsino's love ; and all the reply she made to 
 Olivia's fond solicitations was a declaration of a resolution Never to love any tvoman. 
 
 No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon her valor. A 
 gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had favored 
 the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. What should poor Viola do, 
 who, though she carried a manlike outside, had a true woman's heart, and feared to 
 look on her own sword! 
 
 When she saw her formidable rival advancing toward her with his sword drawn, 
 she began to think of confessing- that she was a woman: but she was relieved at once 
 from her terror, and the shame of such a discovery, by a stranger that was joassing by 
 who made up to them, and as if he had been long known to her, and were her dear- 
 est friend, said to her opponent, "If this young gentleman has done offense, I Avill 
 
 307 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 take the fault on me; and if you offend him, I will for his sake defy you." Before 
 Viola had time to thank him for his protection, or to inquire the reason of his kind 
 interference, her new friend met with an enemy where his bravery was of no use to 
 him; for the officers of justice coming up in that instant, aj^prehended the stranger 
 in the duke's name to answer for an offense he had committed some years before; and 
 he said to Viola, " This comes with seeking 3-ou; " and then he asked her for a purse, 
 saying, " ISTow my necessity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves me much more 
 for what I cannot do for you, than for what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but 
 be of comfort." His words did indeed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew him 
 not, nor had ever received a purse from him; but for the kindness he had just showit 
 her, she offered him a small sum of money, being nearly the whole she possessed. 
 And now the stranger spoke severe things, charging her with ingratitude and unkiud- 
 ness. He said, "This youth whom you see here, I snatched from the jaws of death, 
 and for his sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this danger." But the 
 officers cared little for hearkening to the complaints of their prisoner, and they hur- 
 ried him off, saying, " What is that to us?" And as he was carried away, he called 
 Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproaching the supposed Sebastian for disowning- 
 his friend as long as he was within hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebas- 
 tian, though the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask an explanation, 
 she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise from her being mistaken for 
 her brother: and she began to cherish hopes that it was her brother whose life this 
 man said he had preserved. And so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was 
 Antonio, was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, almost 
 exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast to which he had fastened himself 
 in the storm. Antonio conceived such a friendship for Sebastian that he resolved to 
 accompany him whithersoever he went; and when the youth expressed a curiosity ta 
 visit Orsino's court, Antonio, rather than part from him, came to Illyria, though he 
 knew, if his person should be known there, his life would be in danger, because in a 
 sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded the Duke Orsino's nephew. This Avas the 
 offense for which he was now made a prisoner. 
 
 Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours before Antonia 
 met Viola, He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it freely if he 
 saw anything he wished to purchase, telling him he would wait at the inn, while 
 Sebastian went to view the town; but Sebastian not returning at the time appointed,. 
 Antonio had ventured out to look for him, and Viola being dressed the same, and 
 in face so exactly resembling her brother, Antonio drew his sword (as he thought) 
 in defense of the youth he had saved, and when Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned 
 him, and denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of ingratitude. 
 
 Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to fight, slunk home 
 as fast as she could. She had not gone long, when her adversary thought he saw her 
 return; but it was her brother Sebastian who happened to arrive at this place, and he 
 said, "Now, sir, have I met you again ? There's for you;" and struck him a blow. 
 Sebastian was no coward ; he returned the blow with interest, and drew his sword. 
 
 A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the house, and she too 
 mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into her house, expressing much 
 sorrow at the rude attack he had met with. Though Sebastian was as much surprised 
 at the courtesy of this lady as at the rudeness of liis unknown foe, yet he went very 
 
 368 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 willingly into the house, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought him) 
 become more sensible of her attentions; for though their features were exactly the 
 same, there was none of the contempt and auger to be seen in his face which she had 
 complained of when she told her love to Cesario. 
 
 Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady larished on him. lie 
 seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered how it had come to pass, and 
 he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not in her right senses; but perceiving 
 that she Avas mistress of a fine house, and that she ordered her affairs and seemed to 
 govern her family discreetly, and that in all but her sudden love for him she appeared 
 in the full possession of her reason, he well approved of the courtship; and Olivia 
 finding Cesario in this good humor, and fearing he might change his mind, proposed 
 that, as she had a priest in the house, they should be instantly married. Sebastian 
 assented to this proposal ; and when the marriage ceremony was over he left his lady 
 for a short time, intending to go and tell his friend Antonio the good fortune that 
 he had met with. In the mean time Orsino came to visit Olivia, and at the moment 
 he arrived before Olivia's house the officers of justice brought their prisoner, 
 Antonio, before the duke. Viola was with Orsino, her master; and when Antonio 
 saw Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, he told the duke in what manner 
 he had rescued this youth from the perils of the sea; and after fully relating all the 
 kindness he had really shown to Sebastian, he ended his complaint with saying, that 
 for three months, both day and night, this ungrateful youth had been with him. 
 But now the lady Olivia coming forth from her house, the duke could no longer 
 attend to Antonio's story; and he said, "Here comes the countess: now Heaven 
 walks on earth ! but for thee, fellow, thy words are madness. Three months has this 
 youth attended on me: and then he ordered Antonio to be taken aside. But 
 Orsino's heavenly countess soon gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of 
 ingratitude as Antonio had done, for all the words he could hear Olivia speak were 
 words of kindness to Cesario ; and when he found his page had obtained this high 
 place in Olivia's favor he threatened him with all the terrors of his just revenge; and 
 as he was going to depart he called Viola to follow him, saying, "Come, boy, with 
 me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief." Though it seemed in his jealous rage he 
 was going to doom Viola to instant death, yet her love made her no longer a coward, 
 and she said she would most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But Olivia 
 would not so lose her husband, and she cried, "Where goes my Cesario?" Viola 
 replied, "After him I love more than my life." Olivia, however, prevented their 
 departure by loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her husband, and sent for the 
 priest, who declared that not two hours had passed since he had married the Lady 
 Olivia to this young man. In vain Viola protested she was not married to Olivia ; 
 the evidence of that lady and the priest made Orsino believe that his page had robbed 
 him of the treasure he prized above his life. But thinking that it was past recall, he 
 was bidding farew'ell to his faithless mistress, and the young dissemUer, her husband, 
 ao he called Viola, warning her never to come in his sight again, when (as it seemed 
 to them) a miracle appeared ! for another Cesario entered, and addressed Olivia as his 
 wife. This new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia ; and when their 
 wonder had a little ceased at seeing two persons with the same face, the same voice, 
 and the same habit, the brother and sister began to question each other, for Viola 
 could scarce be persuaded that her brother was living, and Sebastian knew not how 
 
 3.09 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 to account for the sister he supposed drowned being found in the habit of a young 
 mac. But Viola presently acknowledged that she was indeed Viola and his sister 
 under that disguise. 
 
 When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness between this 
 twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the Lady Olivia for the 
 pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with a woman ; and Olivia showed 
 no dislike to her exchange, when she found she had wedded the brother instead of the 
 sister. 
 
 The hopes of Orsino were forever at an end by this marriage of Olivia; and with 
 his hopes all his fruitless love seemed to vanish away, and all his thoughts were fixed 
 on the event of his favorite young Cesario being changed into a fair lady. He viewed 
 Viola with great attention, and he remembered how very handsome he had always 
 thought Cesario was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful in a woman's 
 attire; and then he remembered how often she had said she loved Mm, which at the 
 time seemed only the dutiful expressions of a faithful page, but now he guessed that 
 something more was meant, for many of her pretty sayings, which were like riddles to 
 him, came now into his mind, and he no sooner remembered all these things than he 
 resolved to make Viola his wife; and he said to her (he still could not help calling her 
 Cesario and lay), "Boy, yoiuhave said to me a thousand times that you should never 
 love a woman like to me, and for the faithful service you have done for me, so much 
 beneath your soft and tender breeding, and since you have called me master so long 
 you shall now be your master's mistress, and Orsino's true duchess." 
 
 Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she had so ungra- 
 ciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her house, and offered the assistance 
 of the good priest, who had married her to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the 
 same ceremony in the remaining part of the day for Orsino and Viola, Thus the 
 twin brother and sister were both wedded on the same day; the storm and shipwreck 
 which had separated them being the means of bringing to pass their high and mighty 
 fortunes, Viola was the wife of Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, and Sebastian the hus- 
 band of the rich and noble countess, the Lady Olivia. 
 
 870 
 
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. 
 
 DRAMATIS 
 
 Oksino, Duke of lllyria. 
 
 Sebastian, a young Oentlemav, Brother 
 
 to Viola. 
 Antonio., a Sea - Captain, Friend to 
 
 Sebastian. 
 A Sea-Caftain, Friend to Viola. 
 Valentine, ) Gentletaen attending on the 
 Curio, ) Duhe. 
 
 Sir Toby Belch, Uncle of Olivia. 
 Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 
 Malvolio, Steioari to Olivia. 
 
 SCENE— K City in Illyria ; 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Fabian, 
 Clown, 
 
 r Servants to Olivia. 
 
 Olivia, a rich Countess. 
 A^iOLA, in love xoith the Duke. 
 Maria, Olivia's Woman. 
 
 Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musi- 
 cians, and other Attendants. 
 
 AND THE Sea-Coast near it. 
 
 act I. 
 
 Scene I. An Apartment in tlie Duke's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Duke, Curio, Lords ; Musicians 
 attending. 
 
 Duke. If music be the food of love, 
 
 play on. 
 Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, 
 
 The appetite may sicken, and so die. 
 
 That strain again ; — it had a dying fall : 
 0, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south. 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
 Stealing, and giving odor. — Enough ; no 
 
 more ; 
 'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before. 
 O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art 
 
 thou ! 
 That notwithstanding thy capacity 
 Eeceiveth as the sea, nought enters there, 
 Of what validity and pitch soever. 
 But falls into abatement and low price. 
 Even in a minute ! so full of shapes is 
 
 fancy 
 That it alone is high-fantastical. 
 Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord ? 
 
 Duke. What, Curio ? 
 
 Cur. The hart. 
 
 Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that 
 I have : 
 0, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, 
 Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence; 
 That instant was I turned into a hart ; 
 And my desires, like fell and cruel liounds, 
 E'er since pursue me. — How now, what 
 news from her ? 
 
 Enter Valentine. 
 
 Val. So please my lord, I might not 
 
 be admitted. 
 But from her handmaid do return this 
 
 answer : 
 The element itself, till seven years' lieat. 
 Shall not behold her face at ample view ; 
 But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk. 
 And water once a day her chamber round 
 With eye offending brine : all this, to 
 
 season 
 A brother's dead love, which she would 
 
 keep fresh, 
 And lasting, in her sad remembrance. 
 
 371 
 
Act I. 
 
 TWELFTH KIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 ScEi^K IL 
 
 Duke. 0, she, that hath a heart of 
 
 that fine frame. 
 To pay this debt of love but to a brother, 
 How will she love, when the rich golden 
 
 shaft. 
 Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else 
 That live in her I when liver, brain, and 
 
 heart. 
 These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, 
 
 and fill'd 
 i(Her sweet perfections) with one self 
 
 king I — 
 Away before me to sweet beds of flowers ; 
 Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied 
 
 with bowers. [Bxeutif. 
 
 ScEifE IL The Sea Coast. 
 
 Enter A^iOLA, Captain and Sailors. 
 
 Vio. What country, friends, is this ? 
 Caj). Illyria, lady. 
 
 Vio. And what should I do in Illyria ? 
 'My brother he is in Elysium. 
 Perchance, he is not drown'd : — What 
 think you, sailors ? 
 Cap. It is perchance, that you your- 
 self Avere saved. 
 Vio. my poor brother ! and so, per- 
 chance, may he be. 
 Cav. True, madam : ifnd to comfort 
 you with chance. 
 Assure yourself, after our ship did split. 
 When you, and that poor number saved 
 
 with you, 
 -Hung on our driving boat, I saw your 
 
 brother. 
 Most provident in peril, bind himself 
 {Courage and hope both teaching him 
 
 the practice) 
 'To a strong mast, that lived upon the 
 
 sea ; 
 Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back, 
 I saw him hold acquaintance with the 
 
 waves, 
 So long as I could see. 
 
 Vio. For saying so, there's gold : 
 
 Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope. 
 
 Whereto thy speech serves for authority. 
 The like of him. Know^st thou this 
 country ? 
 Cap. Ay, madam, well; for I was 
 bred and born, 
 Not three hours' travel from this very 
 place. 
 Vio. Who governs here ? 
 Cap. A noble duke, in nature. 
 
 As in his name. 
 
 Vio. What is his name ? 
 
 Cap. Orsino. 
 
 Vio. Orsino ! I have heard my father 
 name him ! 
 He was a bachelor then. 
 
 Cap. And so is now. 
 
 Or was so very late : for but a month 
 Ago I went from hence ; and then 'twas 
 
 fresh 
 In murmur, (as, you know, what great 
 
 ones do. 
 The less will prattle of,) that he did seek 
 The love of fair Olivia. 
 
 Vio. What's she ? 
 
 Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter 
 of a count 
 That died some twelvemonth since ; then 
 
 leaving her 
 In the protection of his son, her brother, 
 Who shortly also died : for whose dear 
 
 love. 
 They say, she hath abjur'd the company 
 And sight of men. 
 
 Vio. 0, that I served that lady : 
 
 And might not be delivered to the world, 
 Till I had made mine own occasion mel- 
 low. 
 What my estate is. 
 
 Cap. That were hard to compass ; 
 
 Because she will admit no kind of suit, 
 No, not the duke's. 
 
 Vio. There is a fair behavior in thee, 
 captain ; 
 And though that nature with a beauteous 
 
 wall 
 Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee 
 
Act I. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. Scexe III. 
 
 I -will believe, thou hast a mind that 
 suits 
 
 AVith this thy fair and outward charac- 
 ter. 
 
 I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounte- 
 ously. 
 
 Conceal me what I am ; and be my aid 
 
 For such disguise as, haply, shall become 
 
 The form of my intent. I'll serve this 
 duke ; 
 
 Thou shalt present me as a page to him. 
 
 It may be worth thy pains ; for I can 
 sing, 
 
 And sjieak to him in many sorts of 
 music. 
 
 That will allow me very worth his ser- 
 vice. 
 
 What else may hap, to time I will com- 
 mit ; 
 
 Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. 
 Ccq). Be you his page, and I your 
 mute will be. 
 
 When my tongue blabs, let mine eyes not 
 see ! 
 Vio. I thank thee, lead me on. 
 
 [Exeuni. 
 
 Scene III. A Eoom in Olivia's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria. 
 
 Sir To. What a plague means my 
 niece, to take the death of her brother 
 thus ? I am sui-e, care's an enemy to 
 life. 
 
 Mar. By troth. Sir Toby, you must 
 come in earlier o'nights ; your cousin, my 
 lady, takes great exceptions to your ill 
 hours^ 
 
 Sir To. AVhy, let her except before 
 excepted. 
 
 Mar. Ay, but you must confine your- 
 self within the modest limits of order. 
 
 Sir To. Confine ! I'll confine myself 
 no finer than I am : these clothes are 
 good enough to drink in, and so be these 
 
 boots too ; an they be not, let them hang 
 themselves in their own straps. 
 
 Mar. That quaffing and drinking will 
 undo you : I heard my lady talk of it yes- 
 terday ; and of a foolish knight, that you 
 brought in one night here, to be her 
 wooer. 
 
 Sir To. Who? Sir Andrew Ague- 
 Cheek ? 
 
 3far. Ay, he. 
 
 Sir To. He's as tall a man as any's ia 
 Illyria. 
 
 3far. What's that to the purpose ? 
 
 Sir To. Why, he has three thousand 
 ducats a year. 
 
 Mar. Ay, but he'll have but a year in. 
 all these ducats ; he's a very fool, and a. 
 prodigal. 
 
 Sir To. Pye, that you'll say so ! he 
 plays o' the viol-de gambo, and speaks 
 three or four languages word for word 
 without book, and hath all the good gifts- 
 of nature. 
 
 Mar. He hath, indeed, — almost nat- 
 ural : for, besides that he's a fool, he's a 
 great quarreler : and but that he hath the 
 gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath 
 in quarreling, 'tis thought among the 
 prudent, he would quickly have the gift 
 of a grave. 
 
 Sir To. By this hand, they are scoun- 
 drels, and substractors, that say so of 
 him. Who are they ? 
 
 Mar. They that add moreover, he'a: 
 drunk nightly in your company. 
 
 Sir To. With drinking healths to my 
 niece ; I'll drink to her, as long as there- 
 is a passage in my throat, and drink in 
 Illyria : He's a coward, and a coystril, 
 that will not drink to my niece, till his 
 brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. 
 Here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face. 
 
 Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 
 
 Sir And. Sir Toby Belch ! how now. 
 Sir Toby Belch ? 
 
 Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew ! 
 
 373 
 
Act I. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. Scexe IIL 
 
 Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew. 
 
 Mar. And ycu too, sir. 
 
 Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. 
 
 Sir And. What's that ? 
 
 Sir To. My niece's chamber-maid. 
 
 Sir A7id. Good mistress Accost, I de- 
 sire better acquaintance. 
 
 Mar. My name is Mary. sir. 
 
 Sir And. Good mistress Mary Ac- 
 cost, 
 
 Sir To. You mistake, knight: accost, 
 is, front her, board her, ayoo her, assail 
 her. 
 
 Sir And. Is that the meaning of ac- 
 cost ? 
 
 Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen. 
 
 Sir To. An thou let j^art so, Sir An- 
 drew, 'would thou might'st never draw 
 sword again. 
 
 Sir And. An you part so, mistress, I 
 would I might never draw sword again. 
 Fair lady, do you think you have fools in 
 hand ? 
 
 Ma . Sir, I have not you by the hand- 
 
 Sir And. Marry, but you shall have ; 
 and here's my hand. 
 
 Mar. Now, sir, thought is free : I 
 pray you, bring your hand to the buttery- 
 bar, and let it drink. 
 
 Sir And. Wherefore, sweet heart? 
 what's your metaphor ? 
 
 Mar. It's dry, sir. 
 
 Sir And. "Why, I think so ; I am not 
 such an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. 
 But what's your jest ? 
 
 Mar. A dry jest, sir. 
 
 Sir And. Are you full of them ? 
 
 31ar. Ay, sir ; I have them at my fin- 
 gers' ends. {^Exit Maria. 
 
 Sir To. knight, thou lack'st a cup 
 of canary : When did I see thee so put 
 down ? 
 
 Sir A nd. Never in your life, I think ; 
 unless you see canary put me down : Me- 
 thinks, sometimes I have no -more wit 
 than an ordinary man has : but I am a 
 
 great eater of beef, and, I believe, that 
 does harm to my wit. 
 
 Sir To. No question. 
 
 Sir And. An I thought that, I'd fore- 
 swear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, sir 
 Toby. 
 
 Sir To. Poiirquoy, my dear knight ? 
 
 Sir And. What is pourquoy? do or 
 not do ? I would I had bestowed that 
 time in the tongues, that I have in fenc- 
 ing, dancing, and bear-baiting : 0, had I 
 but followed the arts ! 
 
 Sir To. Then hadst thou had an ex- 
 cellent head of hair. 
 
 Sir And. Why, would that have 
 mended my hair ? 
 
 Sir To. Past question ; for thou seest, 
 it will not curl by nature. 
 
 Sir And. But it becomes me well 
 enough, does't not ? 
 
 Sir To. Excellent ; it hangs like flax 
 on a distaff. 
 
 Sir And. I'll home to-morrow. Sir 
 Toby : your niece will not be seen ; or, if 
 she be, it's four to one she'll none of me : 
 the count himself, here hard by, wooes 
 her. 
 
 Sir To. She'll none o' the count ; she'll 
 not match above her degree, neither in 
 estate, years, nor wit ; I have heard her 
 swear it. Tut, there's life in't, man. 
 
 Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I 
 am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the 
 world ; I delight in masques and revels 
 sometimes altogether. 
 
 Sir To. Art thou good at these kick- 
 shaws, knight ? 
 
 Sir And. As any man in Illyria, what- 
 soever he be, under the degree of my bet- 
 ters ; and yet I will not compare with an 
 old man. 
 
 Sir To. What is thy excellence in a 
 galliard, knight ? 
 
 Sir And. I can cut a caper. 
 
 Sir To. And I can cut the mutton 
 to't. 
 
 374 
 
Act I. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Sir And. Shall we set about some 
 revels ? 
 
 Si7- To. What shall we do else ? — Let 
 me see thee caper : ha ! higher : ha, ha ! 
 — excellent! [Bzeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. A Room in the Duke's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Valentine a7id Viola iti man's 
 attire. 
 
 Val. If the duke continue these fa- 
 vors towards you, Cesario, you are like to 
 be much advanced; he hath known you 
 but three days, and already you are no 
 stranger. 
 
 Vio. You either fear his humor, or 
 my negligence, that you call in question 
 the continuance of his love : Is he incon- 
 stant, sir, in his favors ? 
 
 Vcd. Ko, believe me. 
 
 Enter Duke, Cdrio, and Attendants. 
 
 Vio. I thank you. Here comes the 
 
 count. 
 Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho ? 
 Vio. On your attendance, my lord ; 
 
 here. 
 Duke. Stand you awhile aloof. — Ce- 
 sario, 
 Thou know'st no less but all; I have un- 
 
 clasp'd 
 To thee the book even of my secret soul : 
 Therefore, good youth, address thy gait 
 
 unto her ; 
 Be not deny'd access, stand at her doors, 
 And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall 
 
 grow. 
 Till thou have audience. 
 
 Vio. Sure, my noble lord. 
 
 If she be so abandoned to her sorrow 
 As it is spoke, she never will admit me. 
 Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil 
 bounds, 
 Rather thaii make unprofited return. 
 Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my 
 lord : What then ? 
 
 375 
 
 Duke. Oh, then unfold the passion of 
 
 my love, 
 Surprise her with discourse of my dear 
 
 faith : 
 It shall become thee well to act my Avoes ; 
 She will attend it better in thy youth, 
 Than in a nuncio of grave aspect. 
 Vio. I think not so, my lord. 
 Duke. Dear lad, believe it ; 
 
 For they shall yet belie thy happy years 
 That sa}', thou art a man : Diana's liji 
 Is not more smooth and rubious ; thy 
 
 small pipe 
 Is as the maiden's organ, shrill, and 
 
 sound. 
 And all its semblative a woman's part. 
 I know, thy constellation is right apt 
 For this affair : — Some four, or five, at- 
 tend him ; 
 All, if you will ; for I myself am best. 
 When least in company : — Prosper well 
 
 in this. 
 And thou shalt live as freely as thy l©rd. 
 To call his fortunes thine. 
 
 Vio. I'll do my best 
 
 To woo your lady : yet, [Aside.} a barful 
 
 strife ! 
 Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. 
 
 \^Exeimt. 
 
 Scene v. A Room in Olivia's House. 
 
 Enter Maria and Clown. 
 
 Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou 
 hast been, or I will not open my lij^s, so 
 wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy 
 excuse : my lady will hang thee for thy 
 absence. 
 
 CIo. Let her hang me : he, that is 
 well hanged in this world, needs to fear 
 no colors. 
 
 M(tr. Make that good. 
 
 Clo. He shall see none to fear. 
 
 Mar. A good lenten answer : I can 
 tell thee where that saying was born, of 
 I fear no colors. 
 
 Clo. Where, good mistress ^lary ? 
 
Act I. 
 
 TWELFTH ^'IGHT ; OK, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Mar. In tlie wars ; and that may you 
 be bold to say in your foolery. 
 
 Clo. W^ell, Heaven give them wisdom, 
 that have it ; and those that are fools, let 
 them use their talents. 
 
 Mar. Yet you will be hanged, for 
 being so long absent : or, to be turned 
 away ; is not that as good as a hanging to 
 you? 
 
 Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a 
 bad marriage; and, for turning away, let 
 sutiimer bear it out. 
 
 Mar. You are resolute then ? 
 
 Clo. Not so neither; but I am resolved 
 on two points. 
 
 Mar. That, if one break, the other 
 will hold. 
 
 Clo. Apt, in good faith ; very apt ! 
 Well, go thy way ; if sir Toby would leave 
 drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of 
 Eve's flesh as any in Illyria. 
 
 Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o' 
 that; here comes my lady : make your ex- 
 cuse wisely, you were best. \^Exit. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Malvolio. 
 
 Clo. Wit, and't be thy will, put me 
 into good fooling ! Those wits, that think 
 they have thee, do very oft prove fools ; 
 and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass 
 for a wise man : For what says Quinapa- 
 lus ? Better a witty fool, than a foolish 
 wit. God bless thee, lady ! 
 
 on. Take the fool away. 
 
 Clo. Do you not hear, fellows ? Take 
 away the lady. 
 
 on. Go to, you're a dry fool : I'll no 
 more of you : besides, you grow dishon- 
 est. 
 
 Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink 
 and good counsel will amend : for give 
 the dry fool drink, then is the fool not 
 dry ; bid the dishonest man mend him- 
 self ; if he mend, he is no longer dishon- 
 est ; if he cannot, let the botcher mend 
 him. — The lady bade take away the fool ; 
 therefore, I say again, take her away. 
 
 on. Sir, I bade them take away j'ou. 
 
 Clo. Misprison in the highest degree! 
 — Lady, Cucullus non facit monaclmm ; 
 that's as much as to say, I wear not mot- 
 ley in my brain. 
 
 on. What think you of this fool, 
 Malvolio ? doth he not mend ? 
 
 Mai. Yes : and shall do, till the pangs 
 of death shake him. Infirmity, that de- 
 cays the wise, doth ever make the better 
 fool. 
 
 Clo. Heaven send you, sir, a speedy 
 infirmity, for the better increasing your 
 folly ! sir Toby will be sworn, that I am 
 no fox ; but he will not pass his word for 
 two-pence that you are no fool. 
 
 Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio ? 
 
 Mai. I marvel your ladyship takes de- 
 light in such a barren rascal ; I saw him 
 put down the other day with an ordinary 
 fool, that has no more brain than a stone. 
 Look you now, he's out of his guard al- 
 ready ; unless you laugh and minister 
 occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, 
 I take these wise men, that crow so at 
 these set kind of fools, no better than the 
 fools' zanies. 
 
 Oli. 0, you are sick of self-love, Mal- 
 volio, and taste with a distempered 
 appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and 
 of free disposition, is to take those things 
 for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bul- 
 lets : There is no slander in an allowed 
 fool, though he do nothing but rail ; nor 
 no railing in a known discreet man, though 
 he do nothing but reprove. 
 
 Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with 
 leasing, for thou speakest well of fools. 
 
 Re-enter Maria. 
 
 Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a 
 young gentleman, much desires to speak 
 with you. 
 
 OIL From the count Orsino, is it ? 
 
 Mar. I know not, madam ; 'tis a fair 
 young man and well attended. 
 
 376 
 
Act I. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Oli. Who of ray people hold him in 
 delay ? 
 
 Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 
 
 Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you ; ho 
 speaks nothing but madam : Fye on him ! 
 \_Exit Maria.'\ Go you, Malvolio ; if it 
 be a suit from the count, I am sick, or not 
 at home ; what you will, do dismiss it. 
 \_Exil Malvolio.'\ Now you see, sir, how 
 your fooling grows old, and people dis- 
 like it, 
 
 OH. Thou hast spoke for us,madonna, 
 as if thy eldest son should be a fool : whose 
 skull Jove cram with brains, for here 
 comes one of thy kin, has a most weak 
 pia mater. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch. 
 
 Oli. By mine honor, half drunk. — 
 What is he at the gate, cousin ? 
 
 Sir To. A gentleman. 
 
 Oli. A gentleman ! What gentleman ? 
 Sir To. 'Tis a gentleman here — A plague 
 o'these pickle-herrings I — How now, sot ? 
 
 Clo. Good sir Toby, 
 
 Sir To. There's one at the gate. 
 
 Oli. Ah, marry ; what is he ? 
 
 Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he 
 will, I care not : give me faith, say I. 
 Well, it's all one. [Exit. 
 
 Oli. What's a drunken man like, fool? 
 
 Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and 
 a madman ; one draught above heat makes 
 him a fool : the second mads him : and a 
 third drowns him. 
 
 Oli. Go thou and seek the coroner, 
 and let him sit o' my coz ; for he's in the 
 third degree of drink, he's drown'd : go, 
 look after him. 
 
 Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna ; 
 and the fool shall look to the madman. 
 
 [Exit Clown . 
 
 Re-enter Malvolio. 
 
 Mai. ^ladam, yond' young fellow 
 
 swears he will speak with you. I told 
 
 him 3'ou were sick ; he takes on him to 
 
 understand so much, and therefore comes 
 
 to speak with you : T told him you were 
 asleeji; he seems to have a fore-knowledgo 
 of that too, and therefore comes to speak 
 with you. What is to be said to him, 
 lady? he's fortified against any denial. 
 
 Oli. Tell him, he shall not speak with 
 me. 
 
 Mai. He has been told so; and he says, 
 he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's 
 post, and be the supporter of a bench, but 
 he'll speak with you. 
 
 Oli. What kind of man is he? 
 
 Mai. Why, of man kind. 
 
 Oli. What manner of man? 
 
 3Ial. Of very ill manner ; he'll speak 
 with you, will you, or no. 
 
 Oli. Of what personage, and years, is 
 he? 
 
 Mai. Not yet old enough for a man, 
 nor young enough for a boy, between boy 
 and man. He is very well favored, and 
 he speaks very shrewishly ; one would 
 think, his mother's milk were scarce out 
 of him. 
 
 Oli. Let him approach: Call in my 
 gentlewoman. 
 
 Mai. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Re-enter Maria. 
 
 Oli. Give me my veil : come, throw it 
 o'er my face; 
 We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy. 
 
 Enter Yiola. 
 
 Vio. The honorable lady of the house, 
 which is she ? 
 
 Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for 
 her. Your will? 
 
 Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and un- 
 matchable beauty, — I pray you, tell me, if 
 this be the lady of the house, for I never 
 saw her: I would be loth to cast away my 
 speech; for, besides that it is excellently 
 well penn'd, I have taken great pains to 
 con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no 
 scorn : I am very comptible, even to the 
 least sinister usage. 
 
Act I. 
 
 TWELFTH XIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. Scexe V. 
 
 Oli. Whence came you, sir? 
 
 Vio. I can say little more than I have 
 studied, and that question's out of my 
 part. Good gentle one, give me modest 
 assurance, if you be the lady of the house, 
 that I may proceed in my speech. 
 
 Oli. Are j'ou a comedian ? 
 
 Vio. No, my profound heart: and yet, 
 by the very fangs of malice, I swear, I am 
 not that I play. Are you the lady of the 
 house? 
 
 'Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am. 
 
 Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you 
 do usurp yourself; for what is yours to 
 bestow, is not yours to reserve. But this 
 is from my commission: I will on with 
 my speech in your praise, and then show 
 you the heart of my message. 
 
 Oli. Come to what is important in't : 
 I forgive you the praise. 
 
 Vio. Alas, I took great pains to study 
 it, and 'tis poetical. 
 
 Oli. It is the more like to be feigned; 
 I pray you, keep it in. I heard, you were 
 saucy at my gates; and allowed your ap- 
 proach, rather to wonder at you than to 
 hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; 
 if you have reason, be brief : 'tis not that 
 time of moon with me, to make one in so 
 skipping a dialogue. 
 
 Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies 
 your way. 
 
 Vw. No, good swabber ; I am to hull 
 here a little longer. — Some mollification 
 for your giant, sweet lady. 
 
 OH. Tell me your mind, 
 
 Vio. I am a messenger. 
 
 Oli. Sure, you have some hideous mat- 
 ter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is 
 so fearful. Speak your office. 
 
 Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I 
 bring no overture of war, no taxation of 
 homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my 
 words are as full of peace as matter. 
 
 Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are 
 ■you? what would you? 
 
 Tio. The rudeness, that hath appear'd 
 in me, have I learn'd from my entertain- 
 ment. What I am, and what I would, 
 are to your ears, divinity; to any other's 
 profanation. 
 
 Oli. ■ Give us the place alone: we will 
 hear this di^-inity. \^Exit Maria.} Now, 
 sir, what is your text? 
 
 Vio. Most sweet lady, 
 
 Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much 
 may be said of it. Where lies your text? 
 
 Vio. In Orsino's bosom. 
 
 Oli. In his bosom? In what chapter of 
 his bosom? 
 
 Vio. To answer by the method, in the 
 first of his heart. 
 
 Oli. 0, I have read it; it is heresy. 
 Have you no more to say? 
 
 Via. Good madam, let me see your 
 face. 
 
 Oli. Have you any commission from 
 your lord to negotiate with my face? you 
 are now out of your text: but we will draw 
 the curtain, and show you the picture. 
 Look you, sir, such a one as I was this 
 present: Is't not well done? 
 
 [ Unveiling. 
 
 Vio. Excellently done, if nature did 
 all. 
 
 Oli. 'Tis in grain, sir ; 'twill endure 
 wind and weather. 
 
 Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red 
 and white 
 Nature's own sweet and cunning hand 
 
 laid on : 
 Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive, 
 If you will lead these graces to the grave. 
 And leave the world no copy. 
 
 Oli. 0, sir, I will not be so hard- 
 hearted; I will give out divers schedules 
 of my beauty: It shall be inventoried; 
 and every particle, and utensil, labeled 
 to my will : as, item, two lips indifferent 
 red; item, two gray eyes, with lids to 
 them; item, one neck, one chin, and so 
 forth. Were you sent hither to 'praise 
 me? 
 
Act I. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 ScEXE V; 
 
 Vio. I see you what you are : you are 
 
 proud; 
 But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 
 My lord and master loves you; 0, such love 
 Could be but recomjDens'd, though you 
 
 were crown'd 
 The nonpareil of beauty ! 
 
 Oh'. How does he love me? 
 
 Vio. With adorations, with fertile 
 
 tears. 
 With groans that thunder love, with 
 
 sighs of fire. 
 OIL Your lord does know my mind, I 
 
 cannot love him : 
 Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him 
 
 noble. 
 Of great estate, of fresh and stainless 
 
 youth ; 
 In voices well divulg'd, free, learn'd, and 
 
 valiant. 
 And, in dimension, and the shape of 
 
 nature, 
 A gracious person : but yet I cannot love 
 
 him ; 
 He might have took his answer long ago. 
 Vio. If I did love you in my master^s 
 
 flame, 
 With such a suffering, such a deadly life. 
 In your denial I would find no sense, 
 I would not understand it. 
 
 Oli. Why, what v/ould you? 
 
 Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your 
 
 gate, 
 And call upon my soul within the house ; 
 Write loyal cantons of contemned love. 
 And sing them loud even in the dead of 
 
 night; 
 Holla your name to the reverberate hills. 
 And make the babbling gossip of the air 
 Cry out, Olivia ! 0, you should not rest 
 Between the elements of air and earth, 
 But you should inty me. 
 
 Oli. You might do much: What is 
 
 your parentage? 
 Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state 
 
 is well; 
 I am a gentleman. 
 
 Oil. Get you to your lord ; 
 
 I cannot love him : let him send no more; 
 Unless, perchance, you come to me again, 
 To tell me how he takes it. Fare you 
 
 well : 
 I thank you for your pains: spend this for 
 
 me. 
 Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady; keep 
 
 your purse, 
 My master, not myself, lacks recompense. 
 Love make his heart of flint, that you 
 
 shall love; 
 And let your fervor, like my master's, 
 
 be 
 Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. 
 
 [Fxif. 
 Oli. What is your parentage ? 
 Above my forhmes, yet my state is well : 
 I am a gentleman. I'll be sworn thou 
 
 art; 
 Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, 
 
 and spirit. 
 Do give thee five-fold blazon : — Not too 
 
 fast: — soft! soft! 
 Unless the master were the man. — How 
 
 now? 
 Even so quickly may one catch the 
 
 plague ? 
 Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections. 
 With an invisible and subtle stealth, 
 To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it 
 
 be.— 
 What, ho, Malvolio! — 
 
 lie-entcr Malvolio. 
 
 Mai. Here, madam, at your service. 
 Oli. Run after that same peevish mes- 
 senger. 
 
 The county's man: he left this ring be- 
 hind him 
 
 Would I, or not; tell him, I'll none of it. 
 
 Desire him not to flatter with his lord. 
 
 Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not 
 for him : 
 
 If that the youth will come this way to- 
 morrow. 
 
 3V9 
 
Act I. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL 
 
 ScEx:: V. 
 
 I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee. 
 
 Mine eye too great a 
 
 flatterer for my 
 
 Malvolio. 
 
 mind. 
 
 
 Mai. Madam, I will. [^Exit. 
 
 Fate, show thy force: 
 
 Ourselves we do 
 
 OIL I do I know not what : and fear 
 
 not owe; 
 
 
 to find 
 
 What is decreed, must 
 
 be; and be this 
 
 
 so! 
 
 [BxiL 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 ScEXE I. The Sea-coast. 
 Enter Antoxio and SEBASTiAJf. 
 
 Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor 
 will you not, that I go with you ? 
 
 Seb. By your patience, no : my stars 
 shine darkly over me; the malignancy of 
 my fate might, perhaps, distemjDer yours; 
 therefore I shall crave of you your leave, 
 that I may bear my evils alone : It were a 
 bad recompense for your love, to lay any 
 of them on you. 
 
 Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither 
 you are bound. 
 
 Seb. ISTo, 'sooth, sir; my determinate 
 voyage is mere extravagancy. But I per- 
 ceive in you so excellent a touch of mod- 
 esty, that you will not extort from me 
 what I am willing to keep in ; therefore 
 it charges me in manners the rather to 
 express myself. You must know of me 
 then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, 
 which I called Rodorigo: my father was 
 that Sebastian of ]\Iessaline, whom, I 
 know, you have heard of: he left behind 
 him, myself, and a sister, both born in an 
 hour. If the heavens had been pleas'd, 
 would we had so ended ! but you, sir, 
 alter'd that; for, some hour before you 
 took me from the breach of the sea, was 
 my sister drowned. 
 
 Ant. Alas, the day! 
 
 Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said 
 she much resembled me, was yet of many 
 accounted beautiful : but, though I could 
 not, with such estimable wonder, overfar 
 believe that, yet thus far I will boldly 
 publish her, she bore a mind that envy 
 
 could not but call fair: she is drowned 
 already, sir, with salt water, 1 hough I 
 seem to drown her remembrance again 
 with more. 
 
 Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad enter- 
 tainment. 
 
 Seb. 0, good Antonio, forgive me your 
 trouble. 
 
 Ant. If you will not murder me for 
 my love, let me be your servant. 
 
 Seb. If you will not undo what you 
 have done, that is, kill him whom you 
 have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye 
 well at once: my bosom is full of kind- 
 ness; and I am yet so near the manners 
 of my mother, that upon the least occa- 
 sion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. 
 I am bound to the count Orsino's court : 
 farew-ell. [Exit. 
 
 Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go 
 with thee : 
 I have many enemies in Orsino's court. 
 Else would I very shortly see thee there: 
 But come what may, I do adore thee so. 
 That danger shall seem sport, and I will 
 
 go- 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 ScEXE II. A Street. 
 Enter Yiola ; 'Mxi.xohio folloioing. 
 
 MaJ. Were not you even now with the 
 countess Olivia ? 
 
 Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate 
 pace I have since arrived but hither. 
 
 Mai. She returns this ring to you, sir; 
 you might have saved me my pains, to 
 have taken it away yourself. She adds, 
 moreover, that you should put your lord 
 
 380 
 
Act II, 
 
 TWELFTH XIGHT ; OR, AVHAT YOU WILL. Scexe IL 
 
 into a desperate assurance she will none 
 of liim: And one thing more; that you be 
 never so hardy to come again in his 
 affairs, unless it be to report your lord's 
 taking of this. Eeceive it so. 
 
 Vio. She took the ring of me; I'll 
 none of it. 
 
 Mai. Come, sir, you peevishly threw 
 it to her; and her will is, it should be so 
 returned : if it be worth stooping for, 
 there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his 
 that finds it. [Exit. 
 
 Vio. I left no ring with her: "What 
 
 means this lady ? 
 Fortune forbid, my outside have not 
 
 charm'd her ! 
 She made good view of me ; indeed, so 
 
 much, 
 That sure, methought her eyes had lost 
 
 her tongue. 
 For she did speak in starts distractedly. 
 She loves me, sure; the cunning of her 
 
 passion 
 Invites me in this churlish messenger. 
 None of my lord's ring ! why, he sent her 
 
 none. 
 I am the man ; — If it be so as 'tis. 
 Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 
 Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness. 
 Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. 
 How easy is it, for the proper-false 
 In women's waxen hearts to set their 
 
 forms! 
 Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we; 
 For, such as we are made of, such we be. 
 How will this fadge? My master loves her 
 
 dearly; 
 And I, poor monster, fond as much on 
 
 him; 
 And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me: 
 AVhat will become of this! As I am man. 
 My state is desperate for my master's 
 
 love; 
 As I am woman, now alas the day! 
 What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia 
 
 breathe ! 
 
 381 
 
 time, thou must untangle this, not I; 
 It is too hard a knot for me to untie. 
 
 \Exif. 
 
 ScEKE III. A Koom in Olivia's House. 
 
 Fnle}- Sir Toby Belch, and Sir Axdtjew 
 Ague-cheek. 
 
 Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew : not 
 to be a-bed after midnight, is to be up 
 betimes ; and diluculo surgere, thou 
 know'st, 
 
 Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know 
 not : but I know, to be up late, is to be 
 up late. 
 
 Sir To. A false conclusion : I hate it 
 as an unfilled can : To be up after mid- 
 night, and to go to bed then, is early; 
 so that, to go to bed after midnight, is to 
 go to bed betimes. Do not our lives con- 
 sist of the four elements ? 
 
 Sir And. Taith, so they say; but, I 
 think, it rather consists of eating and 
 drinking. 
 
 Sir To. Thou art a scholar; let us 
 therefore eat and drink. — Marian, I say ! 
 a stoop of wine ! 
 
 Enter Clown. 
 
 Sir And. Here comes the fool. 
 
 Clo. How now, my hearts ? Did you 
 never see the picture of we three ? 
 
 Sir To. Welcome ass. Now let 'shave 
 a catch. 
 
 Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an 
 excellent breast. I had rather than forty 
 shillings I had such a leg; and so sweet a 
 breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, 
 thou wast in very gracious fooling last 
 night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromi- 
 tus, of the Vapians passing the equinoc- 
 tial of Queubus ; 'twas very good, i'f aith. 
 
 Clo. ^ly lady has a white hand, and 
 the ]\Iyrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. 
 
 Sir And. Excellent ! Why, this is the 
 best fooling, when all is done. Now, a 
 song. 
 
Act II. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Sir To. Come on ; tliere is a sixpence 
 for you : let's have a song. 
 
 Sir And. There's a testril of me too : 
 if one knight give a 
 
 Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a 
 song of good life ? 
 
 Sir To. A love-song, a love-song. 
 
 Sir And. Aj, ay; I care not for good 
 life. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Clo. mistress mine, where are you 
 roaming ? 
 stay and hear; your true love's 
 coming. 
 That can sing hoth liigh and loiu. 
 Trip no further, pretty sioeeting; 
 Journeys end in lovers' meeting. 
 Every wise man's son doth know. 
 Sir And. Excellent good, i'faith ! 
 Sir To. Good, good. 
 Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter; 
 Prese^it mirth hath jJresent laughter; 
 
 WmI's to come, is still unsure: 
 In delay there lies no plenty; 
 TJten come kiss me, siveet-and-tiventy , 
 
 Youth's a stuff toill not endAire. 
 Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am 
 
 true knight. 
 Sir To. A contagious breath. 
 Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, 
 i'faith. 
 
 Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is 
 dulcet in contagion. But shall we make 
 the welkin dance indeed ? Shall we rouse 
 the night-owl in a catch, that will draw 
 three souls out of one weaver ? Shall we 
 do that? 
 
 Sir And. An you love me, let's do't : 
 I am dog at a catch. 
 
 Clo. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs 
 will catch well. 
 
 Sir And. Most certain: let our catch 
 be, Tlioii Tcnave. 
 
 Clo. Hold thy j^eace, thou Tcnave, 
 knight I I shall be constrain'd in't to call 
 thee knave, knight. 
 
 Sir And. 'Tis not the first time I have 
 constrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, 
 fool ; it begins, Hold thy peace. 
 
 Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my 
 peace. 
 
 Sir And. Good, i'faith I Come, begin. 
 [They sing a catch. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Mar. What a catterwauling do you 
 keep here ! If my lady have not called up 
 her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn 
 you out of doors, never trust me. 
 
 Sir To. My lady's a Catalan, we are 
 politicians: Malvolio's a Peg-a-Eamse}% 
 and Tliree merry men ice he. Am not I 
 consanguineous? am I not of her blood ? 
 Tilly-valley, lady ! There dwelt a man in 
 Balylon, lady, lady! [Singing. 
 
 Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in 
 admirable fooling. 
 
 Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if 
 he be disposed, and so do I too; he does 
 it with a better grace, but I do it more 
 natural. 
 
 Sir To. the twelfth day of Decem- 
 ler, — [Singing. 
 
 Mar. Peace. 
 
 Enter Malvolio. 
 
 Mai. My master, are you mad? or 
 what are you? Have you no wit, manners, 
 nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at 
 this time of night? Do ye make an ale- 
 house of my lady's house, that ye squeak 
 out your coziers' catches without any 
 mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there 
 no respect of place, persons, nor time, in 
 you ? 
 
 Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our 
 catches. Sneck up ! 
 
 Mai. Sir Toby, I must be round with 
 you. My lady bade me tell you, that, 
 though she harbors you as her kinsman, 
 she's nothing allied to your disorders. 
 If you can separate yourself and your 
 misdemeanors, you are welcome to the 
 
 382 
 
Act II. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. Scene III. 
 
 house; if not, an it would please you to 
 take leave of her, she is very Avilling to 
 bid you farewell. 
 
 Sir To. Fareiuell, dear heart, since I 
 must needs he gone. 
 
 Mar. Nay, good sir Toby. 
 
 S^^6i=zr/X''--^ 
 
 Clo. His eyes do sJioto his days are 
 almost done. 
 
 Mai. Is't even so? 
 
 Sir To. Btit I will never die. 
 
 Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. 
 
 31al. This is much credit to you. 
 Sir To. Shall I bid him go ? [Singing. 
 Clo. What an if you do? 
 Sir To. Shall Ibid him go, a7id spare 
 not? 
 
 383 
 
Act II, 
 
 TWELFTH XIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. Scexe IIL 
 
 Clo. no, no, no, no, you dare not. 
 
 Sir To. Out o'time? sir, ye lie. — Art 
 auy more than a steward? Dost thou 
 think, because thou art virtuous, there 
 shall be no more cakes and ale? 
 
 Clo. Yes, by saint Anne; and ginger 
 shall be hot i'the mouth too. 
 
 Sir To. ThouTt i'the right. — Go, sir, 
 rub your chain with crumbs: — -A stoop of 
 wine, Maria I 
 
 Mai. Mistress Mary, if you prized my 
 lady's favor at any thing more than con- 
 tempt, you would not give means for this 
 uncivil rule ; she shall know of it, by this 
 hand. [Exit. 
 
 Mar. Go shake your ears. 
 
 Sir And. ^Twere as good a deed as to 
 drink when a man's hungry, to challenge 
 him to the field; and then to break prom- 
 ise with him, and make a fool of him. 
 
 Sir To. Do't, knight; I'll write thee 
 a challenge: or I'll deliver thy indigna- 
 tion to him by word of mouth. 
 
 Mar. Sweet sir Toby, be patient for 
 to-night: since the youth of the count's 
 was to day with my lady, she is much out 
 of quiet. For monsieur Malvolio, let me 
 alone with him: if I do not gull him in- 
 to a nay-word, and make him a common 
 recreation, do not think I have wit 
 enough to lie straight in my bed: I know, 
 I can do it. 
 
 Sir To. Possess us, possess us; tell us 
 something of him. 
 
 Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind 
 of puritan. 
 
 Sir And. 0, if I thought that, I'd 
 beat him like a dog. 
 
 Sir To. What, for being a Puritan ? 
 thy exquisite reason, dear knight ? 
 
 Sir And. I have no exquisite reason 
 for't, but I have reason good enough. 
 
 3Iar. The devil a Puritan that he is, 
 or any thing constantly but a time-pleaser; 
 an affectioned ass, that cons state without 
 book, and utters it by great swarths: the 
 best persuaded of himself, so crammed. 
 
 as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is 
 his ground of faith, that all, that look on 
 him, love him; and on that vice in him 
 will my revenge find notable cause to 
 work. 
 
 Sir To. What wilt thou do ? 
 
 3Iar. I will drop in his way some ob- 
 scure epistles of love; wherein, by the 
 colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, 
 the manner of his gait, the expressure of 
 his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall 
 find himself most feelingly personated: I 
 can write very like my lad}', your niece; 
 on a forgotten matter we can hardly make 
 distinction of our hands. 
 
 Sir To. Excellent ! I smell a device. 
 
 Sir And. I have't in my nose too. 
 
 Sir To. He shall think, by the letters 
 that thou wilt drop, that they come from 
 my niece, and that she is in love with 
 him. 
 
 Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse 
 of that color. 
 
 Sir And. And your horse now would 
 make him an ass. 
 
 Mar. Ass, I doubt not. 
 
 Sir And. 0, 'twill be admirable. 
 
 Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you. I 
 will plant you two, and let the fool make 
 a third, where he shall find the letter; ob- 
 serve his construction of it. For this 
 night, to bed, and dream on the event. 
 Farewell. {Exit. 
 
 Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea. 
 
 Sir And. Before me, she's a good 
 wench. 
 
 Sir To. She's a beagle, true bred, and 
 one that adores me: What o'that ? 
 
 Sir And. I was adored once too. 
 
 Sir To. Let's to bed, knight.— Thou 
 hadst need send for more money 
 
 Sir And. If I cannot recover your 
 niece, I am a foul way out. 
 
 Sir To. Send for money, knight; if 
 thou hast her not i'the end, call me Cut. 
 
 Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, 
 take it how vou will. 
 
 884 
 
Act II. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. Scene IV. 
 
 Sir T. Come, come; I'll go burn 
 some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now: 
 come, knight; come knight; \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. A Koom in the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter Duke, Viola, CvB.io,ancl others. 
 
 Duke. Give me some music: — Now,, 
 good morrow, friends: 
 Now, good Cesario, but that piece of 
 
 song. 
 That old and antique song we heard last 
 
 night ; 
 Methought, it did relieve my passion 
 
 much ; 
 More than light airs, and recollected 
 
 terms 
 Of these most brisk and giddy-paced 
 
 times: 
 
 Oome, but one verse. 
 
 Cur. He is not here, so please your 
 lordship, that should sing it. 
 Duhe. Who was it? 
 Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool, 
 that the lady Olivia's fatlier took much 
 delight in: he is about the house. 
 
 Duke. Seek him out, and play the 
 tune the while. \^Exit Curio. — Music. 
 
 Come hither, boy: If ever thou shalt love. 
 In the sweet pangs of it, remember me: 
 For, such as I am, all true lovers are; 
 Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, 
 Save, in that constant image of the crea- 
 ture 
 'That is belov'd. — How dost thou like this 
 tune? 
 Via. It gives a very echo to the seat 
 Where Love is thron'd. 
 
 Duke. Tiiou dost speak masterly: 
 IMy life upon't, young though thou art, 
 
 thine eye 
 Hath stay'd upon some favor that it 
 
 loves; 
 Hath it not, boy? 
 
 Vio. A little, by your favor, 
 
 Duke. What kind of woman is't? 
 Vio. Of your complexion. 
 
 Duke. She is not worth thee, then. 
 
 What years, i'faith? 
 Vio. About your years, my lord. 
 Duke. Too old, by heaven; Let still 
 the woman take 
 An elder than herself; so wears she to 
 
 him, 
 So sways she level in her husband's heart. 
 For, boy, however we do praise ourselves. 
 Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm. 
 More longing, wavering, sooner lost and 
 
 worn, 
 Than women's are. 
 
 Vio. I think it well, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Then let thy love be younger 
 than thyself. 
 Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: 
 For women are as roses; whose fair flower. 
 Being once display'd, doth fall that very 
 hour. 
 Vio. And so they are: alas, that they 
 are so; 
 To die, even when they to perfection 
 
 grow 
 
 Re-enter Curio and Clown. 
 
 Duke. fellow, come, the song we 
 had last night: — 
 Mark it, Cesario; it is old, and plain: 
 The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 
 And the free maids that weave their 
 
 thread with bones. 
 Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth. 
 And dallies with the innocence of love. 
 Like the old age. 
 
 Clo. Are you ready, sir? 
 
 Duke. Ay; jjr'ythee, sing. [J/msic. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Clo. Come aioay, come aivay, death,. 
 And in sad cypress let me he laid; 
 
 Fly aiuay, fly away, breath; 
 I am slain hy a fair cruel maid. 
 My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
 
 0, preiiare it; 
 My ])art of death, no one so true 
 Did share it. 
 
 385 
 
Act II. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. Scexe IV 
 
 Not ajloxoer, not a floicer siceet, 
 On my Hack coffin let there ie stroion; 
 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 My poor corpse, tcliere my pioor hones 
 
 shall he throicn: 
 A thousand thousand sighs to save. 
 
 Lay me, where 
 Sad trxie lover ne'er find my grave, 
 
 To iveep there. 
 Duke. There's for thy pains. 
 Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in 
 
 singing, sir. 
 Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure, then. 
 Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be 
 paid, one time or another. 
 
 Duke. Give me now leave to leave 
 thee. 
 
 Clo. Now, the melancholy god pro- 
 tect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet 
 of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a 
 very opal. — I would have men of such 
 constancy put to sea, that their business 
 might be everything, and their intent 
 every where; for that's it, that always 
 makes a good voyage of nothing. — Fare- 
 well. Exit Clown. 
 
 Duke. Let all the rest give place. 
 
 \Exeunt Curio and Attendants. 
 
 Once more, Cesario, 
 
 Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty: 
 
 Tell her, my love, more noble than the 
 
 world. 
 Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; 
 The parts that fortune hath bestow'd up- 
 on her, 
 Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune; 
 But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems. 
 That nature pranks her in, attracts my 
 soul. 
 Viv. But, if she cannot love you, sir? 
 Duke. I cannot be so answer'd. 
 Via. 'Sooth, but you must. 
 
 Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is. 
 Hath for your love as great a pang of 
 
 heart 
 As you have for Olivia: you cannot love 
 her; 
 
 You tell her so; Must she not then be 
 answer'd ? • 
 
 Duke, There is no woman's sides. 
 Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 
 As love doth give my heart: no woman's 
 
 heart 
 So big, to hold so much; they lack re- 
 tention. 
 But mine is all as hungry as the sea. 
 And can digest as much : make no compare 
 Between that love a woman can bear me. 
 And that I owe Olivia. 
 
 Yio. Ay but I know, — 
 
 Duke. What dost thou know? 
 Vio. Too well what love women to 
 men may owe: 
 In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
 My father had a daughter lov'd a man. 
 As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
 I should your lordship. 
 
 Duke. And what's her history? 
 
 Vio. A blank, my lord: She never 
 told her love. 
 But let concealment, like a worm i'the 
 
 bud. 
 Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in 
 
 thought: 
 And, with a green and yellow melancholy. 
 She sat like patience on a monument. 
 Smiling at grief. Was not this love, in- 
 deed? 
 We men may say more, swear more : but, 
 
 indeed, 
 Our shows are more than will; for still we 
 
 prove 
 Much in our vows, but little in our love. 
 Duke. But died thy sister of her love, 
 
 my boy? 
 Vio. I am all the daughters of my 
 father's house. 
 And all the brothers too; — and yet I 
 
 know not: — 
 Sir, shall I to this lady? 
 
 Duke. Ay, that's the theme. 
 
 To her in haste; give her this jewel; sa}'. 
 My love can give no place, bide no denay. 
 
 \^Exe%int. 
 
 386 
 
Act II. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OE, AVHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Scene V. Olivia's Garden. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andreav 
 Ague-cheek, and Fabian. 
 
 Sir To. Come thy ways signior Fa- 
 bian. 
 
 Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple 
 of this sport, let me be boiled to death 
 with melancholy. 
 
 Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to 
 have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter 
 come by some notable shame? 
 
 Fab. I would exult, man: you know, 
 he brought me out of favor with my 
 lady, about a bear-baiting here. 
 
 Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the 
 bear again; and we will fool him black 
 and blue: — Shall we not, sir Andrew? 
 
 Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of 
 our lives. 
 
 Filler Maria. 
 
 Sir To. Here comes the little villain: 
 — How now, my nettle of India? 
 
 Mar. Get ye all three into the box- 
 tree: Malvolio's coming down this walk; 
 he has been yonder i'the sun, practising 
 behavior to his own shadow this half 
 hour: observe him, for the love of mock- 
 ery: for, I know, this letter will make a 
 contemplativeidiot of him. Close, in the 
 name of jesting! [The men hide them- 
 selves.] Lie thou there; \_Throzvs down a 
 letter,] for here comes the trout that must 
 be caught with tickling. [Fxit Maria. 
 
 Enter Malvolio. 
 
 Mai. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. 
 Maria once told me, she did affect me: 
 and I have heard herself come thus near, 
 that, should she fancy, it should be one 
 of my complexion. Besides, she uses me 
 with a more exalted respect than any one 
 else that follows her. What should I 
 think on't? 
 
 Sir To. Here's an overweening rogue! 
 
 Fab. 0, peace! Contemplation makes 
 
 a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets 
 under his advanced plumes! 
 
 Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the 
 rogue: — 
 
 Sir To. Peace, I say. 
 
 Mai. To be count Malvolio; — 
 
 Sir To. Ah, rogue! 
 
 Sir A nd. Pistol him, pistol him. 
 
 Sir Tc. Peace, peace! 
 
 Mai. There is example for't; the lady 
 of the starchy married the yeoman of the 
 wardrobe. 
 
 Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel! 
 
 Fab. 0, peace! now he's deeply in, 
 look, how imagination blows him. 
 
 Mai. Having been three months mar- 
 ried to her, sitting in my state, — 
 
 Sir To. 0, for a stone-bow, to hit him 
 in the eye ! 
 
 Mai. Calling my officers about me, in 
 my branched velvet gown ; having come 
 from a day-bed, where I left Olivia 
 sleeping. 
 
 iSir To. Fire and brimstone ! 
 
 Fab. 0, peace, peace ! 
 
 Mai. And then to have the humor of 
 state : and after a demure travel of re- 
 gard, — telling them, I know my place, as 
 I would they should do theirs, — to ask for 
 my kinsman Toby : 
 
 Sir To. Bolts and shackles ! 
 
 Fab. 0, peace, peace, peace ! now, 
 now. 
 
 Mai. Seven of my people, with an obe- 
 dient start, make out for him : I frown 
 the while ; and, perchance, wind up my 
 watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby 
 approaches ; court'sies there to me : 
 
 Sir To. Shall this fellow live ? 
 
 Fab. Though our silence be drawn 
 from us with cars, yet peace. 
 
 Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, 
 quenching my familiar smile with an aus- 
 tere regard of control : 
 
 Sir To. And does not Toby take you 
 a blow o'the lips then ? 
 
 3^7 
 
Act II, 
 
 TWELFTH KIGHT ; OE, AVHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Mai. Saying, Cousin Toby, my for- 
 tunes having cast me on your niece, give^ 
 me this prerogative of speech :■ — 
 
 Sir To. What, what ? 
 
 Mai. You must amend your drunk- 
 enness. 
 
 Sir To. Out, scab ! 
 
 Fah. Nay, patience, or we break the 
 sinews of our plot. 
 
 Mai. Besides you ivaste the treasure of 
 your time toith a foolish knight; 
 
 Sir And. That's me, I warrant you. 
 
 Mai. One Sir Andreiv : 
 
 Sir. And. I knew, 'twas I ; for many 
 do call me fool. 
 
 Mai. What employment have we here ? 
 * [ Taking up the letter. 
 
 Fah. Now is the woodcock near the 
 gin. 
 
 Sir To. 0, peace ! and the spirit of 
 humors intimate reading aloud to him ! 
 
 Mai. By my life, this is my lady's hand : 
 these be her very P's her f/'s and her T's, 
 and thus makes she her great O's. It is, 
 in contempt of question, her hand. 
 
 Sir And. Her P's, her U's, and her 
 T's : Why that ? 
 
 Mai. [Reads.^ To tlie unkoiunieloved, 
 this, and my good wislies : her very 
 phrases I — By your leave, wax. — Soft ! — 
 and the impressure her Lucrece, with 
 which she uses to seal : 'tis my lady : To 
 whom should this be ? 
 
 Fab. This wins him, liver and all. 
 
 Mai. [Reads.] Jore knoios, I love: 
 But tvlio? 
 Lips do not move. 
 No mail, must knoiv. 
 
 No man must know. — What follows ? 
 the numbers altered! — No man must 
 knoio : — If this should be thee, Malvolio ? 
 
 Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock! 
 Mai. Imay command, where I adore : 
 
 But silence, like a Lucrece knife. 
 With bloodless stroke my heart 
 doth gore; 
 M, 0, A, I, doth sivay my life. 
 
 Fab. A fustian riddle I 
 
 Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. 
 
 Mai. M, 0, A, I, doth siuay my life. 
 
 — Nay, but first, let me see, — let me see, 
 
 — let me see. 
 
 Fab. What a dish of poison has she 
 dressed him ! 
 
 Sir To. And with what wing the stan- 
 nyel checks at it ! 
 
 Mai. / may command, luhere I adore. 
 Why, she may command me ; I serve her, 
 she is my lady. Why, this is evident to 
 any formal capacity. There is no obstruc- 
 tion in this; — And the end, — What 
 should that alphabetical position portend ? 
 If I could make that resemble something 
 in me,— Softly ! M, 0, A, I.— 
 
 Sir To. 0, ay ! make up that : — he is 
 now at a cold scent. 
 
 Fah. Sowter will cry ujion't for all 
 this, though it be as rank as a fox. 
 
 Mai. M, — Malvolio ; — M, — why, that 
 begins my name. 
 
 Fab. Did not I say, he would work it 
 out ? the cur is excellent at faults. 
 
 Mai. M, — But then there is no conso- 
 nancy in the sequel : that suffers' under 
 probation : A should follow, but 
 does. 
 
 Fab. And shall end, I hope. 
 
 Sir To. Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and 
 make him cry, 0. 
 
 Mai. And then / comes behind ; — 
 
 Fai. Ay, an you had any eye behind 
 you, you might see more detraction at 
 .your heels, than fortunes before you. 
 
 Mai. 31, 0, A, I ; — This simulation is 
 not as the former: — and yet, to crush 
 this a little, it Avoukl bow to me, for every 
 one of these letters are in my name. 
 Soft; here follows prose. — If this fall 
 into thy hand, revolve. In my stars lam 
 above thee; but be not afraid of greatness : 
 Some are born great, some achieve greatness, 
 and some have greatness thrust upon them. 
 Thy fates ojjen their liands ; let tity blood 
 and sjnrit embrace them. And, to inure 
 
 o88 
 
Act II. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. Scexe V. 
 
 thyself to tuhat thou art like to be, cast thi/ 
 humble slough, and appear fresh. Be 
 opposite with a hinsman, szirly with serv- 
 ants : let thy tongue tang arguments of 
 state; put thyself into the trich of singu- 
 larity : she thus advises thee, that sighs for 
 thee. Remember loho commended thy 
 yelloto stoclcings ; and ivished to see thee 
 ever cross-gartered : I say, remember. Go 
 to ; thou art made, if thou desirest to he 
 so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, 
 the felloio of servants, and not loorthy to 
 touch fortune's fingers. Fareioell. She that 
 7vouId alter services with thee, 
 The fortunate-iinhapipy. 
 Day-light and champain discovers not 
 more : this is open. I will be proud, I 
 will read politick authors, I will baffle Sir 
 Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, 
 I will be point-de-vice, the very man. I 
 do not now fool myself, to let imagination 
 jade me ; for every reason excites to this, 
 that my lady loves me. She did com- 
 mend my yellow stockings of late, she did 
 praise my leg lieing cross-gartered ; and in 
 this she manifests herself to my love, and, 
 with a kind of injunction, drives me to 
 these habits of her liking. I thank my 
 stars, I am happy. I will be strange, 
 stout, iu yellow stockings, and cross-gar- 
 tered, even with the swiftness of putting 
 on. Jove, and my stars be praised ! — 
 Here is yet a postscript. Tliou canst not 
 choose but knoiu who I am. If thou enter- 
 tainest my love, let it apjyear in thy smil- 
 ing ; thy smiles become thee well : therefore 
 in mji presence still smile, dear my sioeet, 
 I pr'ythee. Jove, I thank thee. — I will 
 
 smile ; I will do everything that thou wilt 
 have me. [Exit. 
 
 Fab. I will not give my part of this 
 sport for a pension of thousands to be 
 paid from the Sophy. 
 
 Sir To. I could marry this wench for 
 this device. 
 
 Sir And. So could I too. 
 
 Sir To. And ask no other dowry with 
 her, but such another jest. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Sir And. Nor I neither. 
 
 Fab. Here comes my noble gull- 
 catcher. 
 
 Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot o'my neck ? 
 
 Sir And. Or o'mine either? 
 
 Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at 
 tray-trip, and become thy bond slave? 
 
 Sir And. I'faith, or I either. 
 
 Sir To. Why, thou hast put him in 
 such a dream, that, when the image of it 
 leaves him, he must run mad. 
 
 Mar. Nay, but say true ; does it work 
 upon him? 
 
 Sir To. Like aqua vitfe. 
 
 Mar. If you will then see the fruits of 
 the sport, mark his first approach before 
 my lady: he will come to her in yellow 
 stockings, and 'tis a color she abhors ; 
 and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; 
 and he will smile upon her, which will 
 now be so unsuitable to her disposition, 
 being addicted to a melancholy as she is, 
 that it cannot but turn him into a notable 
 contempt: if you will see it, follow me. 
 
 Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou 
 most excellent devil of wit. 
 
 Sir And. I'll make one too. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT In. 
 
 ScEKE I. Olivia's Garden. 
 Enter Viola, and Clown willi a tabor. 
 Vio. Save thee, friend, and thy mu 
 
 sic : Dost thou live by thy tabor? 
 
 C'lo. No, sir, I live by the church. 
 
 Vio. Art thou a churchman? 
 
 Clo. No such matter, sir; I do live by 
 the church: for I do live at my house, and 
 my house doth stand by the church. 
 
 389 
 
Act III. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU AVILL. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Vio. So tliou may'st say, the king lies 
 by a beggar, if a beggar d^well near him : 
 or, the church stands by thy taboi", if thy 
 tabor stand by the church. 
 
 Clo. You have said, sir. — To see this 
 age! — A sentence is but a cheveril glove 
 to a good wit ; How quickly the wrong 
 side may be turned outward ! 
 
 Vio. I warrant thou art a merry fel- 
 low, and carest for nothing. 
 
 Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for some- 
 thing: but in my conscience, sir, I do not 
 care for you ; if that be to care for nothing, 
 sir, I would it would make you invisible. 
 
 Vio. Art not thou the lady Olivia's 
 fool? 
 
 Clo. No, indeed, sir ; the lady Olivia 
 has no folly : she will keep no fool, sir, 
 till she be married ; and fools are as like 
 husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the 
 husband's the bigger ; I am, indeed, not 
 her fool, but her corrupter of words. 
 
 Vio. I saw thee late at the count Or- 
 sino's. 
 
 Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the 
 orb, like the sun ; it shines everywhere. 
 I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should 
 be as oft with your master, as with my 
 mistress: I think, I saw your wisdom there. 
 
 Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll 
 no more with thee. Hold, there's ex- 
 pences for thee. Is thy lady within ? 
 
 Clo. My lady is within, sir. I will 
 construe to her whence you come : who 
 you are, and what you would, are out of 
 my welkin : I might say, element ; but 
 the word is over-worn. [Exit. 
 
 Vio. This fellow's wise enough to play 
 the fool ; 
 And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit. 
 He must observe their mood on whom he 
 jests, ' 
 
 The quality of persons, and the time ; 
 And, like the haggard, check at every 
 
 feather 
 That comes before his eye. This is a 
 practice. 
 
 As full of labor as a wise man's art: 
 For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit ; 
 But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint 
 their wit. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch mid SirA:s drew 
 Ague-cheek. 
 
 Sir To. Save you, gentleman. 
 
 Vio. And you, sir. 
 
 Sir And. Dicu vons garde, monsieur. 
 
 Vio. Et oous aussi : voire serviteur. 
 
 Sir And. I hope, sir, you are; and I 
 am yours. 
 
 Sir To. Will you encounter the house ? 
 my niece is desirous you should enter, if 
 your trade be to her. 
 
 Vio. I am bound to your niece, sir ; I 
 mean, she is the list of my voyage. 
 
 Sir To. Taste your legs, sir, put them 
 to motion. 
 
 Vio. My legs do better understand 
 me, sir, than I understand what you 
 mean by bidding me taste my legs. 
 
 Sir To. I mean, to go, sir, to enter. 
 
 Vio. I Avill answer you with gait and 
 entrance. But we are prevented. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Maria. 
 
 Most excellent accomplished lady, the 
 heavens rain odors on you ! 
 
 Sir A nd. That youth's a rare courtier ! 
 Rain odors ! Well. 
 
 Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, 
 but to your own most pregnant and 
 vouchsafed ear. 
 
 Sir And. Odors, pregnant, and voucli- 
 safed : — I'll get 'tm all ihree ready. 
 
 Oli. Let the garden door be shut, and 
 leave me to my hearing. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and 
 
 Maria. 
 Give me your hand, sir. 
 
 Vio. My duty, madam, and most 
 humble service. 
 
 Oli. What is your name ? 
 
 Vio. Cesario is your servant's name, 
 fair princess. 
 
 390 
 
Act III. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 SCESE I. 
 
 on. My servant, sir ! 'Twas never 
 merry world, 
 Since lowly feigning was called compli- 
 
 nlent : 
 You are servant to the count Orsino, 
 youth. 
 Vio. And he is yours, and his must 
 needs be yours. 
 Your servant's servant is your servant, 
 madam. 
 on. For him, I think not on him : for 
 his thoughts, 
 'Would they were blanks, rather than 
 fill'd with me ! 
 Vio. Madam, I come to whet your 
 gentle thoughts 
 On his behalf : 
 
 on. 0, by your leave, I pray you; 
 
 I bade you never speak again of him : 
 But, would you undertake another suit, 
 I had rather hear you to solicit that. 
 Than music from the spheres. 
 
 Vio. Dear lady, 
 
 OIL Give me leave, I beseech you : I 
 did send. 
 After the last enchantment you did here, 
 A ring in chase of you : so did I abuse 
 Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you : 
 Under your hard construction must I sit. 
 To force that on you, in a shameful cun- 
 ning. 
 Which you knew none of yours: What 
 
 might you think ? 
 Have you not set mine honor at the 
 
 stake. 
 And baited it with all the unmuzzled 
 
 thoughts 
 That tyrannous heart can think ? To one 
 
 of your receiving 
 Enough is shown ; a Cyprus, not a bosom. 
 Hides my poor heart : So let me hear you 
 sjDeak. 
 Vio. I pity you. 
 on. That's a degree to love. 
 Vio. No, not a grise ; for 'tis a vulgar 
 proof. 
 That very oft we pity enemies. 
 
 Oli. Why, then, methinks, 'tis time to 
 smile again ; 
 0, world, how apt the poor are to be 
 
 proud ! 
 If one should be a prey, how much the 
 
 better 
 To fall before the lion, than the wolf ? 
 
 \^Clock strikes. 
 The clock upbraids me with the waste of 
 
 time, — 
 Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have 
 
 you : 
 And yet, when wit and youth is come to 
 
 harvest. 
 Your wife is like to reap a proper man : 
 There lies your way, due west. 
 
 Vio. Then westward-ho : 
 
 Grace, and good disposition 'tend your 
 
 ladyship ! 
 You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by 
 me ? 
 Oli. Stay : 
 I pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of 
 me. 
 Yio. That you do think, you are not 
 
 what you are. 
 Oli. If I think so, I think the same of 
 
 you. 
 Vio. Then think you right ; I am not 
 
 what I am. 
 Oli. I would you were as I would have 
 
 you be ! 
 Vio. Would it be better, madam, than 
 I am, 
 I wish it might ; for now I am your fool. 
 Oli. 0, what a deal of scorn looks 
 beautiful 
 In the contempt and anger of his lip ! 
 A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more 
 
 soon 
 Than love that would seem hid : love's 
 
 night is noon. 
 Cesario, by the roses of the spring, 
 By maid hood, honor, truth, and every 
 
 thing, 
 I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride. 
 Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. 
 
 301 
 
Act III. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OK, WHAT YOU WILL. Scexe II. 
 
 Do not extort thy reasons from this 
 
 clause. 
 For, that I woo, thou therefore hast do 
 
 cause : 
 But, rather, reason thus with reason 
 
 fetter : 
 Love sought is good, but given unsought 
 
 is better. 
 Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my 
 youth, 
 I have one heart, one bosom, and one 
 
 truth, 
 And that no woman has ; nor never none 
 Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. 
 And so adieu, good madam ; never more 
 Will I my master's tears to you deplore, 
 on. Yet come again : for thou, per- 
 haps, may'st move 
 That heart, which now abhors, to like his 
 
 love, [Bxeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Room in Olivia's House. 
 
 Unter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew 
 Ague-cheek, a^id Fabian. 
 
 Sir And. No, faith, I'll not stay a jot 
 
 longer. 
 Sir To. Thy reason, dear venom, give 
 
 thy reason. 
 Fab. You must needs yield your rea- 
 son, sir Andrew. 
 Sir And. Marry, I saw your niece do 
 more favors to the count's serving man, 
 than ever she bestowed upon me : I saw't 
 i'the orchard. 
 
 Sir To. Did she see thee the while, old 
 
 boy ? tell me that. 
 Sir And. As plain as I see you now. 
 Fal. This was a great argument of 
 
 love in her towards you. 
 Sir And. 'Slight 1 will you make an 
 
 ass o' me ? 
 Fab. I will prove it legitimate, sir, 
 upon the oaths of judgment and reason. 
 
 Sir To. And they have been grand 
 jury-men, since before Noah was a sailor. 
 
 Fab. She did show favor to the youth in 
 your sight, only to exasperate you, to awake 
 your dormouse valor, to put fire in your 
 heart, and brimstone in your liver: You 
 should then have accosted her ; and with 
 some excellent jests, fire-new from the 
 mint, you should have banged the youth 
 into dumbness. This was looked for at 
 your hand, and this was baulked : the 
 double gilt of this opportunity you let 
 time wash off, and you are now sailed into 
 the north of my lady's opinion; where you 
 will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's 
 beard, unless you do redeem it by some 
 laudable attemjDt, either of valor, or 
 policy. 
 
 Sir A nd. And't be any way, it must 
 be with valor; for policy I hate: I had as 
 lief be a Brownist, as a politician. 
 
 Sir To. Why then, build me thy for- 
 tunes upon the basis of valor. Challenge 
 me the count's youth to fight with him ; 
 hurt him in eleven places ; my niece shall 
 take note of it: and assure th^'self, there 
 is no love-broker in the world can more 
 prevail in man's commendation with 
 woman, than report of valor. 
 
 Fab. There is no way but this. Sir 
 Andrew. 
 
 Sir And. Will either of you bear me a 
 challenge to him ? 
 
 Sir To. Go, write it in a martial hand; 
 be curst and brief; it is no matter hew 
 witty, so it be eloquent, and full of inven- 
 tion: taunt him with the license of ink: 
 if thou tliou'd him some thrice, it shall 
 not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie 
 in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet 
 were big enough for the bed of Ware in 
 England, set 'em down; go, about it. Let 
 there be gall enough in thy ink: though 
 thou write with a goose-pen, no matter: 
 About it. 
 
 Sir And. Where shall I fiud you ? 
 
 Sir To. We'll call thee at the cnbiculo; 
 Go. \_Exit Sir Andreiv. 
 
 392 
 
Act III. 
 
 TWELE^ni NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. Scene IIL 
 
 Fab. This is a dear manakin to you, 
 
 Sir Toby. 
 Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad ; 
 some two thousand strong, or so. 
 Fab. We shall have a rare letter from 
 
 him: but you'll not deliver it ? 
 Sir To. Never trust me then; and by 
 all means stir on the youth to an answer. 
 I think, oxen and wainropes cannot hale 
 them together. For Andrew, if he were 
 opened, and you find so much blood in 
 his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll 
 eat the rest of the anatomy. 
 
 Fab. And his opposite, the youth, 
 bears in his visage no great presage of 
 cruelty. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Sir To. Look, where the youngest 
 wren of nine comes. 
 
 Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will 
 laugh yourselves into stitches, follow me: 
 yon' gull Malvolio is in yellow stockings. 
 
 Sir To. And cross-gartered ? 
 
 Mar. Most villainously ; like a pedant 
 that keeps a school i'the church. — I have 
 dogged him, like his murderer; He does 
 obey every point of the letter that I 
 dropped to betray him. He does smile 
 his face into more lines, than are in the 
 new map, with the augmentation of the 
 Indies: you have not seen such a thing as 
 'tis ; I can hardly forbear hurling things 
 at him. I know, my lady will strike him; 
 ^f she do, he'll smile, and take't for a 
 great favor. 
 
 Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us 
 where he is. [FxetcnL 
 
 Scene III. A Street. 
 Enter Antonio and Sebastian. 
 
 Seb. I would not, by my will, have 
 
 troubled you ; 
 But, since you make your pleasure of your 
 
 pains, 
 I will no further chide you. 
 
 Ant. I could not stay behind you; my 
 
 desire, 
 More sharp than filed steel, did spur me 
 
 forth: 
 And not all love to see you, (though so 
 
 much. 
 As might have drawn one to a longer 
 
 voyage,) 
 But jealousy what might befall your 
 
 travel. 
 Being skilless in these parts; which to a 
 
 stranger, 
 IJnguided, and unfriended, often prove 
 Rough and unhospitable: My willing 
 
 love. 
 The rather by these arguments of fear. 
 Set forth in your pursuit. 
 
 Seb. My kind Antonio, 
 
 I can no other answer make, but, thanks. 
 And thanks, and ever thanks: Often 
 
 good turns 
 Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay: 
 But, were my worth, as is my conscience, 
 
 firm. 
 You should find better dealing. What's 
 
 to do? 
 Shall we go see the reliques of this 
 
 town ? 
 Ant. To-morrow, sir; best, first, go 
 
 see your lodging. 
 Seb. I am not weary, and 'tis long to 
 
 night; 
 I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes 
 With the memorials, and the things of 
 
 fame. 
 That do renown this city. 
 
 Ant. 'Would you'd pardon me; 
 
 I do not without danger walk these 
 
 streets: 
 Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst the Count his 
 
 gallies, 
 I did some service; of such note, indeed. 
 That, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be 
 
 answer'd. 
 Seb. Belike, you slew great number of 
 
 his people. 
 
 393 
 
Act III. TWELFTH NIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU W^ILL. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Ant. The offense is not of such a 
 bloody nature; 
 Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel, 
 Might well have given us bloody argu- 
 ment. 
 It might have since been answer'd in re- 
 paying 
 What we took from them; which for traf- 
 fic's sake 
 Most of our city did: only myself stood 
 
 out: 
 For which, if I be lapsed in this place, 
 I shall pay dear. 
 
 Sei. Do not then walk too open. 
 
 Ant. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, 
 
 here's my purse; 
 
 In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, 
 
 Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet. 
 
 Whiles you beguile the time, and feed your 
 
 knowledge, 
 With viewing of the town; there shall you 
 have me. 
 Seb. Why I your purse ? 
 A7it. Haply, your eye shall light upon 
 some toy 
 You have desire to purchase; and your 
 
 store, 
 I think, is not for idle markets, sir. 
 Seb. I'll be your purse-bearer, and 
 
 leave you for an hour. 
 Ant. To the Elephant. — 
 Seb. I do remember. 
 
 [Exeu7it. 
 
 Scene IV. Olivia's Garden. 
 Bnter Olivia atid Maria. 
 OU. I have sent after him: He says, 
 he'll come; 
 How shall I feast him? what bestow on 
 
 him ? 
 For youth is bought more oft, than begg'd, 
 ' or borrow'd. 
 
 I speak too loud. 
 
 Where is Malvolio ? — he is sad, and civil, 
 And suits well for a servant with my for- 
 tunes; — 
 Where is Malvolio ? 
 
 Mar. He's coming, madam ; 
 
 But in strange manner. He is sure pos- 
 
 sess'd. 
 OU. Why, what's the matter ? does he 
 
 rave ? 
 Mar. No, madam 
 
 He does nothing but smile; your lady- 
 ship 
 
 Were best have guard about you if he 
 come; 
 
 For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits. 
 OU. Go call him hither. I'm as mad 
 as he. 
 
 If sad and merry madness equal be. — 
 
 Enter Malvolio. 
 
 How now, Malvolio ? 
 Mar. Sweet lady, ho, ho. [Smiles 
 
 fantastically . 
 OU. Smil'st thou ? 
 I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 
 
 Mar. Sad, lady ? I could be sad : This 
 does make some obstruction in the blood, 
 this cross-gartering: But what of that, 
 if it please the eye of one, it is with me 
 as the very true sonnet is: Please one, and 
 please all. 
 
 OU. AVhy, how dost thou, man ? what 
 
 is the matter with thee ? 
 Mar. Not black in my mind, though 
 yellow in my legs: It did come to his 
 hands, and commands shall be executed. 
 I think, we do know the sweet Eoman 
 hand. 
 
 OU. Wilt thou go to bed,. Malvolio ? 
 Mar. To bed ? ay, sweet-heart; and I'll 
 
 come to thee. 
 OU. God comfort thee ! Why dost 
 thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft ? 
 Mar. How do you, Malvolio? 
 Mai, At your request? Yes; Nightin- 
 gales answer daws. 
 Mar. Why appear you with this ridi- 
 culous boldness before my lady ? 
 Mai. Be not afraid of greatness : 
 
 'Twas well Avrit. 
 OU. What meanest thou by that, Mal- 
 volio ? 
 
 39i 
 
Act III. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. Scene IV. 
 
 Mai. Some are horn great, — 
 
 OU. Ha? 
 
 Mai. Some achieve greatness, — 
 
 on. What say'st thou? 
 
 Mai. A)id some have greatness thrust 
 upon them. 
 
 on. Heaven restore thee ! 
 
 Mai. Remember who commended thy 
 yellow stockings; — 
 
 Oli. Thy yellow stockings? 
 
 Mai. And wished to see thee cross-gar- 
 tered. 
 
 Oli. Cross-gartered ? 
 
 Mai. Oo to: thou .art made, if thou 
 desires to he so: — 
 
 Oli. Am I made? 
 
 Mai. If not, let me see thee a servant 
 still. 
 
 Oli. Why, this is very midsummer 
 madness. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Madam, the young gentlemen of 
 the count Orsino's is returned; I could 
 hardly entreat him back: he attends your 
 ladyship's pleasure. 
 
 Oli. I'll come to him. \_Exit Servant. 
 Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. 
 Where's my cousin Toby? Let some of 
 my people have a special care of him; I 
 ■would not have him miscarry for the half 
 of my dowry. [Exeunt Olivia and Maria. 
 
 Mai. Oh, ho ! do you come near me 
 now? no worse man than sir Toby to look 
 to me? This concurs directly with the 
 letter: she sends him on purpose, that I 
 miay appear stubborn to him; for she 
 incites me to that in the letter. Cast thy 
 humble slongh, says she: be opposite with 
 a kinsman, surly with servants, — let thy 
 tongue tang with arguments of state, — 
 put thy self into the trich of singularity, — 
 and, consequently, sets down the manner 
 how; as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a 
 slow tongue, iuthe habit of s.ome sir of 
 note, and so forth. I have limed her; 
 but it is Jove's doing, and Jove make me 
 
 thankful ! And, when she went away now. 
 Let this felloio he looked to: Fellow! 
 Not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fel- 
 low. Why, every thing adheres together; 
 that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a 
 scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or un- 
 safe circumstance, — What can be said ? 
 Nothing, that can be, can come between 
 me and the full prospect of my hopes. 
 Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and 
 he is to be thanked. 
 
 Ee-enter Maria, with Sir Toby 
 Belch, and Fabian. 
 
 Sir To. Which way is he, in the name 
 of sanctity? I'll speak to him. 
 
 Fa,h. Here he is, here he is: — How is't 
 with you, sir? how is't with you man? 
 
 Mai. Go off; I discard you, let me enjoy 
 my private; go off. 
 
 Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks 
 within him! did I not tell you? — Sir Toby, 
 my lady prays you to have a care of him. 
 
 Mai. Ah, ha! does she so? 
 
 Sir To. Goto, go to; peace, peace, we 
 must deal gently with him; let me alone. 
 How do you, Malvolio? how is't Avith you? 
 What, man! defy the devil: consider he's 
 an enemy to mankind. 
 
 Mai. Do you know what you say? 
 
 Mar. La you, an you speak ill of the 
 devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray 
 heaven, he be not bewitclied! My lady 
 would not lose him for more than I'll say. 
 
 Mai. How now, mistress? 
 
 Mar. Olord! 
 
 Sir To. Pr'ythee hold thy peace, this 
 is not the way; Do you not see you move 
 him? let me alone with him. 
 
 Fab. No way but gentleness; gently, 
 gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be 
 roughly used. 
 
 Sir To. Why how now, my bawcock? 
 how dost thou, chuck? 
 
 Mai. Sir? 
 
 Sir To. Ay, Biddy, come with me. 
 What, man! 'tis not for gravity to play at 
 
 rjrs 
 
Act hi. TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 cherry-pit with Satan; Hang him, fonl 
 collier! 
 
 Mai. GrO hang yourselves all! you are 
 idle shallow things: I am not of your ele- 
 ment; you shall know more hereafter. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sir To. Is't possible? 
 
 Fad. If this were played upon a stage 
 now, I could condemn it as an improbable 
 fiction. 
 
 Sir To. His very genius hath taken 
 the infection of the device, man. 
 
 3Iar. Nay, pursue him now; lest the 
 device take air, and taint. 
 
 Fab. Why, we shall make him mad, 
 indeed. 
 
 3far. The house will be the quieter. 
 
 Sir To. Come, we'll have him ia a 
 dark room, and bound. My niece is 
 already in the belief that he is mad; we 
 may carry it thus, for our pleasure, and 
 his penance, till our very pastime, tired 
 out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on 
 him: at which time, we will bring the 
 device to the bar, and crown thee for a 
 finder of madmen. But see, but see. 
 
 Enter Sir Axdkew Ague-cheek. 
 
 Fab. More matter for a May morning- 
 
 Sir And. Here's the challenge, read 
 it; I warrant, there's vinegar and pepper 
 i'nt. 
 
 Fab. Is't so sawcy? 
 
 Sir And. Ay, is it, I warrant him; do 
 but read. 
 
 Sir To. Give me. [Reads.] Youth, 
 whatsoever ilw\i art but a scurvy fellow. 
 
 Fab. Good and valiant. 
 
 Sir To. Wonder not, nor admire notin 
 thy mind, ^ohy I call thee so, for I tvill 
 show thee no reaso?ifo7-'t. 
 
 Fab. A good note : that keeps you from 
 the blow of the law. 
 
 Sir To. Thou earnest to the lady Olivia, 
 and in my siglit she uses thee Tcindly: but 
 thoxi liest in thy throat, that is not the mat- 
 ter I challenge thee for. 
 
 Fab. Very brief, and exceedingly good 
 sense-less. 
 
 Sir To. / tvill way-lay thee going home; 
 where if it be thy chance to kill me, 
 
 Fab. Good. 
 
 Sir To. Tliou Icillest me lilce a rogue 
 and a villain. 
 
 Fab. Still you keep o' the windy side of 
 the law: Good. 
 
 Sir To. Fare thee tvell: And God have 
 mercy tipon one of our souls! He may have 
 mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and 
 so look to thyself. Tliy friend, as thou 
 wisest him, and thy sivorn enemy, 
 
 Andrew Ague-cheek. 
 
 Sir To. If this letter move him not, 
 his legs cannot: I'll giv't him. 
 
 Mar. You may have very fit occasion 
 for't; he is now in some commerce with 
 my lady, and will by and by depart. 
 
 Sir To. Go, sir Andrew; scout me for 
 him at the corner of the orchard, like a 
 bailiff: so soon as ever thou seesthim, draw; 
 and, as thou drawest, swear horrible; for 
 it comes to pass oft, that a terrible oath, 
 with a swaggering accent sharply twanged 
 off, gives manhood more approbation than 
 ever proof itself would have earned him. 
 Away. 
 
 Sir And. Nay, let me alone for swear- 
 ing. [Exit. 
 
 Sir To. Now will not I deliver his let- 
 ter: for the behavior of the young gentle- 
 man gives him out to be of good capacity 
 and breeding; his employment between his 
 lord and my niece confirms no less; there- 
 fore this letter, being so excellently igno- 
 rant, will breed no terror in the youth; he 
 will find it comes from a clodpole. But, 
 sir, I will deliver his challenge by word 
 of mouth; set upon Ague-cheek a notable 
 report of valor; and drive the gentleman, 
 (as, I. know his youth will aptly receive 
 it,) into a most hideous opinion of his 
 rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This 
 will so frighten them both, that they will 
 
 396 
 
Act III. TWELFTH NIGHT ;■ OE, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 SCEKE IV 
 
 kill one another by the look, like cocka- 
 trices. 
 
 Elder Olivia and Viola, 
 
 Fah. Here he comes with your niece: 
 give them way, till he take leave, and 
 presently after him. 
 
 Sir To. I will meditate the while upon 
 some horrid message for a challenge. 
 ^Exeunt Sir Toby, Fabian, and Ifaria. 
 OH. I have said too much unto a heart 
 of stone, 
 And laid mine honor too unchary out: 
 There's something in me, that reproves 
 
 my fault; 
 But such a headstrong potent fault it is. 
 That it hut mocks reproof. 
 
 Vio. With the same 'havior that your 
 passion bears. 
 Go on my master's griefs. 
 
 Oli. Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis 
 my picture; 
 Kefuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex 
 
 you: 
 And, I beseech you, come again to-mor- 
 row. 
 What shall you ask of me, that I'll deny; 
 That honor, sav'd, may upon asking give? 
 Vio. Nothing but this, your true love 
 
 for my master. 
 Oli. How with mine honor may I give 
 him that 
 Which I have given to you? 
 
 Via. I will acquit you. 
 
 OH. Well, come again to-morrow; 
 Fare thee well. [Exit. 
 
 Be-enter Sir Toby Belch, and Fabian. 
 
 Sir To. Gentleman, heaven save thee. 
 
 Vio. And you, sir. 
 
 Sir To. Thatdefence thou hast, betake 
 thee to't: of what nature the wrongs are 
 thou hast done him, I know not; but thy 
 intercepter, full of despight, bloody as 
 the hunter, attends thee at the orchard 
 end: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy 
 preparation, for thy assailant is quick, 
 skillful, and deadlv. 
 
 Vio. You mistake, sir; I am sure, no 
 man hath any quarrel to me, my remem- 
 brance is very free and clear from any 
 image of oSence done to any man. 
 
 Sir To. You'll find it otherwise, I 
 assure you: therefore, if you hold your life 
 at any price, betake you to your guard; 
 for your opposite hath in him what youth, 
 strength, skill and wrath, can furnish man 
 withgl. 
 
 Vio. I pray you, sir, what is he? 
 
 Sir To. He is knight, dubbed with 
 unbacked rapier, and on carpet consider- 
 ations; but he is a devil in private brawl: 
 souls and bodies hath he divorced three; 
 and his incensement at this moment is so 
 implacable, that satisfaction can be none 
 but by pangs of death and sepulchure: 
 hob, nob, is his word; give't or tak't. 
 
 Vio. I will return again into the house, 
 and desire some conduct of the lady. I 
 am no fighter. I have heard of some kind 
 of men, that put quarrels purposely on 
 others, to taste their valor: belike, this is 
 a man of that quirk. 
 
 Sir To, Sir, no;hisindignationderives 
 itself out of a very competent injury; 
 therefore get you on, and give him his 
 desire. Back you shall not to the house, 
 unless you undertake that with me, which 
 with as much safety you might answer 
 him: therefore, on, or strip your sword stark 
 naked; for meddle you must, that's cer- 
 tain, or forswear to wear iron about you. 
 
 Vio. This is as uncivil, as strange. I 
 beseech you, to do me this courteous oftice, 
 as to know of the knight what my offence 
 to him is: it is something of my negligence, 
 nothing of my purpose. 
 
 Sir To. I will do so. Signior Fabian, 
 stay you by this gentleman till my return. 
 
 {Exit Sir Toby. 
 
 Via. Pray you, sir, do you know of 
 this matter? 
 
 Fab. I know the knight is incensed 
 against you, even to a mortal arbitrament; 
 but nothing of the circumstance more. 
 
 307 
 
Act III. 
 
 TWELFTH XIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. Sckxe IT. 
 
 Via. I beseech you^ what manner of 
 man is he? 
 
 Fab. Nothing of that wonderful 
 promise, to read him by his form, as you 
 are like to find him in the proof of his 
 valor. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, 
 bloody, and fatal opposite that you could 
 possibly have found in any part of Illyria: 
 Will you walk toward him? I will make 
 your peace with him, if I can. 
 
 Vio. Ishall be much bound to you fort : 
 I am one, who would rather go with sir 
 priest, than sir knight: I care not who 
 knows so much of my mettle. [Exeunt. 
 
 Re-ejiter Sir Tobt with Sir An'DRE'U'. 
 
 Sir To. Why, man, he's a very devil; 
 I have not seen such a virago. I had a 
 pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all, 
 and he gives me the stuck-in, with such a 
 mortal motion, that it is inevitable; and 
 on tlie answer, he pays you as surely as 
 your feet hit the ground they step on: 
 They say he has been fencer to th-e Sophy. 
 
 Sir And. I'll not meddle with him. 
 
 Sir To. Ay, but he will not now be 
 pacified. Fabian can scarce hold him 
 yonder. 
 
 Sir And. Plague on't; an I thought he 
 had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, 
 I'd have seen him hanged ere I'd have chal- 
 lenged him. Let him let the matter slip, 
 and I'll give him my horse, gray Capilet. 
 
 Sir To. I'll make the motion: Stand 
 here, make a good show on't; this shall 
 end without the perdition of souls. Marry, 
 rU ride your horse as well as I ride you. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Re-enter Fabian and Viola. 
 
 I have his horse [To Fab.] to take up the 
 quarrel, I have persuaded him, the youth's 
 a devil. 
 
 Fuh. He is as horribly conceited of him; 
 and pants, and looks pale, as if a bear 
 were at his heels. 
 
 Sir To. There's no remedy, sir; he will 
 fight with you for his oath's sake: marry, 
 he hath better bethought him of his quar- 
 rel, and he finds that now scarce to be 
 worth talking of: therefore draw for the 
 supportance of his vow; he protests, he Avill 
 not hurt you. 
 
 Vio. Pray heaven defend me I A little 
 thing would make me tell them how much 
 I lack of a man. [Aside. 
 
 Fah. Give ground, if you see him 
 furious. 
 
 Sir To. Come, sir Andrew, there's no 
 remedy; the gentleman will, for his 
 honor's sake, have one bout with you : he 
 cannot by the duello avoid it : but he has 
 promised me, as he is a gentleman and a 
 soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; 
 to 't. 
 
 Sir And. Pray heaven, he keep his 
 oath. [Drati's. 
 
 Enter Antoxio. 
 
 Vio. I do assure you, 'tis against my 
 
 Avill. [Draws. 
 
 Ant. Put up your sword; — if this 
 
 young gentleman 
 
 Have done offence, I take the fault on 
 
 me; 
 If you offend him, I for him def}' you. 
 
 [Drawing. 
 Sir To. You, sir? why what are you? 
 Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares 
 yet do more 
 Than you have heard him brag to you he 
 will. 
 Sir To. Nay, if j^ou be an undertaker, 
 I am for you. [Draws. 
 
 Enter tico Officers. 
 
 Fal). good sir Toby, hold ; here come 
 
 the officers. 
 Sir To. I'll be witli you anon. 
 
 [To Antoxio. 
 Vio. Pray, sir, put up your sword if 
 
 you please. [To Sir Axdkew. 
 
 398 
 
Act III. TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. Scene IV. 
 
 Sir And. Many, will I, sir; — and for 
 that I pi'omised you, I'll be as good as my 
 word : He will bear easily, and reins well. 
 
 1 Off. This is the man, do thy office. 
 
 2 Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the 
 
 suit 
 Of Count Orsino. 
 
 Ant. You do mistake me, sir. 
 
 1 Off. No, sir, no jot; I know your 
 
 favor well. 
 Though now you have no sea-cap on your 
 
 head. — 
 Take him away; he knows, I know him 
 
 well. 
 Ant. I must obey. — This comes with 
 
 seeking you; 
 But there's no remedy; I shall answer it. 
 What will you do? Now my necessity. 
 Makes me to ask you for my purse : It 
 
 grieves me 
 Much more, for what I cannot do for you. 
 Than what befalls myself. You stand 
 
 amaz'd; 
 But be of comfort. 
 
 2 Off. Come, sir, away. 
 
 Ant. I must entreat of you some of 
 
 that money. 
 Vio. What money, sir? 
 
 For the fair kindness 3'ou have show'd 
 me here. 
 
 And, part, being prompted by your pres- 
 ent trouble, 
 
 Out of my lean and low ability 
 
 I'll lend you something : my having is 
 not much; 
 
 I'll make division of my present with 
 you : 
 
 Hold, there is half my coffer. 
 
 Ant. Will you deny me now? 
 
 Is't possible, that my deserts to you 
 
 Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my 
 misery, 
 
 Lest that it make me so unsound a man, 
 
 As to upbraid you with those kindnesses 
 
 That I have done for you. 
 
 Vio. I know of none, 
 
 Nor know I you by voice, or any feature: 
 
 I hate ingratitude more in a man. 
 
 Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunken- 
 ness. 
 
 Or any taint of vice, whose strong cor- 
 ruption 
 
 Inhabits our frail blood. 
 
 Ant. heavens themselves I 
 
 2 Off'. Come, sir, I pray you, go. 
 Ant. Let me speak a little. This 
 youth that you see here, 
 
 I snatched one half out of the jaws of 
 death ; 
 
 Reliev'd him with such sanctity of love, — 
 
 And to his image, which, methought, did 
 promise 
 
 Most venerable worth, did I devotion. 
 1 Off. What's that to us? The time 
 
 goes by; away. 
 Ant. But, 0, how vile an idol proves 
 this god! — 
 
 Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature 
 shame. — 
 
 In nature there's no blemish, but the 
 mind; 
 
 None can be call'd deform'd, but the un- 
 kind: 
 
 Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous evil 
 
 Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the 
 devil. 
 
 1 Off'. The man grows mad; away with 
 him. 
 
 Come, come, sir. 
 Ant. Lead me on. 
 
 \_Excnnt Officers, with Antonio. 
 
 Vio. Me thinks his words do from 
 such passions fly, 
 That he believes himself; so do not I. 
 Prove true, imagination, 0, prove true. 
 That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for 
 you ! 
 Sir To. Come hither, knight; come 
 hither, Fabian; we'll whisper over a couplet 
 or two of most sage saws. 
 
 Vio. He named Sebastian; I my 
 brother know 
 Yet living in my glass; even sucli, and so. 
 
 309 
 
Act III. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. Scene IV. 
 
 In favor was my brother; and he went 
 Still in this fashion, color, ornament. 
 For him I imitate : 0, if it prove. 
 Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh 
 in love I [Exit. 
 
 Sir To. A verj^ dishonest paltry boy, 
 and more a coward than a hare : his dis- 
 honesty appears in leaving his friend here 
 in necessit}", and denying him; and for 
 his cowardship, ask Fabian. 
 
 Fal). A coward, a most devout coward, 
 religious in it. 
 
 Sir And. 'Slid, I'll after him again, 
 and beat him. 
 
 Sir To. Do, cuff him soundly, but 
 never draw thy sword. 
 
 Sir And. An I do not, — \_Exit. 
 
 Fal). Come, let's see the event. 
 
 Sir To. I dare lay any money, 'twill 
 be nothing yet. \_Exeu7it. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. The Street before Olivia's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Sebastian and Clown. 
 
 Clo. Will you make me believe, that 
 I am not sent for you ? 
 
 Seh. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish 
 fellow; Let me be clear of thee. 
 
 Clo. Well held out, i' faith! No, I do 
 not know you; nor I am not sent to you 
 by my lady, to bid you come speak with 
 her; nor your name is not master Cesario; 
 nor this is not my nose neither. — Nothing, 
 that is so, is so. 
 
 Sei. I pr'ythee, vent thy folly some- 
 where else; Thou know'st not me. 
 
 Clo. Vent my folly! He has heard 
 that word of some great man, and now 
 applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I 
 am afraid this great lubber, the world, 
 will prove a cockney. — I pr'ythee now 
 ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what 
 I shall vent for my lady : Shall I vent to 
 her, that thou art coming? 
 
 Seh. I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart 
 from me; 
 There is money for thee; if you tarry 
 
 longer, 
 I shall give worse payment. 
 
 Clo. By my troth, thou hast an open 
 hand: — These wise men that give fools 
 money, get themselves a good report after 
 fourteen years' purchase. 
 
 Enter Sir Andret\', Sir Toby, and 
 Fabian. 
 
 Sir And. Now, sir, have I met you 
 again? there's for you. 
 
 [Striking Sebastian. 
 
 Seb. Why, there's for thee, and there, 
 and there : Are all the people mad ? 
 
 [Beating Sir Andrew. 
 
 Sir To. Hold, sir, or I'll throw your 
 dagger o'er the house. 
 
 Clo. This will I tell my lady straight : 
 I would not be in some of your coats for 
 two pence. [Exit Clown. 
 
 Sir To. Come on, sir; hold. 
 
 [Holding Sebastian. 
 
 Sir And. Nay, let him alone, I'll go 
 another way to work with him; I'll have 
 an action of battery against him, if there 
 be any law in Illyria : though I struck him 
 first, yet it's no matter for that. 
 
 Seb. Let go thy hand. 
 
 Sir To. Come, sir, I will not let you 
 go. Come, my young soldier, put up 
 your iron : you are well fleshed; come on. 
 
 Seb. I will be free from thee. What 
 wouldst thou know? 
 If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw 
 thy sword. [Dratvs. 
 
 Sir To. What, what? Nay, then I 
 must have an ounce or two of this mala- 
 pert blood from you. [Draivs. 
 
 400 
 
Act IV. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Enter Olivia. 
 
 on. Hold, Toby: on thy life, I charge 
 
 thee hold. 
 Sir To. Madam? 
 
 Oli. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious 
 wretch. 
 Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous 
 
 caves. 
 Where manners ne'er were preach'd ! out 
 
 of my sight. 
 Be not offended, dear Cesario : — 
 Eudesby, be gone! — I pr'ythee, gentle 
 
 friend. 
 [Exeunt Sir Toiy ,Sir Andreiv and Fabian. 
 Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, 
 
 sway 
 In this uncivil and unjust extent 
 Against thy peace. Go with me to my 
 
 house; 
 And hear thou there how many fruitless 
 
 pranks 
 This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou 
 
 thereby 
 May'st smile at this : thou shalt not 
 
 choose but go; 
 Do not deny : Beshrew his soul for me. 
 He started one poor heart of mine in thee. 
 Feb. What relish is in this? how runs 
 the stream? 
 Or I am mad, or else this is a dream : — 
 Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; 
 If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! 
 Oli. Nay, come, I pr'ythee : 'Would 
 
 thou'dst be rul'd by me! 
 Feb. Madam, I will. 
 Oli. 0, say so, and so be! 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Room in Olivia's House. 
 Enter Maria and Clown. 
 
 Mar. Nay, I pr'ythee, put on tliis 
 gown, and this beard; make him believe, 
 thou are Sir Topas, the curate; do it 
 quickly: I'll call sir Toby the whilst. 
 
 \_Exit Maria. 
 
 Glo. Well, I'll put it on, and will dis- 
 semble myself in't; I am not tall enough 
 to become the function well : nor lean 
 enough to be thought a good student : 
 but to be said, an honest man, and a good 
 housekeeper, goes as fairly, as to say, a 
 careful man, and a great scholar. The 
 competitors enter. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maeia. 
 
 Sir To. Jove bless thee, master parson. 
 
 C'lo. Bonos dies, sir Toby : for as the 
 old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen 
 and ink, very wittily said to a niece of 
 king Gorboduc, TJtaf, that is, is; so I, be- 
 ing master parson, am master parson ; For 
 what is that, but that? and is, but is? 
 
 Sir To. To him, sir Topas. 
 
 Clo. What, hoa, I say, — Peace in this 
 prison ! 
 
 Sir To. The knave counterfeits well; 
 a good knave. 
 
 Mai. [In an inner chamber.^ Who 
 calls there? 
 
 Olo. Sir Topas, the curate, who comes 
 to visit Malvolio the lunatic. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, sir Topas, good sir 
 Topas, go to my lady. 
 
 Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how 
 vexestthouthis man? talkest thou nothing 
 but of ladies? 
 
 Sir To. Well said, master parson. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, never was a man thus 
 wronged : good sir Topas, do not think I 
 am mad; they have laid me here in hide- 
 ous darkness. 
 
 Glo. Fie, thou dishonest Satan ! I call 
 thee by the most modest terms; for I am 
 one of those gentle ones, that will use the 
 devil himself with courtesy : Say'st thou 
 that house is dark? 
 
 Mai. As hell, sir Topas. 
 
 Clo. Why, it hath bay windows trans- 
 parent as barricadoes, and the clear stones 
 toward the south-north are as lustrous as 
 ebony; and yet complainest thou of ob- 
 struction ? 
 
 401 
 
Act IV. 
 
 TWELFTH XIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 SCEXE IL 
 
 Mai. I am not mad, sir Topas; I say 
 to you, this house is dark, 
 
 Clo. Madman^, thou errest : I say, 
 there is no darkness, but ignorance; in 
 which thou art more puzzled than the 
 Egyptians in their fog. 
 
 Mai. I say, this house is as dark as 
 ignorance, though ignorance were as dark 
 as hell; and I say, there Avas never man 
 thus abused : I am no more mad than you 
 are; make the trial of it in any constant 
 question. 
 
 Clo. What is the opinion of Pji;ha- 
 goras, concerning wild-fowl? 
 
 Mai. That tlie soul of our grandam 
 might haply inhabit a bird. 
 
 Clo. What thinkest thou of his 
 opinion? 
 
 Mai. I think nobly of the soul, and no 
 way approve his opinion. 
 
 Clo. Fare thee well : Remain thou 
 still in darkness : thou shalt hold the 
 opinion of Pythagoras, ere I Avill allow of 
 thy wits; and fear to kill a woodcock, lest 
 thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. 
 Fare thee well. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, sir Topas, — 
 
 Sir To. My most exquisite sir Topas! 
 
 Clo. Xay, I am for all waters. 
 
 Mar. Thou might'st have done this 
 without thy beard, and gown; he sees 
 thee not. 
 
 Sir To. To him in thine own voice, 
 and bring me word how thou findest him : 
 I would, Ave were well rid of this knavery. 
 If he may be conveniently delivered, I 
 would he were; for I am now so far in 
 offense with my niece, that I cannot pur- 
 sue with any safety this sport to the up- 
 shot. Come by and by to my chamber. 
 
 {^Exeunt Sir Tohy and Maria. 
 Clo. Hey Rohin, jolly Hob in. 
 
 Tell me how thy lady does. 
 
 [Si7iffing. 
 
 Mai. Fool.— 
 
 Clo, My lady is imkind, perdy. 
 
 Mai. Fool.— 
 
 Clo. Alas, lohy is she so? 
 
 Mai. Fool, I say; — 
 
 Clo. She loves aiiother — Who calls, ha? 
 
 Mai. Good fool, as ever thou wilt de- 
 serve Avell at my hand, help me to a can- 
 dle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a 
 gentleman, I will live to be thankful to 
 thee for't. 
 
 Clo. Master Malvolio! 
 
 Mai. Ay, good fool. 
 
 Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you besides 
 your five wits? 
 
 Mai. Fool, there was never man so no- 
 toriously abused: lam as Avell in my wits, 
 fool as thou art. 
 
 Clo. But as well? then you are mad, 
 indeed, if you be no better in your wits 
 than a fool. 
 
 Mai. They have here propertied me; 
 keep me in darkness, send ministers to 
 me, asses, and do all they can to face me 
 out of my wits. 
 
 Clo. xldvise you what you say; the 
 minister is here, — Malvolio, Malvolio, thy 
 wits the heavens restore! endeavor thy- 
 self to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble 
 babble. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas 
 
 Clo. Maintain no Avords Avith him, 
 good fellow. — Who, I, sir? not I, sir. 
 God b'Avi'you, good sir Topas. — Many, 
 amen. — I will, sir, I will. 
 
 Mai. Fool, fool, fool, I say, — 
 
 Clo Alas, sir, be patient. What say 
 you, sir? I am shent for speaking to you. 
 
 3Ial. Good fool, help me to some light, 
 and some paper; I tell thee, I am as well 
 in my Avits, as any man in Illyria. 
 
 Clo. Well-a-day, — that you Avere, sir! 
 
 Mai. By this hand I am: Good fool, 
 some ink, paper, and light, and convey 
 what I will set down to my lady; it shall 
 advantage thee more than ever the bear- 
 ing of letter did. 
 
 Clo. I will help you to't. But tell me 
 true, are you not mad indeed? or do you 
 but counterfeit? 
 
 402 
 
Act IV. 
 
 TWELFTH XIGHT ; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. Scexe III. 
 
 Mah Believe me, I am not; I tell thee 
 true. 
 
 Clo. Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman, 
 till I see his brains. I will fetch you 
 light, and paper, and ink. 
 
 Mai. Fool, I'll requite it in the highest 
 degree: I pr'ythee, begone. 
 
 Clo. I am gone sir, 
 And anon, sir, 
 I'll he withyoto agairi, 
 In a trice; 
 Lilce to the old vice 
 Tour need to sustain. 
 
 Who loitli dagger of lath, 
 In his rage and his lurath, 
 
 Cries, ah, ha ! to the devil: 
 Like a mad lad, 
 Pare thy nails, dad. 
 
 Adieu, goodman drival. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ScEKE III. Olivia's Garden. 
 Ejiter Sebastian. 
 
 Scb, This is the air; that is the glori- 
 ous sun; 
 
 This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and 
 see't: 
 
 And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me 
 thus. 
 
 Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio 
 then? 
 
 I could iiot find him at the Elephant: 
 
 Yet there he was; and there I found this 
 credit. 
 
 That he did range the town to seek me 
 out. 
 
 His counsel now might do me golden 
 service: 
 
 For though my soul disputes well with 
 my sense. 
 
 That this may be some error, but no mad- 
 ness. 
 
 Yet doth this accident and flood of 
 
 fortune 
 So far exceed all instance, all discourse, 
 That I am ready to distrust mine eyes. 
 And wrangle with my reason, that per- 
 suades me 
 To any other trust, but that I am mad. 
 Or else the lady's mad; yet, if 'twere so, 
 She could not sway her house, command 
 
 her followers. 
 Take, and give back, affairs and their 
 
 despatch. 
 With such a smooth, discreet, and stable 
 
 bearing, 
 As, I perceive, she does: there's some- 
 thing in't. 
 That is deceivable. But here comes the 
 lady. 
 
 Enter Olivia and a Priest. 
 
 Oli. Blame not this haste of mine: If 
 
 you mean well, 
 Now go with me, and with this holy man. 
 Into the chantry by: there, before him, 
 And underneath that consecrated roof, 
 Plight me the full assurance of your 
 
 faith; 
 That my most jealous and too doubtful 
 
 soul 
 May live at joeace: He shall conceal it, 
 Whiles you are willing it shall come to 
 
 note; 
 What time we will our celebration keep 
 According to my birth. — What do you 
 
 say? 
 Seh. I'll follow this good man, and go 
 
 with you ; 
 And, having sworn truth, ever will be 
 
 true. 
 Oli. Then lead the way, good father; 
 
 And heaven to shine, 
 
 That they may fairly note this act of 
 
 mine ! [Exeunt. 
 
 403 
 
Act V. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ScEKE I. The Street before Olivia's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Clown and Fabiak. 
 
 Fai. Now, as thou lovest me, let me 
 see his letter. 
 
 Clo. Good master Fabian, grant me 
 another request. 
 
 Fal. Anything. 
 
 Clo. Do not desire to see this letter. 
 
 Fab. That is, to give a dog, and in 
 recompense, desire my dog again. 
 
 Enter DtKE, Viola, and Attendants. 
 
 Dulce. Belong you to the lady Olivia, 
 friends? 
 
 Clo. Ay, sir; we are some of her trap- 
 pings. 
 
 Duke. I know thee well ; How dost 
 thou, my good fellow? 
 
 Clo. Trul}^, sir, the better for my foes, 
 and the worse for my friends. 
 
 Duhe. Just the contrary; the better 
 for thy friends. 
 
 Clo. Xo, sir, the wofse. 
 
 Duke. How can that be ? 
 
 Clo. Marry, sir, they praise me, and 
 make an ass of me; now my foes tell me 
 plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, 
 I profit in the knowledge of m3'self; and 
 b}' my friends I am abused: so that, con- 
 slusions to be as kisses, if your four 
 negatives make your two affirmatives, why, 
 then the worse for my friends, and the 
 better for my foes. 
 
 Duke. Why, this is excellent. 
 
 Clo. By my troth, sir, no; though it 
 please you to be one of my friends. 
 
 Duke. Thou shalt not be the worse for 
 me; there's gold. 
 
 Clo. But that it would be double-deal- 
 ing, sir, I would you could make it another. 
 
 Duke. 0, you give me ill counsel. 
 
 Clo. Put your grace in your pocket, 
 sir, for this once, and let your flesh and 
 blood obey it. 
 
 Duke. Well, I will be so much a sin- 
 ner to be a double-dealer; there's another. 
 
 Clo. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good 
 play; and the old saying is, the third pays 
 for all: the/?-()j?e.r, sir, is a good tripping 
 measure; or the bells of St. Bennet, sir, 
 may put you in mind: One, two, three. 
 
 Duke. You can fool no more money 
 out of me at this throw: if you will let 
 your lady know, I am here to speak with 
 her, and bring her along with you, it may 
 awake my bounty further. 
 
 Clo. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty 
 till I come again. I go, sir; but I would 
 not have you to think, that my desire of 
 having is the sin of covetousness: but, as 
 you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I 
 will awake it anon. \Exit Clown. 
 
 Enter Antoxio and Officers. 
 
 Vio. Here comes the man, sir, that 
 
 did rescue me. 
 Duke. That face of his I do remember 
 
 well; 
 Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear'd 
 As black as Yulcan, in the smoke of war: 
 A bawbling vessel was he captain of, 
 For shallow draught, and bulk, unpriza- 
 
 ble; 
 With which such scathful grapple did he 
 
 make 
 With the most noble bottom of our fleet. 
 That verj' envy, and the tongue of loss, 
 Cry'd fame and honor on him. — What's 
 
 the matter? 
 Off, Orsino, this is that Antonio, 
 That took the Phoenix, and her fraught 
 
 from Candy; 
 And this is he, that did the Tiger board. 
 When your young nephew Titt^s lost his 
 
 leg: 
 Here in the streets, desperate of shame, 
 
 and state. 
 In private brabble did he aj)j)rehend him. 
 Vio. He did me kindness, sir; drew on 
 
 my side; 
 
 404 
 
Act V. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 But, in conclusion, put strange speech 
 
 upon me, 
 I know not what 'twas, but distraction. 
 Duhe. Notable pirate! thou salt-water 
 
 thief ! 
 What foolish boldness brought thee to 
 
 their mercies. 
 Whom thou, in terms so bloody, and so 
 
 dear. 
 Hast made thine enemies? 
 
 Ant. Orsino, noble sir. 
 
 Be pleas'd that I shake oif these names 
 
 you give me; 
 Antonio never yet was thief, or pirate. 
 Though, I confess, on base and ground 
 
 enough, 
 Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me 
 
 hither: 
 That most ingrateful boy there, by your 
 
 side, 
 From the rude sea's enrag'd and foamy 
 
 mouth 
 Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was: 
 His life I gave him, and did thereto add 
 My love, without retention, or restraint. 
 All his in dedication: for his sake. 
 Did I expose myself, pure for his love. 
 Into the danger of this adverse town; 
 Drew to defend him, when he was beset; 
 Where being apprehended, his false cun- 
 ning, 
 (Not meaning to partake with me in 
 
 danger,) 
 Taught him to face me out of his acquaint- 
 ance. 
 And grew a twenty-years-removed thing. 
 While one would wink; denied me mine 
 
 own purse. 
 Which I had recommended to his use 
 Not half an hour before. 
 
 Vio. How can this be? 
 
 Duhe,. When came he to this town? 
 Ant. To-day, my lord; and for three 
 
 months before, 
 (No interim, not a minute's vacancy,) 
 Both day and night did we keep company. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Attendants. 
 
 Duhe. Here comes the countess; now 
 
 heaven walks on earth. 
 
 But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words 
 
 are madness. 
 Three months this youth hath tended 
 upon me; 
 
 But more of that anon. Take him 
 
 aside. 
 Oil. What would my lord, but that he 
 may not have. 
 Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable? — 
 Cesario, you do not keep j^romise with 
 me. 
 Vio. Madam? 
 
 Dithe. Gracious Olivia, 
 
 Oli. What do you say, Cesario ? 
 
 Good my lord, 
 
 Vio. My lord would speak, my duty 
 
 hushes me. 
 Oli. If it be aught to the old tune, my 
 lord. 
 It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear. 
 As howling after music. 
 Duhe. Still so cruel? 
 
 Oli. Still so constant, lord. 
 Duhe. What ! to perverseness? you 
 uncivil lady. 
 To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars 
 My soul the faithful'st offerings hath 
 
 breath'd out. 
 That e'er devotion tendered ! What shall 
 I do? 
 Oli. Even what it please my lord, that 
 
 shall become him. 
 Duhe. Why should I not, had I the 
 heart to do it. 
 Like to the Egyptian thief, at point of 
 
 death. 
 Kill what I love; a savage jealousy. 
 That sometime savors nobly? — Bat hear 
 
 me this: 
 Since you to non-regardance cast my 
 
 faith. 
 And that I partly fi:now the instrument 
 That screws me from my true place in 
 your favor. 
 
 405 
 
Act V. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Live you, the marble-breasted tyrant, 
 
 still; 
 But this your minion, whom, I know, you 
 
 love. 
 And whom, by heaven, I swear, I tender 
 
 dearly. 
 Him will I tear out of that cruel eye. 
 Where he sits crowned in his master's 
 
 spite. — 
 Come boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe 
 
 in mischief: 
 I'll sacrifice a lamb that I do love, 
 To spite a raven's heart within a dove. 
 
 [ Going. 
 
 Vio. And I, most jocund, apt, and 
 
 willingly. 
 
 To do you rest, a thousand deaths would 
 
 die. [FoUowing. 
 
 Oil. Where goes Cesario ? 
 
 Vio. After him I love. 
 
 More than I love these eyes, more than 
 
 my life. 
 More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love 
 
 wife : 
 If I do feign, you witnesses above. 
 Punish my life, for tainting of my love ! 
 on. Ah me, detested ! how am I be- 
 
 guil'd ! 
 Vio. Who does beguile you ? who 
 
 does do you wrong ? 
 Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself ! Is it 
 so long ! — 
 Call forth the holy father. 
 
 \_Exit an Attendant. 
 Duke. Come away. [To Yiola. 
 
 Oli. Whither, my lord? — Cesario, 
 
 husband, stay. 
 Duke. Husband ? 
 
 Oli. Ay, husband ; can he that deny? 
 Duke. Her husband, sirrah ? 
 Vio. No, my lord, not I. 
 
 Oli. Alas, it is the baseness of thy 
 fear. 
 That makes thee strangle thy propriety ; 
 Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up ; 
 Be that thou knowest thou art, and then 
 thou art 
 
 As great as that thou fear'st. — 0, wel- 
 come, father. 
 
 Re-enter Attendant and Priest. 
 
 Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence. 
 Here to unfold, (though lately we in- 
 tended 
 To keep in darkness, what occasion now 
 Reveals before 'tis ripe,) what thou dost 
 
 know 
 Hath newly pass'd between this youth and 
 
 me. 
 Priest. A contract of eternal bond of 
 
 love, 
 Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your 
 
 hands. 
 Attested by the holy close of lips, 
 Strengthen'd byinterchangement of your 
 
 rings ; 
 And all the ceremony of this compact 
 Seal'd in my function, by my testimony: 
 Since when, my watch hath told me, 
 
 toward my grave, 
 I have travell'd but two hours. 
 
 Duke. 0, thou dissembling cub ! what 
 
 wilt thou be. 
 When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy 
 
 case ? 
 Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow. 
 That thine own trip shall be thine over- 
 throw ? 
 Farewell, and take her; but direct thy 
 
 feet. 
 Where thou and I henceforth may never 
 
 meet. 
 Vio. My lord, I do protest, — 
 Oli. 0, do not swear ; 
 
 Hold little faith, though thou hast too 
 
 much fear. 
 
 Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, with 
 his head hroke. 
 
 Sir And. For the love of heaven, a 
 surgeon ; send one presently to sir Toby. 
 Oli. What's the matter ? 
 
 406 
 
Act V. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Sir And. He has broke my head 
 across, and has given sir Toby a bloody 
 coxcomb too : for the love of heaven, 
 your helji : I had rather than forty 
 pound, I were at home. 
 
 OIL Who has done this, sir Andrew ? 
 
 *S'/?' And. The count's gentleman, one 
 Cesario ; we took liim for a coward, but 
 he's the very devil incardinate. 
 
 Duhe. My gentleman, Cesario ! 
 
 Sir And. Od's lifelings, here he is : 
 — You broke my head for nothing ; and 
 that that I did, I Avas set on to do't by 
 sir Toby. 
 
 Vio, Why do you speak to me ? I 
 never hurt you ; 
 You drew your sword upon me, without 
 
 cause ; 
 But I bespake you fair, and hurt you not. 
 
 Sir And. If a bloody coxcomb be a 
 hurt, you have hurt me ; I think, you set 
 nothing by a bloody coxcomb. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch, drunk, led by the 
 Clown. 
 
 Here comes sir Toby halting, you shall 
 hear more : but if he had not been in 
 drink, he would have tickled you other- 
 gates than he did. 
 
 Duhe. How now, gentlemen ? how is't 
 with you ? 
 
 Sir To. That's all one ; he has hurt 
 me, and there's the end on't. — Sot, did'st 
 see Dick surgeon, sot ? 
 
 Clo. he's drunk, sir Toby, an hour 
 agone ; his eyes were set at eight i' the 
 morning. 
 
 Sir To. Then he's a rogue, and a 
 passy-measures ; I hate a drunken pavin 
 rogue. 
 
 OH. Away with him : who hath made 
 this havock with them ? 
 
 Sir And. I'll help you, sir Toby, 
 because we'll be dressed together. 
 
 Sir To. Will you help an ass-head, 
 and a coxcomb, and a knave ? a thin- 
 faced knave, a gull ? 
 
 Oli. Get him to bed, and let his hurt 
 be look'd to. 
 
 [^Exeunt Cloivn, Sir Toby, and Sir An- 
 dreio. 
 
 Enter Sebastian. 
 
 Seb. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt 
 your kinsman ; 
 But had it been the brother of my blood, 
 I must have done no less, with wit, and 
 
 safety. 
 You throw a strange regard upon me, 
 
 and 
 By that I do perceive it hath ofEended 
 
 you; 
 Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows 
 We made each other but so late ago. 
 Duhe. One face, one voice, one habit, 
 and two persons ; 
 A natural perspective, that is, and is not. 
 
 Seb. Antonio, my dear Antonio ! 
 How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd 
 
 me. 
 Since I have lost thee ! 
 Ant. Sebastian are you ? 
 Seb. Fear'st thou that, Antonio ? 
 
 Ant. How have you made division of 
 yourself ? — 
 An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin 
 Than these two creatures. Which is 
 Sebastian ? 
 Oli. Most wonderful ! 
 Seb. Do I stand there ? I never had a 
 brother : 
 Nor can there be that deity in my nature. 
 Of here and everywhere. I had a sister. 
 Whom the blind waves and surges have 
 
 devour'd : — 
 Of charity, what kin are you to me ? 
 
 \To Viola. 
 What countryman ? what name ? what 
 parentage ? 
 Vio. Of Messaline : Sebastian was my 
 father ; 
 Such a Sebastian was my brother too. 
 So went he suited to his watery tomb : 
 If spirits can assume both form and suit. 
 You come to fright us. 
 
 407 
 
Act V, 
 
 TWELFTH MGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 ScE^fE L 
 
 Sei. A spirit I am, indeed; 
 
 But am in that dimension grossly clad. 
 Which from the womb I did participate. 
 Were yon a woman, as the rest goes even, 
 I should my tears let fall upon your 
 
 cheek. 
 And say — Thrice welcome, drown'd 
 
 Viola ! 
 Vio. My father had a mole upon his 
 
 brow. 
 Sel. And so had mine. 
 Vio. And died that day when Viola 
 
 from her birth 
 Had number'd thirteen years. 
 
 Sel. 0, that record is lively in my 
 
 soul! 
 He finished, indeed, his mortal act 
 That day that made my sister thirteen 
 
 years. 
 Vio. If nothing lets to make us happy 
 
 both. 
 But this my masculine usurp'd attire. 
 Do not embrace me, till each circum- 
 stance 
 Of place, time, fortune, do cohere, and 
 
 jump. 
 That I am Viola : which to confirm, 
 I'll bring you to a captain in this town. 
 Where lie my maiden weeds ; by whose 
 
 gentle help 
 I was preserv'd, to serve this noble count: 
 All the occurrence of my fortune since 
 Hath been between this lady and this 
 
 lord. 
 Seh. So comes it, lady, you have been 
 
 mistook: [To Olivia. 
 
 But nature to her bias drew in that. 
 You would have been contracted to a 
 
 maid ; 
 Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived. 
 You are betroth'd both to a maid and 
 
 man. 
 Duke. Be not amaz'd ; right noble is 
 
 his blood. — 
 If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, 
 I shall have share in this most happy 
 
 wreck : 
 
 Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand 
 
 times, 
 
 \To Viola. 
 Thou never should'st love woman like to 
 
 me. 
 Vio. And all those sayings will I over- 
 swear ; 
 And all those swearings keep as true in 
 
 soul. 
 As doth that orbed continent the fire 
 That severs day from night. 
 
 DuTce. Give me thy hand ; 
 
 And let me see thee in thy woman's 
 
 weeds. 
 Vio. The captain, that did bring me 
 
 first on shore. 
 Hath my maid's garments : he, upon 
 
 some action, 
 Is now in durance ; at Malvolio's suit, 
 A gentleman, and follower of my lady's. 
 on. He shall enlarge him ; — Fetch 
 
 Malvolio hither : — 
 And yet, alas, now I remember me, 
 They say, poor gentleman, he's much 
 
 distract. 
 
 Re-enter Clown, loitli a Letter. 
 
 A most extracting frenzy of mine own 
 From my remembrance clearly banish'd 
 
 his. — 
 How does he, sirrah ? 
 
 Glo. Truly, madam, he holds Belze- 
 bub at the stave's end, as well as a man in 
 his case may do : he has here writ a letter 
 to you ; I should have given it to you to-, 
 day morning ; but as a madman's epistles 
 are no gospels, so it skills not much, when 
 they are delivered. 
 
 Oli. Open it, and read it. 
 
 do. Look then to be well edified, 
 when the fool delivers the madman : — 
 By the Lord, madam, — 
 
 on. How now ! art thou mad ? 
 
 Clo. No, madam, I do but read mad- 
 ness : an your ladyship will have it as it 
 ought to be, you must allow vox. 
 
 Oli. Pr'ythee, read i'thy right wits. 
 
 408 
 
Act V. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Glo. So I do, madonna ; but to read 
 his right wits, is to read thus : therefore 
 perpend, my princess, and give ear. 
 on. Eead it you, sirrah. 
 
 [To Fabian. 
 Fah. [Reads.] By the Lord, madam, 
 you wrong me, and the loorld shall knoio 
 it : though you have put me into darkness, 
 and given your drunken cousin rule over 
 me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as 
 well as your ladyship. I have your owoi 
 letter that induced me to the semblance I 
 ind on ; with the which I doubt not but to 
 do myself much right, or yoit much shame. 
 Think of me as you please. 1 leave my 
 duty a little unthougM of, and speak 
 out of my injury. 
 
 Tlie madly used Malvolio. 
 Oil. Did he write this ? 
 Clo. Ay, madam. 
 
 Duke. This savors not much of dis- 
 traction. 
 Oli. See him deliver'd, Fabian ; bring 
 him hither. [Exit Fabian. 
 
 My lord, so please you, these things fur- 
 ther thought on, 
 To think me as well a sister as a wife. 
 One day shall crown the alliance on't, so 
 
 please you, 
 Here at my house, and at my proper cost. 
 Duke. Madam, I am most apt to em- 
 brace your offer. — 
 Your master quits you; \_To'^liola'\ and, 
 
 for your service done him. 
 So much against the mettle of your sex. 
 So far beneath your soft and tender breed- 
 ing, 
 And since you call'd me master for so long. 
 Here is my hand ; you shall from this 
 
 time be 
 Your master's mistress. 
 
 Oli. A sister ? — you are she. 
 
 Ee-enter Fabian, with Malvolio. 
 
 Duke. Is this the madman? 
 Oli. Ay, my lord, the same : 
 
 Sow now, Malvolio? 
 
 Mai. Madam, you have done me wrong. 
 
 Notorious wrong. 
 
 Oli. Have I Malvolio? no. 
 
 Mai. Lady, you have. Pray you 
 peruse that letter : 
 
 You must not now deny it is your hand, 
 
 Write from it, if you can, in hand, or 
 phrase; 
 
 Or say, 'tis not your seal, nor your inven- 
 tion: 
 
 You can say none of this: Well; grant it 
 then. 
 
 And tell me, in the modesty of honor. 
 
 Why have you given me such clear lights 
 of favor; 
 
 Bade me come smiling, and cross-garter'd 
 to you. 
 
 To put on yellow stockings, and to frown 
 
 Upon sir Toby, and the lighter people: 
 
 And, acting this in an obedient hope. 
 
 Why have you suffered me to be impris- 
 on'd, 
 
 Kept in a dark house, visited by the 
 priest. 
 
 And made the most notorious geek, and 
 gull. 
 
 That e'er invention played on? tell me 
 why. 
 Oli. Alas, ]\Ialvolio, this is not my 
 writing, 
 
 Though I confess much like the charac- 
 ter: 
 
 But out of question, 'tis Maria's hand. 
 
 And now I do bethink me, it was she 
 
 First told me thou wast mad; then cam'st 
 in smiling, 
 
 And in such forms which here were i^re- 
 supposed 
 
 Upon thee in the letter. Pr'ythee be 
 content: 
 
 This practice hath most shrewdly pass'd 
 upon thee ; 
 
 But when we know the grounds and au- 
 thors of it. 
 
 Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the 
 judge 
 
 Of thine own cause. 
 
 409 
 
Act V. 
 
 TWELFTH XIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Fab. Good madam, hear me speak; 
 
 And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come. 
 Taint the condition of this present hour. 
 Which I have wonder'd at. In hope it 
 
 shall not, 
 Most freely I confess, myself, and Toby, 
 Set this device against Malvolio here. 
 Upon some stubborn and uncourteous 
 
 parts 
 We had conceived against him: Maria 
 
 writ 
 The letter, at sir Toby's great impor- 
 tance; 
 In recompense whereof, he hath married 
 
 her. 
 How with a sportful malice it was fol- 
 
 low'd, 
 May rather pluck on laughter than re- 
 venge; 
 If that the injuries be justly weigh'd, 
 That have on both sides past. 
 
 Oli. Alas, poor fool! how have they 
 
 baffled thee! 
 
 Clo. Why, some are lorn great, some 
 
 achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
 
 thrown upon them. I was one, sir, in this 
 
 interlude; one sir Topas, sir; but that's 
 
 all one: — By the Lord, fool, lam not mad; 
 
 — But do you remember? Madam, lohy 
 
 laugh you at such a barren rascal ? an yoii 
 
 smile not, he's gagg'd : And thus the 
 
 whirligig of time brings in his revenges. 
 
 Mai. I'll be revenged on the whole 
 
 pack of you. [Exit. 
 
 Oli. He hath been most notoriously 
 
 abus'd. 
 
 Duke. Pursue him, and entreat him to 
 a peace: — 
 He hath not told us of the captain yet; 
 When that is known and golden time con- 
 vents, 
 A solemn combination shall be made 
 Of our dear souls — Mean time, sweet 
 
 sister. 
 We will not part from hence. — Cesario, 
 
 come. 
 For so you shall be, while you are a man: 
 But, when in other habits you are seen, 
 Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen. 
 
 [Fzeufit. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Clo. 
 
 W7ien that I tvas and a little tiny boy, 
 With hey, ho, the zuind and the rain, 
 
 A foolish thing toas but a toy. 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 But when I come to man's estate. 
 With hey, ho, the loind and the rain, 
 
 ' Gainst knave and th iefmen shut their gate. 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 But when I came, alas I to wive, 
 
 With hey, ho, the witul and the rain, 
 
 By swaggering could I never thrive. 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 A great while ago the world begun, 
 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. 
 But that's all one, our play is done, 
 
 And tve'll strive to please yoic every day. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 410 
 
Familiar Quotations From Shakespeare. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Duke. 
 If music be the food of love, play on ; 
 Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting. 
 The appetite may sicken, and so die, — 
 That strain again! it had a dying fall: 
 0, it came o'er my ear like the sweet 
 
 sound 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
 Stealing and giving odor! 
 
 Act. 1, Sc. 1, I. 1. 
 
 Captaix. 
 What great ones do, the less will prattle 
 
 of. 
 
 Act 1, Sc.2, I. 33. 
 
 Clo^vi^'. 
 Many a good hanging prevents a bad 
 
 marriage. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 5, 1. 18. 
 
 Viola. 
 Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive, 
 If you will lead these graces to the grave. 
 And leave the world no copy. 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 5, I. 213. 
 
 Olivia. 
 
 "What is parentage? 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 5, I 249 
 
 Viola. 
 
 "Above my fortunes, yet my state is well? 
 
 I am a gentleman." 
 
 Act 1, Sc. 5, I. 249. 
 
 Maria. 
 
 If I do not gull him into a nay-word, 
 
 and make him a common recreation, do 
 
 not think I have wit enough to lie straight 
 
 in bed. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 3, I. 137. 
 
 Duke. 
 
 Let still the woman take 
 
 An elder than herself: so wears she to 
 
 him. 
 
 So sways she level in her husband's heart; 
 
 For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,. 
 
 Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm. 
 
 More longing, wavering, sooner lost and 
 
 worn 
 
 Than women's are. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 4, I. 29. 
 
 Duke. 
 
 For women are as roses, whose fair flower 
 
 Being once display'd doth fall that very 
 
 hour. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 4, 1. 38. 
 
 Viola. 
 
 She never told her love, — 
 But let concealment, like a worm i' tli' 
 
 bud. 
 Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in 
 
 thought. 
 And, with a green and yellow melancholy. 
 She sat like Patience on a monument. 
 Smiling at grief. Was not this love in- 
 deed? 
 We men may say more, swear more, but 
 
 indeed 
 Our shows are more than will; for still we 
 
 prove 
 Much in our vows, but little in our love. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 4, 1. 109. 
 
 Malvolio. 
 
 Some are born great, some achieve 
 
 greatness, and some have greatness thrust 
 
 upon 'em. 
 
 Act 2, Sc. 5, I. 12.1. 
 
 411 
 
FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Olivia. 
 But, would you undertake another suit, 
 I had rather hear you to solicit that. 
 Than music from the spheres. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 1, I. 104. 
 
 Olivia. 
 O! what a deal of scorn looks beautiful 
 In the contempt and anger of his lip! 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 1, I. 139. 
 
 Olivia. 
 Love sought is good, but given unsought 
 is better. 
 
 Actd,Sc. 1, I. 151. 
 
 Fabian. 
 You are now sail'd into the north of my 
 lady's opinion; where you will hang like 
 an icicle on a Dutchman's beard, unless 
 you do redeem it by some laudable at- 
 tempt, either of valor or policy. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 2, I. 26. 
 
 Olivia. 
 
 Why, this is very midsummer madness. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 4, I. 52. 
 
 Sir Toby. 
 Swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, 
 that a terrible oath, with a swaggering 
 accent sharply twanged off, gives man- 
 hood more approbation than ever proof 
 itself would earn'd him. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 4, I. 155. 
 
 Olivia. 
 A fiend like thee might bear my soul to 
 
 hell. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 4, 1. 196. 
 
 Viola. 
 Out of my lean and low ability 
 
 I'll lend you something. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 4, I. 307. 
 
 Viola. 
 I hate ingratitude more in a man 
 Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunken- 
 ness. 
 Or any taint of vice whose strong corrup- 
 tion 
 Inhabits our frail blood. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 4, I. 318. 
 
 AjfTOIs'IO. 
 
 In nature there's no blemish, but the 
 mind; 
 
 None can be call'd deform'd, but the un- 
 kind: 
 
 Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil 
 
 Are empty trunks o'erflourished by the 
 
 devil. 
 
 Act 3, Sc. 4, I. 332. 
 
 Sebastian. 
 Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; 
 If it be thus to dream still let me sleep. 
 
 Act 4, Sc. 1, I. 63. 
 
 Olivia. 
 It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear 
 As howling after music. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 103. 
 
 Malvolio. 
 
 Made the most notorious geek and gull 
 That e'er invention play'd on. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 328. 
 
 Clown. 
 Thus the whirligig of time brings in 
 
 his revenges. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 1, I. 360. 
 
 412 
 
413 
 
All's Well That Ends Well. 
 
 BERTEAM, Count of Eossilion, had newly come to his title and estate by the 
 death of his father. The King of France loved the father of Bertram, and 
 ■when he heard of his death he sent for his son to come immediately to his royal 
 court in Paris, intending, for the friendship he bore the late count, to grace young 
 Bertram with his esi^ecial favor and protection. 
 
 Bertram was living w4th his mother, the widowed countess, when Lafeu, an old 
 lord of the French court, came to conduct Bertram to the king. The King of 
 France was an absolute monarch, and the invitation to court was in the form of a 
 royal mandate, or positive command, which no subject, of what high dignity soever, 
 might disobey; therefore though the countess in parting with this dear son seemed 
 a second time to bury her husband, whose loss she had so lately mourned, yet 
 she dared not keep him a single day, but gave instant orders for his depart- 
 ure. Lafeu, "who came to fetch him, tried to comfort the countess for the loss 
 of her late lord and her son's absence; and he said, in a courtier's flattering man- 
 ner, that the king was so kind a prince she would find in his majesty a husband, 
 and that he would be a father to her son; meaning only that the good king would 
 befriend the fortunes of Bertram. Lafeu told the countess that the king had 
 fallen into a sad malady, which was pronounced by his physicians to be incurable. 
 The lady expressed great sorrow on hearing this account of the king's ill-health, and 
 said she wished the father of Helena (a young gentlewoman who was present in 
 attendance upon her) Avere living, for that she doubted not he could have cured his 
 majesty of his disease. And she told Lafeu something of the history of Helena, 
 saying she was the only daughter of the famous physician Gerard de ISTarbon, and 
 that he had recommended his daughter to her care when he was dying, so that, since 
 his death, she had taken Helena under her protection; then the countess praised the 
 Tirtuous disposition and excellent qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these 
 virtues from her worthy father. While she was speaking, Helena Avept in sad and 
 mournful silence, w^hich made the countess gently reprove her for too much grieving 
 ior her father's death. 
 
 Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The countess parted with this dear son 
 with tears and many blessings, and commended him to the care of Lafeu, saying, 
 "Good my lord, advise him, for he is an unseasoned courtier." 
 
 Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but they were words of mere civility, 
 wishing her happiness; and he concluded his short farewell to her with saying, "Be 
 •comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her." 
 
 Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in sad and mournful silence, 
 •the tears she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena loved her father, but in 
 the present feeling of a deeper love, the object of which she was about to lose, she 
 had forgotten the very form and features of her dead father, her imagination present- 
 ing no image to her mind but Bertram's. 
 
 414 
 
ALL'S AVELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered that he Avas the 
 Count of Eossilion, descended from the most ancient family in Paris. She of hum- 
 ble birth. Her parents of no note at all. His ancestors all noble. And therefore 
 she looked up to the high-born Bertram as to her master and to her dear lord, and 
 dared not form any wish but to live his servant, and so living to die his vassal. So 
 great the distance seemed to her between his height of dignity and her lowly for- 
 tunes, that she would say, " It were all one that I should love a bright peculiar star, 
 and think to wed it, Bertram is so far above me." 
 
 Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears, and her heart with sorrow; for 
 though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see him every 
 hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the 
 curls of his fine hair, till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, 
 that heart too capable of retaining the memory of every line in the features of that 
 loved face. 
 
 Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than some prescrip- 
 tions of rare and well-proved virtue, which by deep study and long experience in 
 medicine he had collected as sovereign and almost infallible remedies. Among the 
 rest, there was one set down as an improved medicine for the disease under which 
 Lafeu said the king at that time languished; and when Helena lieard of the king'^s 
 complaint, she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an ambi- 
 tious project in her mind to go herself to Paris and undertake the cure of the king. 
 But though Helena was the possessor of this choice prescription, it was unlikely, as 
 the king as well as his physicians were of opinion that his disease was incurable, 
 tliat they would give credit to a poor unlearned virgin if she should offer to perform 
 a cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if she might be permitted to 
 make the trial, seemed more than even her father's skill warranted, though he was 
 the most famous physician of his time; for she felt a strong faith that this good med- 
 icine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in heaven to be the legacy that should 
 advance her fortune, even to the high dignity of being Count Eossilion's wife, 
 
 Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was informed by her steward 
 that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he understood, from some 
 words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram, and had thought of following him 
 to Paris. The countess dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell 
 Helena she wished to speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena brought 
 the remembrance of days long past into the mind of the countess; those days proba- 
 bly when her love for Bertram's father first began; and she said to herself, " Even so 
 it was with me when I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs to the rose of youth; 
 for in the season of youth, if ever we are nature's children, these faults are ours, 
 though then we think not they are faults." While the countess was thus meditating 
 on the loving errors of her own 3'outh, Helena entered, and she said to her, " Helena, 
 you know I am a mother to you." Helena replied, "You are my honorable mis- 
 tress." " You are my daughter," said the countess again; " I say I am your mother. 
 Why do you start and look pale at my words?" With looks of alarm and confused 
 thoughts, fearing the countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, " Pardon me, 
 madam, you are not my mother; the Count Rossilion can not be my brother, nor I 
 your daughter." " Yet, Helena," said the countess, " you might be my daughter-in- 
 law; and I am afraid that is what you mean to be, the words mother and daughter so 
 
 415 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 disturb you. Helena, do you love my son ? " " Good madam, pardon me, "' said the 
 affrighted Helena. Again the countess repeated her question. '"'Do you love my 
 son ?" "Do not you love him, madam ?" said Helena. The countess replied, ''Give 
 me not this evasive answer, Helena: Come, come, disclose the state of your affections, 
 for your love has to the full appeared." Helena on her knees now owned her love, and 
 with shame and terror implored the pardon of her noble mistress; and with words 
 expressive of the sense she had of the inequality between their fortunes, she protested 
 Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing the humble unaspiring love to a poor 
 Indian, who adores the sun, that looks upon his worshipper, but knows of him no more. 
 The countess asked Helena if she had not lately designed to go to Paris? Helena 
 owned the design she had formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of the 
 king's illness. " This was your motive for wishing to go to Paris," said the countess, 
 "was it? Speak truly." Helena honestly answered, "My lord your son made me think 
 of this; else Paris, and the medicine, and the king, had from the conversation of my 
 thoughts been absent then." The countess heard the whole of this confession without 
 saying a word either of approval or of blame, but she strictly questioned Helena as to 
 the probability of the medicine being useful to the king. She found that it was the 
 most prized by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed, and that he had given it to his 
 daughter on his death-bed; and remembering the solemn promise she had made at that 
 awful hour in regard to this young maid, whose destiny, and the life of the king him- 
 self, seemed to depend on the execution of a project (which though conceived by the 
 fond suggestions of a loving maiden's thoughts, the countess knew not but it might 
 be the unseen workings of Providence to bring to pass the recovery of the king, and 
 to lay the foundation of the future fortunes of Gerard de Narbon's daughter), free 
 leave she gave to Helena to pvirsue her own way, and generously furnished her with 
 ample means and suitable attendants; and Helena set out for Paris with the blessings 
 of the countess, and her kindest wishes for her success. 
 
 Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of her friend, the old Lord Lafeu, 
 obtained an audience of the king. She had still many difficulties to encounter, for 
 the king was not easily prevailed on to try the medicine offered him by this fair young 
 doctor. But she told him she was Gerard de Narbon's daughter (with whose fame 
 the king was well acquainted), and she offered the precious medicine as the darling 
 treasure which contained the essence of all her father's long experience and skill, 
 and she boldly engaged to forfeit her life if it failed to restore his majesty to perfect 
 health in the space of two days. The king at length consented to try it, and in two 
 days' time Helena was to lose her life if the king did not recover; but if she succeeded, 
 he promised to give her the choice of any man throughout all Erance (the princes 
 only excepted) whom she could like for a husband; the choice of a husband being the 
 fee Helena demanded, if she cured the king of his disease. 
 
 Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived of the efficacy of her 
 father's medicine. Before two days were at an end the king was restored to perfect 
 health, and he assembled all the young noblemen of his court together, in order to 
 confer the promised reward of a husband on his fair physician; and he desired Helena 
 to look round on his youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose her husband. 
 Helena was not slow to make her choice, for among these young lords she saw the 
 Count Eossilion, and turning to Bertram, she said, "This is the man. I dare not 
 say, my lord, I take you, but I give me and my service ever whilst I live, into your 
 
 4ie 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 guiding power.'' "Why, then/"' said the king, '-'young Bertram take her; she is 
 your wife." Bertram did not hesitate to declare his dislike to this present of the 
 king's of the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor physician's daughter, bred 
 at his father's charge, and now living a dependent on his mother's bounty. Helena 
 
 
 heard him speak these words of rejection and of scorn, and she said to the king, 
 " That you are well, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go." But the king would 
 not suffer his royal command to be so slighted; for the power of bestowing their 
 nobles in marriage was one of the many privileges of the kings of France; and that 
 same day Bertram was married to Helena, a forced and uneasy marriage to Bertram, 
 and of no promising hope totlic })oorlady, who, though she gained the noble husband 
 
 iU 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 she had hazarded her life to obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her 
 husband's love not being a gift in the power of the king of France to bestow. 
 
 Helena was no sooner married than she was desired by Bertram to apply to the 
 king for him for leave of absence from court; and when she brought him the king's 
 j)ermission for his dejDarture, Bertram told her that as he was not prepared for this 
 sudden marriage, it had much unsettled him, and therefore she must not Avouder at 
 the course he should pursue. If Helena wondered not, she grieved when she found 
 it was his intention to leave her. He ordered her to go home to his mother. When 
 Helena heard this unkind command, she replied, " Sir, I can say nothing to this, but 
 that I am your most obedient servant, and shall ever with true observance seek to eke 
 out that desert, wherein my homely stars have failed to equal my great fortunes." 
 But this humble speech of Helena's did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity 
 his gentle wife, and he parted from her without the common civility of a kind fare- 
 well. 
 
 Back to the countess then Helena returned. She had accomplished the pur- 
 port of her journey, she had preserved the life of the king, she had wedded her 
 heart's dear lord, the Count Rossilion; but she returned back a dejected lady to her 
 noble mother-in-law, and as soon as she entered the house she received a letter from 
 Bertram whicli almost broke lier heart. 
 
 The good countess received her with a cordial welcome, as if she had been her 
 son's own choice, and a lady of high degree, and she spoke kind words, to comfort 
 her for the unkind neglect of Bertram in sending his wife home on her bridal day 
 alone. But this gracious reception failed to cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she 
 said, " Madam, my lord is gone, forever gone." She then read these words out of 
 Bertram's letter: Wlien you can get the ring from my finger whicli never shall come off 
 then call me husband, but in such a zvhen I lurite a Never. " This is a dreadful sen- 
 tence," said Helena. The countess begged her to have patience, and said, now Ber- 
 tram was gone, she should be her child, and that she deserved a lord that twenty such 
 rude boys as Bertram might tend upon, and hourly call her mistress. But in vain by 
 respectful condescension and kind flattery this matchless mother tried to soothe the 
 sorrows of her daughter-in-law. Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter, and 
 cried out, in an agony of grief. Till 1 have no wife, I have nothing in France. The 
 countess asked her if she found those words in the letter? "Yes, madam," was all 
 poor Helena could answer. 
 
 The next morning Helena was missing. She left a letter to be delivered to the 
 countess after she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason of her sudden absence; 
 in this letter she informed her that she was so much grieved at having driven Bertram 
 from his native country and his home, that, to atone for her offense, she had under- 
 taken a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and concluded with request- 
 ing the countess to inform her son, that the wife he so hated had left his house 
 forever. 
 
 Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and there became an officer in the 
 Duke of Florence's army, and after a successful war, in which he distinguished him- 
 self by many brave actions, Bertram received letters from his mother, containing the 
 acceptable tidings that Helena would no more disturb him; and he was preparing to 
 return home when Helena herself, clad in pilgrim's weeds, arrived at the city of 
 Florence. 
 
 418 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used to pass on their way to St. 
 Jacques le Grand; and when Helena arrived at this city she heard that a hospitable 
 widow dwelt there, who used to receive into her house the female pilgrims that were 
 going to visit the shrine of that saint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment. 
 To this good lady, therefore, Helena went, and the widow gave her a courteous wel- 
 come, and invited her to see whatever was curious in that famous city, and told her 
 that if she would like to see the duke's army, she would take her where she might have 
 a full view of it. "And you will see a countryman of yours," said the widow; "his 
 name is Count Eossilion; who has done worthy service in the duke's wars." Helena 
 wanted no second invitation, when she found Bertram was to make a part of the show. 
 She accompanied her hostess; and a sad and mournful pleasure it was to look once 
 more upon her dear husband's face. " Is he not a handsome man?"' said the widow, 
 "I like him well," replied Helena with great truth. All the way they walked, the 
 talkative widow's discourse was of Bertram; she told Helena the story of Bertram's 
 marriage, and how he had deserted the poor lady his wife, and entered into the duke's 
 army to avoid living with her. To this account of her own misfortunes Helena patiently 
 listened, and when it was ended, the history of Bertram was not yet done, for then 
 the widow began another tale, every word of which sank deep into the mind of 
 Helena ; for the story she now told was of Bertram^'s love for her daughter. 
 
 Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by the king, it seems he 
 was not insensible to love, for since he had been stationed with the army at Florence 
 he had fallen in love with Diana, a fair young gentlewoman, the daughter of this 
 widowwhowas Helena'shostess; and every night with music of all sorts and songs com- 
 posed in praise of Diana's beauty, he would come iinder her window and solicit her love; 
 and all his suit to her was that she would permit him to visit her by stealth after the 
 family were retired to rest: but Diana would by no means be persuaded to grant this 
 improper request, nor give any encouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a married 
 man; for Diana had been brought up under the counsels of a prudent mother, who, 
 though now she was in reduced circumstances, was well born and descended from the 
 noble family of the Capulets. 
 
 All this the good lady related to Helena, highly praising the virtuous principles 
 of her discreet daughter, which she said were entirely owing to the excellent educa- 
 tion and good advice she had given her; and she farther said, that Bertram had been 
 particiilarly importunate with Diana to admit him to the visit he so much desired that 
 night, as he was going to leave Florence early next morning. 
 
 Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's love for the widow's daughter, 
 yet from this story the ardent mind of Helena conceived a project (nothing discour- 
 aged at the ill success of her former one) to recover her truant lord. She disclosed 
 to the widow that she was Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that 
 her kind hostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from Bei-tram to take place, 
 and allow her to pass herself upon Bertram for Diana; telling them, her chief motive 
 for desiring to have this secret meeting with her husband was to get a ring from him, 
 which he had said, if ever she was in possession of, he would acknowledge her as his 
 wife. 
 
 The widow and her daughter promised to assist her in this affair, partly moved 
 by pity for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won over to her interest by the 
 promises of reward which Helena made them, giving them a purse of money in earnest 
 
 410 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 of her future favor. In the course of that day Helena caused information to be sent 
 to Bertram that she was dead; hoping that when he thought himself free to make a 
 second choice by the news of her death, he would offer marriage to her in her feigned 
 character of Diana. And if she could obtain the ring and this promise too, she 
 doubted not she should make some future good come of it. 
 
 In the evening after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into Diana's chamber, 
 and Helena was there ready to receive him. The flattering compliments and love 
 discourse he addressed to Helena were precious sounds to her, though she knew they 
 were meant for Diana; and Bertram was so well pleased with her that he made her a 
 solemn promise to be her husband, and to love her forever; which she hoped would 
 be prophetic of a real affection, when he should know it was his own wife, the 
 despised Helena, whose conversation had so delighted him. 
 
 Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was, else perhaps he would not 
 have been so regardless of her; and seeing her every day, he had entirely overlooked 
 her beauty; a face we are accustomed to see constantly losing the effect which is 
 caused by the first sight either of beauty or of plainness; and of her understanding it 
 was impossible he should judge, because she felt such reverence^ mixed with her love 
 for him, that she was always silent in his presence; but now that her future fate, and 
 the hapjoy ending of all her love-projects, seemed to depend on her leaving a favorable 
 impression on the mind of Bertram from this night's interview, she exerted all her 
 wit to please him; and the simple graces of her lively conversation and the endearing 
 sweetness of her manners so charmed Bertram that he vowed she should be his wife. 
 Helena begged the ring from off his finger as a token of his regard, and he gave it to 
 her; and in return for this ring, which it was of such importance to her to possess, 
 she gave him another ring, which was one the king had made her a present of. 
 Before it was light in the morning she sent Bertram away; and he immediately set 
 out on his journey toward his mother's house. 
 
 Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accompany her to Paris, their 
 further assistance being necessary to the full accomplishment of the plan she had 
 formed. When they arrived there they found the king was gone upon a visit to the 
 Countess of Rossilion, and Helena followed the king with all the speed she could 
 make. 
 
 The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude to her who had been the 
 means of his recovery was so lively in his mind, that the moment he saw the Countess 
 of Rossilion he began to talk of Helena, calling her a precious jewel that was lost by 
 the folly of her son; but seeing the subject distressed the countess, who sincerely lam- 
 ented the death of Helena, he said, "My goodlady, I have forgiven and forgotten all." 
 But the good -natured old Laf eu, who was present and could not bear that the memory of 
 his favorite Helena should be so lightly passed over, said: '^ This I must say, the 
 young lord did great offense to his majesty, his mother, and his lady; but to himself 
 he did the greatest wrong of all, for he has lost a wife whose beauty astonished all eyes, 
 whose words took all ears captive, whose deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve 
 her." The king said, "praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear. Well — 
 call him hither;" meaning Bertram, who now presented himself before the king, and 
 on his expressing deep sorrow for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for his 
 dead father's and his admirable mother's sake, pardoned him and restored him once 
 more to his favor. Bat the gracious countenance of the king was soon changed 
 
 420 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 toward him for he perceived that Bertram wore the very ring upon his finger which 
 he had given to Helena; and he well remembered that Helena had called on all the 
 saints in heaven to witness she would never part with that ring, unless she sent it to 
 the king himself upon some great disaster befalling her; and Bertram, on the king's 
 questioning him how he came by the ring, told an improbable story of a lady throw- 
 ing it to him out of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena since the day of 
 their marriage. The king, knowing Bertram's dislike to his wife, feared he had destroyed 
 her; and he ordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying; "I am wrapped in dismal 
 thinking, for the life of Helena was foully snatched." At this moment Diana and 
 her mother entered, and presented a petition to the king, wherein they begged his 
 majesty to exert his royal power to compel Bertram to marry Diana, he having made 
 her a solemn promise of marriage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger, denied he had 
 made any such iiromise; and then Diana produced the ring (which Helena had put 
 into her hands) to confirm the truth of her words; and she said that she had given Ber- 
 tram the ring he then wore in exchange for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. 
 On hearing this, the king ordered the guards to seize her also; and her account of the 
 ring differing from Bertram's the king's suspicions were confirmed, and he said, if 
 they did not confess how they came by this ring of Helena's they should both be 
 put to death. Diana requested her mother might be permitted to fetch the jeweler 
 of whom she bought the ring, which, being granted, the widow went out, and presently 
 returned, leading in Helena herself. 
 
 The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld her son's danger, and had even 
 dreaded that the suspicion of his having destroyed his wife might possibly be true, 
 finding her dear Helena, whom she loved with even a maternal affection, was still liv- 
 ing, felt a delight she was hardly able to support; and the king, scarce believing for 
 joy that it was Helena, said, " Is this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see?" Helena, 
 feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied, "No, my good lord, it is but the 
 shadow of a wife you see, the name and notthe thing." Berti-am cried out, "Both, both! 
 pardon!" "0 my lord," said Helena, " when I personated this fair maid I found 
 you wondrous kind; and look, here is your letter!" — reading to him in a joyful tone 
 those words which she had once repealed so sorrowfully. When from mij finger you can 
 get this ring — "This is done, it was to me you gave the ring. Will you be mine, now 
 you are doubly won?" Bertram replied, "If you can make it plain that you were the 
 lady I talked with that night, I will love you dearly, ever, ever dearly." This was 
 no difficult task, for the widow and Diana came with Helena purposely to prove this 
 act; and the king was so well pleased with Diana, for the friendly assistance she had 
 rendered the dear lady he so truly valued for the service she had done him, that he 
 promised her also a noble husband, Helena's history giving her a hint that it was a 
 suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they perform notable 
 services. 
 
 Thus Helena at last found that her father's legacy was indeed sanctified by the 
 luckiest stars in heaven, for she was now the beloved wife of her dear Bertram, the 
 daugher-in-law of her noble mistress, and herself the Countess of Rossilion. 
 
 .431 
 
Julius C/ESAr. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 triumvirs after 
 death of Julius 
 Ccesar. 
 
 Julius C^sar, 
 
 Oct A VI us O^sar, 
 
 Marcus Antoxius, 
 
 M. ^iiiLius Lepidus, 
 
 Cicero, ^ 
 
 PuBLius, >■ se^iators 
 
 PopiLius Lena, ) 
 
 Marcus Brutus, 
 
 Cassius, 
 
 Casca, 
 
 Trebo^tius, 
 
 LiGARIUS, 
 
 Decius Brutus, 
 Metellus Cimber, 
 CiN"]srA, 
 
 Flavius and Marullus, tribunes. 
 Artemidorus of Cnidos, a teacher 
 rhetoric. 
 
 conspirators against 
 Julius Ccesar. 
 
 of 
 
 Ci'S'Six, a poet.' Another Poet. 
 LuciLius, 
 
 TiTIXIUS, 
 
 Messala, 
 
 Young Cato, 
 
 volumnius, 
 
 Varro, 
 
 Clitus, 
 
 Claudius, 
 
 Strato, 
 
 Lucius, 
 
 Dardanius, 
 
 PiNDARUs, servant to Cassius. 
 
 Calpurnia, tvife to Ccesar. 
 
 Portia, toife to Brutus. 
 Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, 
 
 Etc. 
 
 friends to Brutus and 
 Cassius. 
 
 ■ servants to Brutus. 
 
 A Soothsayer. 
 SCENE — The Neighborhood of Sardis; the Neighborhood of Philippi. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Sceke L Eome. A Street. 
 
 Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain 
 Commoners. 
 Flav. Hence! home, you idle creatures 
 get you home: 
 Is this a lioliday? what! know you not, 
 Being mechanical, you ought not walk 
 Upon a laboring day without the sign 
 Of your profession? Speak, what trade 
 art thou? 
 First Com. Why, sir, a carpenter. 
 Mar. Where is thy leather apron and 
 thy rule? 
 What dost thou with thy best apparel on? 
 You, sir, what trade are you? 
 
 Sec. Com. Truly, sir, in respect of a 
 fine workman, I am but, as you would say., 
 a cobbler. 
 
 Mar. But what trade art thou? answer 
 me directly. 
 
 Sec. Com. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I 
 may use with a safe conscience; which is, 
 indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. 
 
 Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou 
 naughty knave, what trade? 
 
 Sec. Com. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be 
 not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, T 
 can mend you. 
 
 Mar. What meanest thou by that? 
 mend me, thou saucy fellow! 
 
 il2 
 
Act I. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Sec. Com. Why, sir, cobble yon. 
 Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? 
 Sec. Com. Truly, sir, all that I live by 
 is with the awl: I meddle with no trades- 
 man's matters, nor women's matters, but 
 with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to 
 old shoes; when they are in great danger, 
 I recover them. As proper men as ever 
 trod upon neat's leather have gone upon 
 my handiwork. 
 
 Flav. But wherefore art not in thy 
 shop to-day? 
 Why dost thou lead these men about the 
 streets? 
 Sec. Com. Truly, sir, to wear out their 
 shoes, to get myself into more work. Bu t, 
 indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Cgesar 
 and to rejoice in his triumph. 
 
 Mar. Wherefore rejoice? What con- 
 quest brings he home? 
 What tributaries follow him to Eome, 
 To grace in captive bonds his chariot- 
 wheels? 
 You blocks, you stones, you worse than 
 
 senseless things! 
 yoii hard hearts, you cruel men of 
 
 Rome, 
 Knew you not Pompey? Many a time 
 
 and oft 
 Have you climbed up to walls and battle- 
 ments. 
 To towers and windows, yea, to chimney- 
 tops. 
 Your infants in your arms, and there have 
 
 sat 
 The live-long day, with patient expecta- 
 tion. 
 To see great Pompey pass the streets of 
 
 Rome: 
 And when you saw his chariot but appear. 
 Have you not made an universal shout. 
 That Tiber trembled underneath her 
 
 banks. 
 To hear the replication of your sounds 
 Made in her concave shores? 
 And do you now put on your best attire? 
 And do you now cull out a holiday? 
 
 And do you now strew flowers in his way 
 
 That comes in triumph over Pompey's 
 blood? 
 
 Be gone! 
 
 Run to your houses, fall upon your knees. 
 
 Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 
 
 That needs must light on this ingrati- 
 tude. 
 Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and, 
 for this fault. 
 
 Assemble all the poor men of your sort; 
 
 Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your 
 tears 
 
 Into the channel, till the lowest stream 
 
 Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. 
 
 [Exeunt all the Commoners. 
 
 See whether their basest metal be not 
 moved; 
 
 They vanish tongue-tied in their guilti- 
 ness. 
 
 Go you down that way towards the Capi- 
 tol; 
 
 This way will I: disrobe the images. 
 
 If you do find them deck'd with cere 
 monies. 
 Mar. May we do so? 
 
 You know it is the feast of Lupercal. 
 Flav. It is no matter; let no images 
 
 Be hung with Ceesar's trophies. I'll 
 about. 
 
 And drive away the vulgar from the 
 streets: 
 
 So do you too, where you perceive them 
 thick. 
 
 These growing feathers pluck'd from 
 Ctesar's wing 
 
 Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, 
 
 Who else would soar above the view of 
 men 
 
 And keep us all in servile fearfulness. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Public Place. 
 
 Flourish. Enter CiESAR; Antony, for 
 the course; Calpurnia, Portia, De- 
 cius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and 
 
 iZ3 
 
Act I. 
 
 JULIUS CiESAE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Casca; a great crowd following, among 
 
 iliem a Soothsayer. 
 
 Ca's. Calpurnia! 
 
 Casca. Peace^, ho! C^sar speaks. 
 
 Cces. Calpurnia! 
 
 Cal. Here, my lord. 
 
 CcBS. Stand you directly in Antonius' 
 
 way, 
 When he doth run his course. 
 
 Antonius ! 
 Ant. Caesar, my lord? 
 Cces. Forget not, in your speed, An- 
 tonius, 
 To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say. 
 The barren, touched in this holy chase. 
 Shake off their sterile curse. 
 
 Ant. I shall remember : 
 
 "When Caesar says ' do this/ it is per- 
 
 f orm'd . 
 Cces. Set on; and leave no ceremony 
 
 out. 
 
 [Flourish. 
 Sooth. Cgesar ! 
 CcBS. Ha! who calls me? 
 Casca. Bid every noise be still: peace 
 
 yet again! 
 Cces. "Who is it in the press that calls 
 
 on me ? 
 I hear a tongue, shriller than all the 
 
 music. 
 Cry 'Cfesar!' Speak; Caesar is turn'd to 
 
 hear. 
 Sooth. Beware the ides of March. 
 CcBS. "What man is that? 
 
 Bru. A soothsayer bids you beware 
 
 the ides of March. 
 Cces. Set him before me; let me see 
 
 his face. 
 Cas. Fellow, come from the throng; 
 
 look upon Caesar. 
 Cces. What say'st thou to me now? 
 
 speak once again. 
 Sooth. Beware the ides of March. 
 CcBS. He is a dreamer; let us leave 
 
 him: pass. [Senfiet. Exeunt all 
 except Brutus and Cassins. 
 
 Cas. Will you go see the order of the 
 
 course? 
 Brtt. Not I. 
 Cas. I pray you, do. 
 Bru. I am not gamesome: I do lack 
 some part 
 Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. 
 Let me not hinder, Cassius, your de- 
 sires; 
 I'll leave you. 
 
 Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of 
 
 late: 
 
 I have not from your eyes that gentleness 
 
 And show of love as I was wont to have: 
 
 You bear too stubborn and too strange a 
 
 hand 
 Over your friend that loves you. 
 
 B7-U. Cassius, 
 
 Be not deceived; if I have veil'd my look 
 I turn the trouble of my countenance 
 Merely upon myself. "V^exed I am 
 Of late with passions of some difference. 
 Conceptions only projDer to myself. 
 Which give some soil perhaps to my 
 
 behaviors; 
 But let not therefore my good friends be 
 
 grieved — 
 Among which number, Cassius, be you 
 
 one — 
 Nor construe any further my neglect, 
 Thau that poor Brutus, with himself at 
 
 war, 
 Forgets the shows of love to other men. 
 Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mis- 
 took your passion; 
 By means whereof this breast of mine 
 
 hath buried 
 Thoughts of great value, worthy cogi- 
 tations. 
 Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your 
 face? 
 Bru. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not 
 itself. 
 But by reflection, by some other things. 
 Cas. 'Tis just: 
 
 And it is very much lamented, Brutus, 
 
 424 
 
Act I. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 That you have no such mirrors as will 
 
 turn 
 Your hidden worthiness into your eye. 
 That you might see your shadow. 1 have 
 
 heard. 
 Where many of the best respect in Rome, 
 .Except immortal Ceesar, speaking of 
 
 Brutus 
 And groaning underneath this age's yoke. 
 Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his 
 
 eyes. 
 Bru. Into what dangers would you 
 
 lead me, Cassius, 
 That you would have me seek into myself 
 For that which is not in me? 
 
 Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be pre- 
 pared to hear; 
 And since you know you cannot see your- 
 self 
 So well as by reflection, I, your glass. 
 Will modestly discover to yourself 
 That of yourself which you yet know not 
 
 of. 
 And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus : 
 Were I a common laughter, or did use 
 To stale with ordinary oaths my love 
 To every new protestor; if you know 
 That I do fawn on men and hug them 
 
 hard 
 And after scandal them, or if you know 
 That I profess myself in banqueting 
 To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. 
 [Flourish, mid shout. 
 Bru. What means this shouting? I 
 
 do fear, the people 
 Choose Caesar for their king. 
 
 Cas. Ay, do you fear it? 
 
 Then must I think you would not have 
 
 it so. 
 Bru. I would not, Cassius; yet I love 
 
 him well. 
 But wherefore do you hold me here so 
 
 long? 
 What is it that you would impart to me? 
 If it be aught toward the general good, 
 Set honor in one eye and death i' the 
 
 other 
 
 And I will look on both indifferently. 
 For let the gods so speed me as I love 
 The name of honor more than I fear death. 
 Cas. 1 know that virtue to be in you, 
 
 Brutus, 
 As well as I do know your outward favor. 
 Well, honor is the subject of my story. 
 I cannot tell what you and other men 
 Think of this life; but, for my single 
 
 self, 
 T had as lief not be as live to be 
 In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
 I was born free as Caesar; so were you; 
 We both have fed as well, and we can 
 
 both 
 Endure the winter's cold as well as he:. 
 For once, upon a raw and gusty day. 
 The troubled Tiber chafing with her 
 
 shores, 
 Caesar said to me, ' Darest thou, Cassius, 
 
 now 
 Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
 And swim to yonder point?' Upon the 
 
 word, 
 Accoutered as I was, I plunged in 
 And bade him follow; so indeed he did. 
 The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it 
 With lusty sinews, throwing it aside 
 xind stemming it with hearts of contro- 
 versy; 
 But ere we could arrive the point pro- 
 posed, 
 Ceesar cried, * Help me, Cassius, or I 
 
 sink! ' 
 I, as yEneas, our great ancestor. 
 Did from the flames of Troy upon his 
 
 shoulder 
 The old Anchises bear, so from the waves 
 
 of Tiber 
 Did I the tired Cssar. And this man 
 Is now become a god, and Cassius is 
 A wretched creature and must bend his 
 
 body. 
 If Cfesar carelessly but nod on him. 
 He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
 And when the fit was on him, I did 
 
 mark 
 
 425 
 
Act I. 
 
 JULIUS CAESAR 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 How he did sliake : "tis true, this god did 
 
 shake : 
 His coward lips did from their color fly; 
 Acd that same eye, whose bend doth awe 
 
 the world, 
 Did lose his lustre : I did hear him groan: 
 Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the 
 
 Romans 
 Mark him, and write his speeches in their 
 
 books, 
 Alas! it cried, Give me some drink, Ti- 
 
 tinius, 
 As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze 
 
 me, 
 A man of such a feeble temper should 
 So get the start of the majestic world. 
 And bear the palm alone. 
 
 [Shout. Flourish. 
 Bru. Another general shout! 
 I do believe, that these applauses are 
 For some new honors that are heaped on 
 
 Caesar. 
 Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the 
 
 narrow world. 
 Like a Colossus; and we petty men 
 
 That he is grown so great? Age, thou 
 
 art sham'd: 
 Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble 
 
 bloods! 
 When went there by an age, since the 
 
 great flood. 
 But it was fam'dwith more than with one 
 
 man? 
 When could they say, till now, that talk'd 
 
 of Rome, 
 That Her wide walks encompass'd but one 
 
 man? 
 Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough. 
 When there is in it but one only man. 
 ! you and I have heard our fathers 
 
 say. 
 There was a Brutus once, that would have 
 
 brook'd 
 The eternal devil to keep his state in 
 
 Rome, 
 As easily as a king. 
 
 Bru. That you do love me, I am noth- 
 ing jealous ; 
 What you would work me to, I have some 
 
 aim ; 
 
 Walk under his huge legs, and peep about ! How I have thought of this, and of tliese 
 
 To find ourselves dishonorable graves. | times, 
 
 Men at some time are masters of their 1 I shall recount hereafter ; for this pres- 
 
 fates; ent. 
 
 The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our ' I would not, so with love I might entreat 
 
 stars, 
 But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
 Brutus and Csesar : What should be in 
 
 that Caesar? 
 Why should that name be sounded more 
 
 than yours? 
 Write them together, yours is, as fair a 
 
 name; 
 Sound them, it doth become the mouth 
 
 as well; 
 Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 
 
 them, 
 Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Ciesar. 
 
 [Slwut. 
 Now in the names of all the gods at once. 
 Upon what meat doth this our Csesar 
 
 feed. 
 
 you. 
 Be any further mov'd. What you have 
 
 said, 
 I will consider; what you have to say, 
 I will with patience hear : and find a time 
 Both meet to hear, and answer, such high 
 
 things. 
 Till then, my noble friend, chew upon 
 
 this ; 
 Brutus had rather be a villager. 
 Than to repute himself a son of Rome 
 Under these hard conditions as this 
 
 time 
 Is like to lay upon us. 
 
 Cas. I am glad that my weak words 
 Have struck but thus much show of fire 
 
 from Brutus. 
 
 426 
 
Acx I. 
 
 JULIUS CESAR. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Re-enter Cjesak, and his Train. 
 
 Bru. The games are done, and Caesar 
 
 is returning. 
 Gas. As they pass by, pluck Casca by 
 
 the sleeve ; 
 And he will, after his sour fashion, tell 
 
 you 
 What hath proceeded, worthy note, 
 
 to-day. 
 Bru. I will do so : — But look you, 
 
 Cassius, 
 The angry spot doth glow on Ciesar's 
 
 brow. 
 And all the rest look like a chidden 
 
 train : 
 Calphurnia^s cheek is pale ; and Cicero 
 Looks with such ferret and such fiery 
 
 eyes. 
 As we have seen him in the Capitol, 
 Being crossed in conference by some sen- 
 ators. 
 Gas. Casca will tell us what the mat- 
 ter is. 
 G(BS. Antonius. 
 Ant. Cgesar. 
 GcBs. Let me have men about me that 
 
 are fat ; 
 Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' 
 
 nights : 
 Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry 
 
 look ; 
 He thinks too much : such men are dan- 
 gerous. 
 Ant. Fear him not, Csesar, he's not 
 
 dangerous ; 
 He is a noble Roman, and well given. 
 GcBS. 'Would he were fatter : — But I 
 
 fear him not : 
 Tet if my name were liable to fear, 
 I do not know the man I should avoid 
 So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads 
 
 much ; 
 He is a great observer, and he looks 
 Quite through the deeds of men: he loves 
 
 no plays. 
 As thou dost, Antony ; he hears no 
 
 music : 
 
 Seldom he smiles ; and smiles in such a 
 sort. 
 
 As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his 
 spirit. 
 
 That could be moved to smile at any 
 thing. 
 
 Such men as he be never at heart's ease, 
 
 Whiles they behold a greater than them- 
 selves ; 
 
 And therefore are they very dangerous. 
 
 I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd. 
 
 Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. 
 
 Come on my right hand, for this ear is 
 deaf, 
 
 And tell me truly what thou think'st of 
 him. 
 
 \_Exeunt CcBsar and Ms Train, 
 stays ieliind. 
 
 Gasca 
 
 Gasca. You pull'd me by the cloak ; 
 would you speak with me ? 
 
 Bru. Ay, Casca ; tell us what hath 
 chanc'd to-day. 
 That Csesar looks so sad. 
 
 Gasca. Why, you were with him, were 
 
 you not ? 
 Bru. I should not then ask Casca 
 
 what had chanc'd. 
 Casca. Why, there was a crown offer'd 
 him: and being offer'd him, he put it by 
 with the back of his hand, thus: and then 
 the people fell a shouting. 
 
 Bru. What was the second noise for? 
 
 Casca. Why, for that too. 
 
 Gas. They shouted thrice; what was 
 
 the last cry for ? 
 Gasca. Why, for that too. 
 Bru. Was the crown offered him 
 
 thrice ? 
 Gasca. Ay, marry, was't, and he put 
 it by thrice, every time gentler than other; 
 and at every putting by, mine honest 
 neighbors shouted. 
 
 Gas. Who offer'd him the crown ? 
 Casca. Why, Antony. 
 Bru. Tell us the manner of it, gentle 
 Casca. 
 
 427 
 
Act I. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Gasca. I can as well be hanged as tell 
 the manner of it: it was mere foolery. I 
 did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony 
 offer him a crown; — yet 'twas not a crown 
 neither, 'twas one of these coronets; — and, 
 as I told you, he put it by once; but, for 
 all that, to my thinking, he would fain 
 have had it. Then he offered it to him 
 again; then he put it by again: but, to 
 my thinking, he was very loth to lay his 
 fingers off it. And then he offered it the 
 third time; he put it the third time by: 
 and still as he refused it, the rabblement 
 hooted, and clapped their chopped hands, 
 and threw up their night-caps, and uttered 
 such a deal of foul breath because Ctesar 
 refused the crown, that it had almost 
 choked C«sar; for he swooned, and fell 
 down at it: And for mine own part, I 
 durst not laugh, for fear of opening my 
 lips, and receiving the bad air. 
 
 Cas. But soft, I pray you: What? did 
 Caesar swoon? 
 
 Casca. He fell down in the market- 
 place, and foamed at mouth, and was 
 speechless. 
 
 Bi'u. 'Tis very like: he hath the fall- 
 ing sickness. 
 
 Cas. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, 
 and I, 
 And honest Casca, we have the falling- 
 sickness. 
 
 Casca. I know not what you mean by 
 that; but, I am sure, C^sar fell down. 
 If the tag-rag people did not clap him, 
 and hiss him, according as he pleased, 
 and displeased them, as they used to do 
 the players in the theatre, I am no true 
 man. 
 
 Bru. What said he, when he came 
 unto himself ? 
 
 Casca. Marry, before he fell down, 
 when he perceived the common herd was 
 glad he refused the crown, he plucked 
 me ope his doublet, and offered them his 
 throat to cut. — An I had been a man of 
 any occupation, if I would not have taken 
 
 him at a word, I would I might go to hell 
 among the rogues: — and so he fell. 
 When he came to himself again, he said. 
 If he had done, or said anything amiss, 
 he desired their worships to think it was 
 his infirmity. Three or four wenches, 
 where I stood, cried, Alas, good soul! — 
 and forgave him with all their hearts: 
 But there's no heed to be taken of them; 
 if Cssar had stabbed their mothers, they 
 would have done no less. 
 
 Bru. And after that, he came, thus 
 sad, away? 
 
 Casca. Ay. 
 
 Cas. Did Cicero say anything ? 
 
 Casca. Ay, he spoke Greek. 
 
 Cas. To what effect ? 
 
 Casca. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll 
 ne'er look you i' the face again: But those 
 that understood him, smiled at one an- 
 other, and shook their heads; but, for 
 mine own part, it was Greek to me. I 
 could tell you more news too; Marullus 
 and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's 
 images, are put to silence. Fare you well. 
 There was more foolery yet, if I could 
 remember it. 
 
 Cas. Will you sup with me to-night, 
 Casca? 
 
 Casca. No, I am promised forth. 
 
 Cas. Will you dine with me to-morrow ? 
 
 Casca. Ay, if I be alive, and your 
 mind hold, and your dinner worth the 
 eating. 
 
 Cas. Good; I will expect you. 
 
 Casca. Do so: Farewell, both. 
 
 \^Exit Casca. 
 
 Bru. What a blunt fellow this is grown 
 to be; 
 He was quick mettle, when he went to 
 school. 
 
 Cas. So is he now, in execution 
 Of any bold or noble enterprise. 
 However he puts on this tardy form. 
 This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, 
 Which gives men stomach to digest his 
 
 words 
 With better appetite. 
 
 428 
 
Act I. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAK. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Brii. And so it is. For this time I will 
 
 leave you: 
 To-morrow, if you please to speak with 
 
 me, 
 I will come home to you; or, if you will. 
 Come home to me, and I will wait for you. 
 Cas. I will do so: — till then, think of 
 
 the world. [^Exit Brutus. 
 
 Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet I see. 
 Thy honorable metal may be wrought 
 From that it is disposed: Therefore 'tis 
 
 meet 
 That noble minds keep ever with their 
 
 likes: 
 For who so firm, that cannot be seduc'd? 
 Csesar doth bear me hard; but he loves 
 
 Brutus: 
 If I were Brutus now, and he were Cas- 
 
 sius. 
 He should not humor me. I will this 
 
 night, 
 In several hands, in at his window throw. 
 As if they came from several citizens, 
 Writings all tending to the great opinion 
 That Rome holds of his name; wherein 
 
 obscurely 
 Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at: 
 And, after this, let Ceesar seat him sure; 
 For we will shake him, or worse days 
 
 endure. \^Exit. 
 
 Scene III. A Street. 
 
 Thunder and Lightning. Enter, from 
 ojjposite sides, Casca, with his Sword 
 drawn, and Cicero. 
 
 Cic. Good even, Casca; Brought you 
 
 Caesar home ? 
 Why are you breathless? and why stare 
 
 you so? 
 Casca. Are not you mov'd, when all 
 
 the sway of earth 
 Shakes, like a thing unfirm? Cicero, 
 I have seen tempests, when the scolding 
 
 winds 
 Have riv'd the knotty oaks; and I have 
 
 seen 
 
 The ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and 
 
 foam. 
 To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds: 
 But never till to-night, never till now. 
 Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 
 Either there is civil strife in heaven; 
 Or else the world, too saucy with the gods. 
 Incenses them to send destruction. 
 
 Cic. Why, saw you anything more 
 wonderful? 
 
 Casca. A common slave (you know 
 
 him well by sight) 
 Held up his left hand which did flame, 
 
 and burn 
 Like twenty torches join'd; and yet his 
 
 hand, 
 Not sensible of fire, remained unscorch'd. 
 Besides (I have not since put up my 
 
 sword), 
 Against the Capitol I met a lion. 
 Who glar'd upon me, and went surly by. 
 Without annoying me: And there were 
 
 drawn 
 Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women. 
 Transformed with their fear; who swore, 
 
 they saw 
 Men, all on fire walk up and down the 
 
 streets. 
 And, yesterday, the bird of night did sit. 
 Even at noon-day, upon the market-place. 
 Hooting, and shrieking. When these 
 
 prodigies 
 Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, 
 These are their reasons, — they are natural; 
 For, I believe they are portentous things 
 Unto the climate that they point upon. 
 Cic. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed 
 
 time: 
 But men may construe things after their 
 
 fashion. 
 Clean from the purpose of the tilings 
 
 themselves. 
 Comes Ctesar to the Capitol to-morrow? 
 Casca. He doth; for he did bid Anto- 
 
 uius 
 Send word to you, he would be there to- 
 morrow. 
 
 429 
 
Act I. 
 
 JULIUS CESAR. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Cic. Good night then, Casca; this dis- 
 turbed sky 
 Is not to walk in. 
 
 Casca. Farewell, Cicero. 
 
 Enter Cassius. 
 
 Gas. Who's there? 
 
 Casca. A Roman. 
 
 Cas, Casca, by your voice. 
 
 Casca. Your ear is good. Cassius, 
 
 what night is this? 
 Cas. A very pleasing night to honest 
 
 men. 
 Casca. Who ever knew the heavens 
 
 menace so? 
 Cas. Those, that have known the earth 
 so full of faults. 
 For my part, I have walk'd about the 
 
 streets. 
 Submitting me unto the perilous night; 
 And, thus unbrac'd, Casca, as you see. 
 Have bar'd my bosom to the thunder-storm : 
 And, when thecross blue lightning seem'd 
 
 to open 
 The breast of heaven, I did present iny- 
 
 self 
 Even in the aim and very flash of it. 
 Casca. But wherefore did you so much 
 tempt the heavens? 
 It is the part of men to fear and tremble. 
 When the most mighty gods, by tokens, 
 
 send 
 Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. 
 Cas. You are dull, Casca; and those 
 sparks of life 
 That should be in a Roman, you do want. 
 Or else you use not: You look pale and 
 
 gaze. 
 And put on fear, and cast yourself in won- 
 der, 
 To see the strange impatience of the 
 
 heavens: 
 But if you would consider the true cause. 
 Why all these fires, why all these gliding 
 
 ghosts. 
 Why birds and beasts, from quality and 
 kind; 
 
 Why old men, fools, and children calcu- 
 late; 
 
 Why all these things change, from their 
 ordinance. 
 
 Their natures and pre-formed faculties. 
 
 To monstrous quality; why, you shall find, 
 
 That heaven has infus'd them with these 
 spirits. 
 
 To make them instruments of fear, and 
 warning. 
 
 Unto some monstrous state. T^ow could 
 I, Casca, 
 
 Name to thee a man most like this dread- 
 ful night; 
 
 That thunders, lightnings, opens graves, 
 and roars 
 
 As doth the lion in the Capitol: 
 
 A man no mightier than thyself, or me. 
 
 In personal action; yet prodigious grown. 
 
 And fearful as these strange eruptions are. 
 Casca. 'Tis Ceesar that you mean; Is 
 
 it not, Cassius? 
 Cas. Let it be who it is: for Romans 
 now 
 
 Havethewes and limbs like to their ances- 
 tors; 
 
 But woe the while! our fathers' minds are 
 dead. 
 
 And we are governed "svith our mothers' 
 spirits; 
 
 Our yoke and sufferings show us woman- 
 ish. 
 Casca. Indeed, they say, the senators 
 to-morrow 
 
 Mean to establish Csesar as a king: 
 
 And he shall wear his crowu by sea and 
 land. 
 
 In every place, save here in Italy. 
 
 Cas. I know where I will wear this 
 dagger then : 
 
 Cassius from bondage will deliver Cas- 
 sius : 
 
 Therein, ye gods, you make the weak 
 most strong ; 
 
 Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: 
 
 Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten 
 brass, 
 
 430 
 
Act I. 
 
 JULIL^S C^SAE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 l^or airless dungeon, nor strong links of 
 
 iron. 
 Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; 
 But life, being weary of these worldly 
 
 bars, 
 Never lacks power to dismiss itself. 
 If I know this, know all the M-orld be- 
 sides. 
 That part of tyranny, that I do bear, 
 I can shake off at pleasure. 
 
 Casca. So can I: 
 So every bondman in his own hand bears 
 The power to cancel his captivity. 
 
 Cas. And why should Caesar be a 
 
 tyrant then? 
 Poor man ! I know, he would not be a 
 
 wolf, 
 But that he sees the Eomans are but 
 
 sheep : 
 He were no lion, were not Romans 
 
 hinds. 
 Those that with haste will make a mighty 
 
 fire. 
 Begin it with weak straws : What trash 
 
 is Rome, 
 "What rubbish, and what offal, when it 
 
 serves 
 Por the base matter to illuminate • 
 So vile a thing as Ctesar ? But, grief ! 
 Where hast thou led me ? I, perhaps, 
 
 speak this 
 IBefore a willing bondman: then I know 
 My answer must be made : But I am 
 
 arm'd, 
 A.nd dangers are to me indifferent. 
 
 Casca. You speak to Casca ; and to 
 
 such a man, 
 "That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold my 
 
 hand : 
 Be factious for redress of all these griefs; 
 And I will set this foot of mine as far. 
 As who goes farthest. 
 
 Cas. There's a bargain made. 
 
 Now know you, Casca, I have mov'd 
 
 already 
 -Some certain of the noblest-minded 
 
 Romans, 
 
 To undergo, with me, an enterprise 
 Of honorable-dangerous consequence ; 
 And I do know, by this, they stay for 
 
 me 
 In Pompey's porch : for now, this fearful 
 
 night, 
 There is no stir, or walking in the 
 
 streets ; 
 And the complexion of the element 
 Is favor'd, like the work we have in 
 
 hand, 
 Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. 
 
 Enter Cinna. 
 
 Casca. Stand close awhile, for here 
 
 comes one in haste. 
 Cas. 'Tis Cinna, I do know him by his 
 gait; 
 He is a friend. — Cinna, where haste you 
 so ? 
 Cin. To find out you: "Who's that? 
 
 Metellus Cimber ? 
 Cas. No, it is Casca ; one incorporate 
 To our attempts. Am I not staid for, 
 Cinna ? 
 Cin. I am glad on't. What a fearful 
 night is this ? 
 There's two or three of us have seen 
 strange sights. 
 Cas. Am I not staid for, Cinna ? Tell 
 
 me. 
 Cin. Yes 
 
 You are. 0, Cassius, if you could but 
 win 
 
 The noble Brutus to our party 
 
 Cas. Be you content : good Cinna, 
 take this paper, 
 And look you lay it in the prsetor's 
 
 chair. 
 Where Brutus may but find it ; and 
 
 throw this 
 In at his window : set this up with wax 
 Upon old Brutus' statue : all this done. 
 Repair to Pompey's porch, where you 
 
 shall find us. 
 Is Decius Brutus, and Trebonius, there? 
 
 431 
 
Act i. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Cin. All but Metellus Cimber ; and 
 
 he's gone 
 To seek you at your house. Well, I will 
 
 hie. 
 And so bestow these papers as you bade 
 
 me. 
 Cas. That done, repair to Pompey's 
 
 theatre. [Exit Cinna. 
 
 Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, 
 See Brutus at his house : three parts of 
 
 him 
 Is ours already; and the man entire. 
 Upon the next encounter, yields him 
 
 ours. 
 
 Casca. 0, he sits high, in all the 
 people's hearts: 
 And that, which would appear offence in 
 
 us. 
 His countenance, like richest alchymy, 
 Will change to virtue, and to worthiness. 
 Cas. Him, and his worth, and our 
 great need of him. 
 You have right well conceited. Let us 
 
 go. 
 For it is after midnight; and ere dav. 
 We will awake him, and be sure of him, 
 
 [Exeu7it^ 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 Scene I. Brutus's Orchard. 
 Enter Brutus. 
 
 Brii. What, Lucius ! ho I — 
 I cannot, by the progress of the stars, 
 Grive guess how near today. — Lucius, I 
 
 say! 
 I would it were my fault to sleep so sound- 
 
 ly- 
 
 When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say: 
 What, Lucius ! 
 
 Enter Lucius. 
 
 Luc. Call'd you, my lord? 
 Bru. Get me a taper in my study, 
 Lucius: 
 When it is lighted, come and call me here. 
 Luc. I will, my lord. [Exit. 
 
 Bru. It must be by his death: and, for 
 my part, 
 I know no personal cause to spurn at 
 
 him. 
 But for the general. He would be 
 
 crown 'd ; — 
 How that might change his nature, there's 
 
 the question. 
 It is the bright day that brings forth the 
 
 adder; 
 And that craves wary walking. Crown 
 him? — That;— - 
 
 And then, I grant, we put a sting in him. 
 
 That at his will he may do danger with. 
 
 The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins 
 
 Remorse from power: And, to speak 
 truth of Cfesar, 
 
 I have not known when his affections 
 sway'd 
 
 More than his reason. But 'tis a common 
 proof 
 
 That lowliness is young ambition's ladder,. 
 
 Whereto the climber upward turns his. 
 face: 
 
 But when he once attains the upmost 
 round. 
 
 He then unto the ladder turns his back. 
 
 Looks in the clouds, scorning the base 
 degrees 
 
 By which he did ascend: So Csesar may; 
 
 Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since 
 the quarrel 
 
 Will bear no color for the thing he is, 
 
 Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmen- 
 ted, 
 
 Would run to these, and these extremi- 
 ties : 
 
 And therefore think him as a serpent's 
 
 egg. 
 Which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow 
 
 miscliievous; 
 And kill him in the shell. 
 
 432 
 
Act II. 
 
 JULIUS C/ESAR. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Re-e7iter Lucius. 
 
 Luc. The taper burnetii in your closet, 
 sir. 
 Searching the window for a flint, I found 
 This paper, thus seal'd up; and, I am 
 
 sure. 
 It did not lie there when I went to bed. 
 Brii. Get you to bed again, it is not 
 day. 
 Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March? 
 Luc. I know not, sir. 
 Bru. Look in the calendar, and bring 
 
 me word. 
 Luc. I will, sir. 
 
 Bni. The exhalations, whizzing in the 
 air, 
 ■Crive so much light, that I may read by 
 them. 
 
 l^Opens the Letter, and reads. 
 
 Brutus, thou sleep'st; awake, and see thy- 
 
 self. 
 Shall Rome, etc. Speak, strike, redress ! 
 
 Brutus, thou sleep'st; atoake 
 
 Such instigations have been of ten dropp'd 
 
 Where I have took them up. 
 
 Shall Rome, etc. Thus, must I piece it 
 
 out; 
 Shall Eome stand under one man's awe? 
 
 What ! Rome? 
 My ancestors did from the streets of 
 
 Rome 
 The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a 
 
 king. 
 Speak, strike, redress! — Am I entreated 
 
 then 
 To speak, and strike? Rome! I make 
 
 thee promise. 
 If the redress will follow, thou receivest 
 'Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus. 
 
 Re-enter Lucius. 
 
 Luc. Sir, March is wasted fourteen 
 days. \^I{nock within. 
 
 Bru. 'Tis good. Go to the gate ; 
 somebody knocks. {Exit Lucius. 
 
 Since Cassius first did whet me against 
 
 Caesar, 
 I have not slept. 
 
 Between the acting of a dreadful thing 
 And the first motion, all the interim is 
 Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: 
 The genius, and the mortal instruments. 
 Are then in council; and the state of 
 
 man. 
 Like to a little kingdom, suffers then 
 The nature of an insurrection. 
 
 Re-enter Lucius. 
 
 Luc. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at 
 the door. 
 Who doth desire to see you. 
 
 Bru. Is he alone? 
 
 Luc. No, sir, there are mo.e with 
 
 him. 
 Bru. Do you know them? 
 
 Luc. No, sir; their hats are pluck'd 
 about their ears. 
 And half their faces buried in their cloaks, 
 That by no means I may discover them 
 By any mark of favor. 
 Bru. Let them enter. 
 
 \^Exit Lucius. 
 They are the fiction. conspiracy ! 
 Sham'st thou to show thy dangerous brow 
 
 by night. 
 When evils are most free? 0, then, by 
 
 day. 
 Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough 
 To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek 
 
 none, conspiracy; 
 Hide it in smiles, and affability: 
 For if thou path, thy native semblance 
 
 on. 
 Not Erebus itself were dim enough 
 To hide thee from prevention. 
 
 Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cixna, 
 Metellus, Cimbeu, and Treboxius. 
 
 Cas. I think Ave are too bold upon 
 your rest: 
 
 433 
 
Act II. 
 
 JULIUS C.i:SAR. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Good morrow, Brutus; Do we trouble 
 you? 
 Bru. I have been up this hour; awake 
 all night. 
 Know I these men, that come along with 
 you? 
 Cas. Yes, every man of them; and no 
 man here. 
 But honors you: and every one doth wish. 
 You had but that opinion of yourself. 
 Which every noble Roman bears of you. 
 This is Trebonius. 
 
 Bni. He is welcome hither. 
 
 Ckis. This, Decius Brutus. 
 Bru. He is welcome too. 
 
 Cas. This, Casca; this, Cinna; 
 And this Metellus Cimber. 
 
 Bru. They are all welcome. 
 
 What watchful cares do interpose them- 
 selves 
 Betwixt your eyes and night? 
 Cas. Shall I ent]-eat a word ? 
 
 \_They whisper. 
 
 Dec. Here lies the east: Doth not 
 
 the day break here ? 
 Casca. No. 
 
 Cin. 0, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon 
 gray lines, 
 That fret the clouds, are messengers of 
 day. 
 Casca. You shall confess, that you 
 are both deceiv'd. 
 Here, as I point my sword, the sun rises; 
 Which is a great way growing on the 
 
 south. 
 Weighing the youthful season of the year. 
 Some two months hence, up higher to- 
 ward the north 
 He first presents his tire; and the high 
 
 east 
 Stands, as the Capitol, directly here. 
 Bru. Give me your hands all over, 
 
 one by one. 
 Cas. And let us swear our revolution. 
 Bru. No, not an oath: If not the face 
 of men, 
 
 The sufferance of our souls, the time's 
 
 abuse, — 
 If these be motives weak, break off be- 
 times. 
 And every man hence to his idle bed; 
 So let high-sighted tyranny range on. 
 Till each man drop by lottery. But if 
 
 these. 
 As I am sure they do, bear fire enough 
 To kindle cowards, and to steel with 
 
 valor 
 The melting spirits of woman; then, 
 
 countrymen. 
 What need we any spur, but our own 
 
 cause, 
 To prick us to redress? what other bond. 
 Than secret Romans, that have spoke the 
 
 word. 
 And will not palter? and what other oath. 
 Than honesty to honesty engag'd, 
 That this shall be, or we will fall for it? 
 Swear priests, and cowards, and men 
 
 cautelous. 
 Old feeble carrions, and such suffering 
 
 souls 
 That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes 
 
 swear 
 Such creatures as men doubt; but do not 
 
 stain 
 The even virtue of our enterprize 
 Nor the insuppressive mettle of our 
 
 spirits, 
 To think, that, or our cause or our per- 
 formance, 
 Did need an oath; when every drop of 
 
 blood, 
 That every Roman bears, and nobly 
 
 bears, 
 Is guilty of a several bastardy, 
 If he do break the smallest particle 
 Of any promise that hath pass'd from 
 
 him. 
 Cas. But what of Cicero? Shall we 
 
 sound him? 
 I think, he will stand very strong with 
 
 us. 
 
 431 
 
Act II, 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Scene I, 
 
 Casca. Let ua not leave him out, 
 Cin. Wo, by no means. 
 
 Met. 0, let us have him; for his silver 
 
 hairs 
 Will purchase us a good opinion, 
 And buy men's voices to commend our 
 
 deeds; 
 It shall be said, his judgment rul'd our 
 
 hands: 
 Our youths, and wildness, shall no whit 
 
 appear. 
 But all be buried in its gravity. 
 Bru. 0, name him not; let us not 
 
 break with him; 
 For he will never follow any thing 
 That other men begin. 
 
 Cas. Then leave him out. 
 
 Casca. Indeed, he is not fit. 
 
 Dec. Shall no man else be touch'd but 
 
 only Caesar? 
 Cas. Decius, well urg'd; — I think it 
 
 is not meet, 
 Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, 
 Should outlive Caesar. "We shall find of 
 
 him 
 A shrewd contriver; and, you know, his 
 
 means. 
 If he improves them, may well stretch so 
 
 far. 
 As to annoy us all: which to prevent. 
 Let Antony, and Ctesar, fall together. 
 Bi'u. Our course will seem too bloody, 
 
 Caius Cassius, 
 To cut the head off, and then hack the 
 
 limbs; 
 Like wrath in death, and envy after- 
 wards: 
 For Antony is but a limb of Csesar. 
 Let us be sacrificers, but no butchers, 
 
 Caius. 
 We all stand up against the spirit of 
 
 Caesar; 
 And in the spirit of men there is no 
 
 blood : 
 0, that we then could come by Ccesar's 
 
 spirit. 
 And not dismember Caesar ! But, alas. 
 
 435 
 
 Csesar must bleed for it ! And, gentle 
 
 friends. 
 Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; 
 Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods. 
 Not hew him as a carcase fit for hounds: 
 And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, 
 Stir up their servants to an act of rage. 
 And after seem to chide them. This 
 
 shall make 
 Our purpose necessary, and not envious: 
 Which so appearing to the common eyes. 
 We shall be call'd purgers, not murderers. 
 And for Mark Antony, think not of him; 
 For he can do no more than Caesar's arm. 
 When Caesar's head is off. 
 
 Cas. Yet I do fear hiui: 
 
 For in the ingrafted love he bears to 
 
 C«sar: 
 
 Bni. Alas, good Cassius, do not think 
 of him: 
 If he love Caesar, all that he can do 
 Is to himself; take thought, and die for 
 
 Caesar: 
 And that were much he should; for he is 
 
 given 
 To sports, to wildness, and much com- 
 pany. 
 Trei. There is no fear in him, let 
 him not die; 
 For he will live, and laugh at this here- 
 after. [Clock sh'i/i-c's. 
 Bru. Peace, count the clock. 
 Cas. The clock hath stricken three, 
 Treh. 'Tis time to part. 
 Cas. But it is doubtful yet, 
 Whe'r Cfesar will come forth to-day, or no; 
 For he is superstitious grown of late; 
 Quite from the main ojoinion he held once 
 Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies; 
 It may be, these apparent prodigies, 
 The unaccustom'd terror of this night. 
 And the persuasion of his augurers. 
 May hold him from the Capitol to-day. 
 Dec. Never fear that: If he be so re- 
 solv'd, 
 lean o'ersway him; for he loves to hear. 
 That unicorns may be betray'd with trees. 
 
Act II. 
 
 JULIUS C.ESAE. 
 
 ScejS'e I. 
 
 And bears with glasses, elejihants with 
 
 holes, 
 Lions with toils, and men with flatterers. 
 But, when I tell him, he hates flatterers. 
 He says, he does; being then most flat- 
 tered. 
 Let me work: 
 
 For I can give his humor the true bent; 
 And I will bring him to the Capicol. 
 Cas. Xay, we will all of ns be there to 
 
 fetch him. 
 Bru. By the eighth hour: Is that the 
 
 uttermost? 
 ■Cin.- Be that the uttermost, and fail 
 
 not then. 
 Jfef. Caius Ligarius dctli bear Caesar 
 
 hard, 
 Who rated him for speaking well of Pom- 
 
 pey; 
 I wonder, none of you have thought of 
 
 him. 
 £)•}(. Xow, good Metellus, go along by 
 
 him: 
 He loves me well, and I have given him 
 
 reasons; 
 Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. 
 Cas. The morning comes upon us: 
 
 "We'll leave you, Brutus: — 
 And, friends, disperse yourselves: but all 
 
 remember 
 What you have said, and show yourselves 
 
 true Eomans. 
 Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and 
 
 merrily ; 
 Let not our looks put on our purposes; 
 But bear it as our Koman actors do, 
 With untir'd spirits, and formal constancy: 
 And so, good morrow to you every one. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Brtitus. 
 
 BoyI Lucius'. — Fast asleep? It is no 
 
 matter; 
 Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: 
 Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies. 
 Which busy care draws in the brain of 
 
 men; 
 Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. 
 
 Enter Portia.. 
 For. Brutus, my lord? 
 
 Bru. Portia, what mean you ? Where- 
 fore rise you now? 
 It is not for your health thus to commit 
 Your weak condition to the raw-cold 
 
 morning. 
 For. Nor for yours neither. You have 
 
 urgentl}', Brutus, 
 Stole from my bed: And yesternight, at 
 
 supper. 
 You suddenly arose, and walk'd about. 
 Musing, and sighing, with your arms 
 
 across: 
 And when I ask'd you what the matter 
 
 was. 
 You star'd upon me with ungentle looks: 
 I urg'd you further; then you scratched 
 
 your head. 
 And too impatiently stamp'd with your 
 
 foot: 
 Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not; 
 But with an angry waf ture of your hand. 
 Gave sign for me to leave you: So I did; 
 Fearing to strengthen that impatience. 
 Which seemed so much enkindled; and, 
 
 withal. 
 Hoping it was but an effect of humor. 
 Which sometime hath his hour with every 
 
 man. 
 It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; 
 And, could it work so much upon your 
 
 shape 
 As it hath much prevail'd on your con- 
 dition, 
 I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my 
 
 lord. 
 Make me acquainted with your cause of 
 
 grief. 
 Bru. I am not well in health, and 
 
 that is all. 
 For. Brutus is wise, and were he not 
 
 in health, 
 He would embrace the means to come by 
 
 it. 
 Bru. Why, so I do: — good Portia, go 
 
 to bed. 
 
 436 
 
Act II. 
 
 JULIUS C/ESAK. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Por. Is Brutus sick? and is it physi- 
 cal 
 To walk unbraced, and suck up the hu- 
 mors 
 Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus 
 
 sick; 
 And will he steal out of his wholesome 
 
 bed. 
 To dare the vile contagion of tlie night? 
 And tempt tlie rheumy and unpurged air 
 To add unto his sickness? Xo, my 
 
 *" Brutus; 
 You have some sick offence within your 
 
 mind. 
 Which, by the right and virtue of my 
 
 place, 
 I ought to know of: And, upon my knees, 
 I charm you, by my onco commended 
 
 beauty. 
 By all your vows of love, and that great 
 
 vow 
 Which did incorporate and make us one. 
 That you unfold to me, yourself, your 
 
 half, 
 Whyyou are heavy; and what men to-night 
 Have had resort to you: for here have 
 
 been 
 Some six or seven, who did hide theirfaces 
 Even from darkness. 
 
 Brti. Kneel not, gentle Portia. 
 
 Por. I should not need, if you were 
 
 gentle Brutus. 
 Within the bond of marriage, tell me, 
 
 Brutus, 
 Is it excepted, I should know no secrets 
 That appertain to you? Am I yourself, 
 But, as it were, in sort, or limitation; 
 To keep Avith you at meals, comfort your 
 
 bed. 
 And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but 
 
 in the suburbs 
 Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, 
 Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. 
 Bru. You are my true and honorable 
 
 wife; 
 As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops 
 That visit my sad heart. 
 
 Por. If this were true, then should I 
 know this secret. 
 
 I grant, I am a woman, but, withal, 
 
 A woman that lord Brutus took to wife: 
 
 I grant, I am a woman; but, withal, 
 
 A woman well reputed; Cato's daughter. 
 
 Think you, I am no stronger than my sex. 
 
 Being so father'd and so husbanded? 
 
 Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose 
 them: 
 
 I liave made strong proof of my con- 
 stancy, 
 
 Giving myself a voluntary wound 
 
 Here, in the thigh: Can I bear that with 
 patience, 
 
 And not my husband's secrets? 
 Brii. Oye gods, 
 
 Eender me worthy of this noble wife! 
 
 \^K)iocking wifhin.. 
 
 Hark, hark! one knocks: Portia, go in 
 awhile; 
 
 And by and by thy bosom shall partake 
 
 The secrets of my heart. 
 
 All my engagements I Avill construe to 
 thee, 
 
 All the charactery of my sad brows: — 
 
 Leave me with haste. 
 
 [Bxif Portia. 
 
 Enter Lucius and Ligarius. 
 Lucius, who is that, knocks? 
 
 Luc. Here is a sick man, that would 
 
 speak with you. 
 Bru. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus 
 spake of. — 
 Boy, stand aside. — Caius Ligarius! liow? 
 Lig. Vouchsafe good morrow from a 
 
 feeble tongue. 
 Brti. 0, Avhat a time have you chose 
 out, brave Caius, 
 To wear a kerchief? 'Would you were 
 not sick! 
 Lig. I am not sick, if Brutus have in 
 hand 
 Any exploit worthy of the name of lienor. 
 Bru. Such an exploit have 1 in hand, 
 Ligarius, 
 Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. 
 
 437 
 
Act II. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Lig. By all the gods that Eomans bow 
 before, 
 I here discard my sickness. Soul of 
 
 Rome! 
 Brave son, deriv'd from honorable loins! 
 Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur'd up 
 My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, 
 And I will strive with things impossible; 
 Yea, get the better of them. "What's to 
 do? 
 Bni,. A piece of work, that will make 
 
 sick men whole. 
 Lig. But are not some whole, that we 
 
 must make sick? 
 Bru. That must we also'. What it is, 
 my Cains, 
 I shall unfold to thee as we are going; 
 To whom it must be done. 
 
 Lig. Set on your foot; 
 
 And, with a heart new fir'd, I follow you; 
 To do I know not what: but it sufficeth. 
 That Brutus leads me on. 
 
 Bru. Follow me then. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Room in Cgesar's Palace. 
 
 Thunder and Lightning. Enter Cesar, 
 in his nightgown. 
 
 Cces. Nor heaven, nor earth, have 
 been at peace to-night: 
 Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried 
 
 out. 
 Help, he! they viurder Ccesar! Who's 
 within? 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Serv. My lord? 
 
 Cobs. Go bid the priests do present 
 sacrifice. 
 And bring me their opinion of success. 
 Serv. I will, my lord. {Exit. 
 
 Enter Calphurxia. 
 
 Cal. What mean you, Csesar? Think 
 you to walk forth? 
 You shall not stir out of your house 
 to-day. 
 
 CcBS. Csesar shall forth: The things 
 
 that threaten'd me, 
 Ne'er look'd but on my back; Avhen they 
 
 shall see 
 The face of Csesar, they are vanished. 
 Cal. Cgesar, I never stood on cere- 
 monies. 
 Yet now they fright me. There is one 
 
 within. 
 Besides the things that we have heard 
 
 and seen. 
 Recounts most horrid sights seen by the 
 
 watch. 
 A lioness hath whelped in the streets; 
 And graves have yawn'd and yielded up 
 
 their dead: 
 Fiex'ce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds, 
 In ranks, and squadrons, and right form 
 
 of war. 
 Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol: 
 The noise of battle hurtled in the air. 
 Horses did neigh, and dying men did 
 
 groan ; 
 And ghosts did shriek, and squeal about 
 
 the streets. 
 Caesar! these things are beyond all 
 
 use. 
 And I do fear them. 
 
 Cms. What can be avoided. 
 
 Whose end is purpos'd by the mighty 
 
 gods? 
 Yet Cjesar shall go forth: for these pre- 
 dictions 
 Are to the woild in general, as to Csesar. 
 Cal. When beggars die, there are no 
 
 comets seen; 
 ' The heavens themselves blaze forth the 
 
 death of princes. 
 Cces. Cowards die many times before 
 
 their deaths; 
 The valiant never taste of death but 
 
 once. 
 Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, 
 It seems to me most strange that men 
 
 should fear; 
 Seeing that death, a necessary end. 
 Will come, when it will come. 
 
 438 
 
Act II. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAE. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Re-enter a Servant. 
 
 What say the angurers? 
 Serv. They would not have you stir 
 
 forth to-day. 
 Phicking the entrails of an offering forth. 
 They could not find a heart within the 
 
 beast. 
 Cces. The gods do this in shame of 
 
 cowardice. 
 Csesar should be a beast without a heart, 
 If he should stay at home to-day for fear, 
 No, Caesar shall not: Danger knows full 
 
 well 
 That Cajsar is more dangerous than he. 
 We were two lions litter'd in one day. 
 And I the elder and more terrible; 
 And Caesar shall go forth. 
 
 Col. Alas, my lord. 
 
 Your wisdom is consumed in confidence. 
 Do not go forth to-day: Call it my fear. 
 That keeps you in the house, and not your 
 
 own. 
 We'll send Mark Antony to the senate- 
 house; 
 And he shall say, you are not well to-day: 
 Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this. 
 Gd^s. Mark Antony shall say, I am not 
 
 well; 
 And, for thy humor, I will stay at home. 
 
 Enter 'D&cxvQ. 
 
 Here's Decius Brutus, he shall tell them 
 so. 
 Dec. Caesar, all hail I Good morrow, 
 worthy Caesar: 
 
 I come to fetch you to tlie senate-house. 
 G(es. And you are come in very happy 
 time. 
 
 To bear my greeting to the senators, 
 
 And tell them, that 1 will not come to- 
 day: 
 
 Cannot, is false; and that I dare not, 
 falser; 
 
 I will not come to-day: Tell them so, 
 Decius. 
 Cat. Say, he is sick. 
 
 CcBS. Shall Cajsar send a lie? 
 
 Have I in conquest stretch'd mine arm so 
 far. 
 
 To be afraid to tell grey-beards the truth? 
 
 Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come. 
 Dec. Most mighty Cffisar, let me know 
 some cause. 
 
 Lest I be laugh'd at, when I tell them so. 
 Cces. The cause is in my will, I will 
 not come; 
 
 That is enough to satisfy the senate. 
 
 But, for your private satisfaction. 
 
 Because I love you, I will let you know. 
 
 Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at 
 home: 
 
 She dreamt to-night she saw my statua, 
 
 Which like a fountain with a hundred 
 • spouts, 
 
 Did run pure blood; and many lusty Ro- 
 mans 
 
 Came smiling, and did bathe their hands 
 in it. 
 
 And these does she apply for warnings, 
 portents, 
 
 And evils imminent; and on her knee 
 
 Hath begg'd, that I will stay at home to- 
 day. 
 Dec. This dream is all amiss interpre- 
 ted; 
 
 It was a vision, fair and fortunate: 
 
 Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, 
 
 In which so many smiling Romans bath'd, 
 
 Signifies that from you great Rome shall 
 suck 
 
 Reviving blood; and that great men shall 
 press 
 
 For tinctures, stains, relics, and cogniz- 
 ance. 
 
 This by Calphurnia's dream is signified. 
 Cces. And this way have you well ex- 
 pounded it. 
 Dec. I have, when you have heard what 
 I can say: 
 
 And know it now; The senate have con- 
 cluded 
 
 To give, this day, a crown to mighty 
 Cijesar. 
 
 439 
 
Act II. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 If you shall send them word, you will not 
 
 come. 
 Their minds may change. Besides, it 
 
 were a mock 
 Apt to be rendered, for some one to say. 
 Break up the senate till another time, 
 When Ccesar's wife shall meet with better 
 
 dreams. 
 If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whis- 
 per, 
 Lo, Ccesar is afraid? 
 Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear, dear love 
 To your proceeding bids me tell you this; 
 And reason to my love is liable. 
 
 Cms. How foolish do your fears seem 
 now, Calphurnia? 
 I am ashamed I did yield to them. — 
 Give me my robe, for I will go: — 
 
 Enter Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, 
 Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, and 
 
 CiNNA. 
 
 And look where Publius is come to fetch 
 me. 
 Puh. Good morrow, C^sar. 
 Cms. Welcome, Publius. — 
 
 What, Brutus, are you stirr'd so early 
 
 too? — 
 Good morrow, Casca. — Caius Ligarius, 
 Caesar was ne'er so much your enemy. 
 As that same ague which hath made you 
 
 lean. — 
 What is't o'clock ? 
 
 Bru. Ceesar, 'tis strucken eight. 
 
 Cces. I thank you for your pains and 
 courtesy. 
 
 Enter Antony. 
 
 See! Antony, that revels long o'nights. 
 Is notwithstanding up: — 
 Good morrow, Antony. 
 
 Ant. So to most noble C«sar. 
 
 ' C(es. Bid them prepare within: — 
 I am to blame to be thus waited for. — 
 Now, Cinna: — Now Metellus: — What 
 
 Trebonius! 
 I have an hour's talk in store for you; 
 
 Eemember that you call on me to-day: 
 Be near me, that I may remember you. 
 Treb. Caesar, I will: — and so near 
 will I be, [Aside. 
 
 That your best friends shall wish I had 
 been further. 
 CcBs. Good friends, go in, and taste 
 some wine with me; 
 And we, like friends, will straightway go 
 together. 
 Bru. That every like is not the same, 
 Csesar, 
 The heart of Brutus vearns to think 
 
 upon! 
 
 [E.veu)it. 
 
 Scene III. A Street near the Capitol. 
 Enter Aetemidoeus, reading a Paper. 
 
 Art. Caesar, beware of Brutus; take 
 heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; 
 have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; 
 mark loell Metellus Cimber; Decius 
 Brutus loves thee not; tho%i hast wronged 
 Caius Ligarius. There is biit one mind 
 i7i all these men, and it is bent against 
 Caesar. If thoti be'st not immortal, look 
 about you: Security gives loay to conspir- 
 acy. TJie mighty gods defend thee! Tliy 
 lover, 
 
 Aetemidoeus. 
 
 Here will I stand, till Caesar pass along. 
 
 And as a suitor will I give him this. 
 
 My heart laments, that virtue cannot live 
 
 Out of the teeth of emulation. 
 
 If thou read this, Caesar, thou mayst 
 live; 
 
 If not, the fates with traitors do con- 
 trive. [Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. Another Part of the same 
 Street, before the House of Brutus. 
 
 Enter Poetia and Lucius. 
 
 Por. I pr'ythee, boy, run to the sen- 
 ate halls. 
 Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone: 
 Why dost thou stay? 
 
 440 
 
Act II. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 Liic. To know my errand, madam. 
 
 For. I would have had thee there, and 
 
 here again, 
 Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do 
 
 there. — 
 
 constancy, be strong upon my side ! 
 Set a huge mountain ^tween my heart and 
 
 tongue! 
 
 1 have a man's mind, but a woman's 
 
 might. 
 How hard it is for women to keep 
 
 counsel! 
 Art thou here yet? 
 
 Luc. Madam, what should I do? 
 
 Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? 
 And so return to you, and nothing else? 
 For. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy 
 lord look well. 
 For he went sickly forth : And take good 
 
 note. 
 What Caesar doth, what suitors press to 
 
 him. 
 Hark, boy! what noise is that? 
 Luc. I hear none, madam. 
 Por. Pr'ythee, listen well : 
 
 I heard a bustling rumor, like a fray. 
 And the wind brings it from the Capitol. 
 Lxic. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. 
 
 Enter Soothsayer. 
 Por. Come hither, fellow : 
 
 Which way hast thou been ? 
 
 Sooth. At mine own house, good lady. 
 Por. What is't o'clock? 
 Sooth. About the ninth hour, lady. 
 
 Por. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol? 
 
 Sooth. Madam, not yet; I go to take 
 
 my stand. 
 To see him pass on to the Capitol? 
 
 Por. Thou hast some suit to Csesar, 
 
 hast thou not? 
 Sooth. That I have, lady: if it will 
 
 please Ctesar 
 To be so good to Caesar, as to hear me, 
 I shall beseech him to befriend himself. 
 Por. Why, know'st thou any harms 
 
 intended toward him? 
 Sooth. None that I know will be, much 
 
 that I fear may chance. 
 Good-morrow to you. Here the street is 
 
 narrow; 
 The throng that follows Caesar at the heels. 
 Of senators, of praetors, common suitors, 
 Will crowd a feeble man almost to death : 
 I'll get me to a place more void, and 
 
 there 
 Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Por. I must go in. — Ah me! how 
 
 weak a thing 
 The heart of woman is! Brutus! 
 The heaven speed thee in thy enterprise! 
 Sure, the boy heard me : — Brutus hath a 
 
 suit. 
 That Caesar will not grant. — 0, I grow 
 
 faint : — 
 Run, Lucius, and commend me to my 
 
 lord ; 
 Say, I am merry : come to me again. 
 And bring me word what he doth 'say to 
 
 thee. • \_Exe^^nt. 
 
 ACT IIL 
 
 Scene I. The Capitol; the Senate sitting. 
 
 A crowd of People in the Street leading 
 to the Capitol : among them Artesii- 
 DORXJS and the Soothsayer. Flourish. 
 Enter Cesar, Brutus, Cassius, 
 Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, 
 CiNNA, Antony, Lepidus, Popilius, 
 PuBLius, and others. 
 
 Cces. The ides of March are come. 
 Sooth. Ay, Caesar; but not gone. 
 Art. Hail, Caesar! Read this schedule. 
 Dec. Trebonius doth desire you to 
 
 o'er-read. 
 At your best leisure, this his humble suit. 
 Art. O Caesar, read mine first; for 
 
 mine's a suit 
 
 411 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 That touches Caesar nearer. Eead it, great 
 Caesar. 
 
 Cces. What touches us ourself, shall 
 be last serv'd. 
 
 Art. Delay not, Caesar; read it in- 
 stantly. 
 
 CcBS. What, is the fellow mad? 
 
 Puh. Sirrah, give place. 
 
 GcBS. What, urge you your petitions in 
 the street ? 
 Come to the Capitol. 
 
 C^SAR enters the Capitol, the rest follow- 
 ing. All the Senators rise. 
 
 Pop. I wish your enterprise to-day 
 
 may thrive. 
 Gas. What enterprise, Popilius? 
 Pop. Fare you well. 
 
 \_Advances to C^sar. 
 Bru. What said Popilius Lena? 
 Cas. He wish'd to-day our enterprise 
 might thrive. 
 I fear our purpose is disco ver'd. 
 
 Br%(,. Look, how he makes to Caesar : 
 
 Mark him. 
 Cas. Casca, be sudden, for we fear 
 prevention. — 
 Brutus, what shall be done? If this be 
 
 known, 
 Cassius or Cgesar never shall turn back. 
 For I will slay myself. 
 
 Bru. Cassius, be constant : 
 
 Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes; 
 For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not 
 change. 
 Cas. Trebouius knows his time; for 
 look you, Brutus, 
 He draws Mark Antony out of the way. 
 
 [Exeunt Antony and Treionius 
 C.i:sAR and the Senators take their 
 Seats. 
 
 Dec. Where is Metellus Cimber? Let 
 
 him go, 
 And presently present his suit to Caesar. 
 Bru. He is address'd, press near, and 
 
 second him. 
 
 Cin. Casca, you are the first that rears 
 
 your hand. 
 Cms. Are you all ready? what is now 
 amiss. 
 That Csesar, and his senate must now re- 
 dress? 
 Met. Most high, most mighty, and 
 most puissant Caesar, 
 Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat 
 An humble heart. — [Kneeling. 
 
 Cms. I must prevent thee, Cimber. 
 
 These couehings, and these lowly cour- 
 tesies. 
 Might fire the blood of ordinary men. 
 And turn pre-ordinance, and first decree. 
 Into the law of children. Be not fond, 
 To think that Caesar bears such rebel 
 
 blood. 
 That will be thaw'd from the true quality 
 With that which melteth fools; I mean 
 
 sweet words. 
 Low-crooked courtesies, and base spaniel 
 
 fawning. 
 Thy brother by decree is banished; 
 If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn 
 
 for him, 
 I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. 
 Know, Caesar doth not wrong; nor with- 
 out cause 
 Will he be satisfied. 
 
 Met. Is there no voice more worthy 
 than my own. 
 To sound more svv^eetlyin great Caesar's ear. 
 For the repealing of my banish'd brother? 
 Bru. I kiss thy hand, but not in flat- 
 tery, Caesar; 
 Desiring thee, that Publius Cimber may 
 Have an immediate freedom of repeal. 
 Cms. What, Brutus? 
 Cas. Pardon, Caesar; Cffisar, pardon 
 As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall. 
 To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cim- 
 ber. 
 Cms. I could be well mov'd, if I were 
 as you; 
 If I could pray to move, prayers would 
 move me: 
 
 4t> 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS CiESAR. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 But I am constant as the northern star, 
 Of whose true fix'd and resting quality, 
 There is no fellow in the firmament. 
 The skies are painted with unnumbered 
 
 sparks, 
 They are all fire, and every one doth 
 
 shine; 
 But there's but one in all doth hold his 
 
 place: 
 So, in the world; 'tis furnished well with 
 
 men, 
 And men are flesh and blood, and appre- 
 hensive. 
 Yet, in the number, I do know but one 
 That unassailable holds on his rank, 
 Unshak'd of motion: and, that I am he: 
 Let me a little show it, even in this; 
 That I was constant, Cimber should be 
 
 banish'd, 
 And constant do remain to keep him so. 
 
 Cin. Csesar, 
 
 CcBS. Hence! Wilt thou lift up Olym- 
 pus ? 
 
 Dec. G-reat Csesar, 
 
 Cces. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel? 
 Casca. Speak, hands, for me. 
 [Casca stabs CcBScir in the necTc. Ccesar 
 catches hold of his arm. He is then sialihed 
 hy several other conspirators, and atlast ly 
 Marcus Brutus. 
 
 Cses. Et tu, Brute? — Then fall, 
 Csesar. 
 [Dies. The Senators and people retire in- 
 confusion. 
 Cin. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is 
 dead! — 
 Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the 
 streets. 
 Cas. Some to the common pulpits, 
 and cry out. 
 Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement! 
 Bru. People, and senators! be not 
 affrighted; 
 Fly not; standstill: — ambition's debt is 
 paid. 
 Casca. Go to the pulpit, Brutus. 
 Dec. And.Cassius too. 
 
 Bru. Where's Publius? 
 
 Cin. Here, quite confounded with 
 
 this mutiny. 
 Met. Stand fast together, lest some 
 friend of Caesar's 
 
 Should chance 
 
 Brti. Talk not of standing; — Pub- 
 lius, good cheer; 
 There is no harm intended to your jjer- 
 
 son. 
 Nor to no Roman else; so tell them, Pub- 
 lius. 
 Cas. And leave us, Publius, lest that 
 the people. 
 Rushing on us, should do your age some 
 mischief. 
 Bru. Do so; — and let no man abide 
 this deed. 
 But we the doers. 
 
 Re-enter Teebonitjs. 
 
 Cas. Where's Antony? 
 
 Tre. Fled to his house amaz'd : 
 
 Men, wives, and children, stare, cry out 
 and run. 
 
 As it were doomsday. 
 
 Bru. Fates! we will know your pleas- 
 ures: — 
 
 That we shall die, we know; 'tis but the 
 time. 
 
 And drawing days out, that men stand 
 upon. 
 Cas. Why, he that cuts off twenty 
 years of life, 
 
 Cuts off so many years of fearing death. 
 Brii. Grant that, and then is death a 
 benefit: 
 
 So are we Csesar's friends, that have 
 abridged 
 
 His time of fearing death. — Stoop 
 Romans, stoop. 
 
 And let us bathe our hands in Ccesar's 
 blood 
 
 Up to the elbows, and besmear our 
 swords: 
 
 Then walk we forth, even to the market- 
 place: 
 
 i« 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS CiESAR. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 And. waving our red weapons o'er onr 
 
 heads. 
 Let's all cry. Peace! Freedom! and 
 Liberty! 
 Cas. Stoop, then, and wash. How 
 many ages hence. 
 Shall this our lofty scene be acted over, 
 In states unborn, and accents yet 
 unknown! 
 Brii. How many times shall Csesar 
 bleed in sport. 
 That now on Pompey's basis lies along, 
 No worthier than the dust! 
 
 Cas. So oft as that shall be. 
 
 So often shall the knot of us be call'd 
 
 The men that gave their country liberty. 
 
 Dec. What, shall we forth? 
 
 Cas. Ay, every man away: 
 
 Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his 
 
 heels 
 With the most boldest and best hearts of 
 Rome. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Bru. Soft, who comes here? A friend 
 
 of Anthony's. 
 Serv. Thus, Brutus, did my master 
 
 bid me kneel; 
 Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down: 
 And, being prostrate, thus he bade me 
 
 say, 
 Brutus is noble, Avise, valiant, and honest; 
 Ccesar was mighty, bold, royal, and lov- 
 ing: 
 Say, I love Brutus, and I honor him; 
 Say, I fear'd Caesar, honor'd him, and 
 
 loved him; 
 If Brutus will vouchsafe, that Antony 
 May safely come to him, and be resolv'd 
 How Caesar hath deserved to lie in death, 
 Mark Antony shall not love Csesar dead 
 So well as Brutus living: but will follow 
 The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus 
 Through the hazards of this untrod state. 
 With all true faith. So says my master 
 
 Antony. 
 Bru. Thy master is a wise and valiant 
 
 Roman; 
 
 I never thought him worse. 
 
 Tell him, so please him come unto this 
 
 place, 
 He shall be satisfied; and, by my honor. 
 Depart untouch'd. 
 
 Serv. I'll fetch him presently.- [Exit. 
 Bru. I know that we shall have him 
 
 well to friend. 
 Cas. I wish we may ; but yet have I a 
 mind. 
 That fears him much; and my misgiving 
 
 still 
 Falls shrewdly to the purpose. 
 
 Re-enter Axtony. 
 
 Bru. But here comes Antony. — Wel- 
 come, Mark Antony. 
 Ant. mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie 
 so low ? 
 
 Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, 
 spoils, 
 
 Shrunk to this little measure ? — Fare thee 
 well. 
 
 I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, 
 
 AVho else must be let blood, who else is 
 rank. 
 
 If I myself, there ;s no hour so fit 
 As Cesar's death's hour ; nor no instru- 
 ment 
 Of half that worth, as those your swords, 
 
 made rich 
 With the most noble blood of all this 
 
 world. 
 I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, 
 Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek 
 
 and smoke. 
 Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousani 
 
 years, 
 I shall not find myself so apt to die : 
 No place will please me so, no mean of 
 
 death. 
 As here by Cassar, and by you cut off, 
 The choice and master spirits of this age. 
 Bru. Antony ! beg not your death 
 
 of us. 
 Though now we must appear bloody and 
 
 cruel. 
 
 444 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS CiESAR. 
 
 SCEIfE I. 
 
 As, by our hands, and this our present 
 
 act. 
 You see we do ; 3'et see you but our 
 
 hands, 
 And this the bleeding business they have 
 
 done : 
 Our hearts you see not, they ar§ pitiful ; 
 And pity to the general wrong of Rome 
 (As fire drives out fire, so pity, pity). 
 Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your 
 
 part. 
 To you our swords have leaden points, 
 
 Mark Antony : 
 Our arms, in strengtli of malice, and our 
 
 . hearts, 
 Of brother's temper, do receive you in 
 With all kind love, good thoughts, and 
 
 reverence. 
 Cas. Your voice shall be as strong as 
 
 any man's, 
 In the disposing of new dignities. 
 
 Bru. Only be patient, till we have ap- 
 
 peas'd 
 The multitude, beside themselves with 
 
 fear. 
 And then we will deliver you the cause, 
 Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck 
 
 him, 
 Have thus proceeded. 
 
 Ant. I doubt not of your wisdom. 
 
 Let each man render me his bloody hand: 
 First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with 
 
 you : — 
 Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand; 
 Now, Decius Brutus, yours ; — nowyours, 
 
 Metellus ; 
 Yours, Cinna ; — and, my valiant Casca, 
 
 yours; — 
 Though last, not least in love, yours, 
 
 good Trebonius. 
 Gentlemen all, — alas ! what shall I say ? 
 My credit now stands on such slippery 
 
 ground. 
 That one of two bad ways you must con- 
 ceit me, 
 Either a coward, or a flatterer. — 
 That I did love thee, Ccesar, 0, 'tis true : 
 
 If then thy spirit look upon us now. 
 
 Shall it not grieve thee, dearer than thy 
 death. 
 
 To see thy Antony making his peace. 
 
 Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes. 
 
 Most noble ! in the presence of thy 
 corse ? 
 
 Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, 
 
 Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy 
 blood. 
 
 It would become me better, than to close 
 
 In terms of friendship with thine ene- 
 mies. 
 
 Pardon me, Julius! — Here wast thou 
 bay'd, brave hart ; 
 
 Here didst thou fall ; and here tliy hun- 
 ters stand, 
 
 Sign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy 
 lethe. 
 
 world ! thou wast the forest to this 
 hart ; 
 
 And this, indeed, world, the heart of 
 thee. — 
 
 How like a deer, stricken by many princes 
 
 Dost thou here lie ! 
 
 Cas. Mark Antony,— — 
 
 Ant. Pardon me, Caius Cassius : 
 
 The enemies of Caesar shall say this ; 
 
 Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. 
 Cas. I blame you not for praising 
 Caesar so. 
 
 But what compact mean you to have with 
 us : 
 
 Will you be prick'd in number of our 
 friends : 
 
 Or shall we on, and not depend on you ? 
 Ant. Therefore I took your hands ; 
 but was, indeed, 
 
 Sway'd from the point, by looking down 
 at Caesar. 
 
 Friends am I with you all, and love vou 
 all; 
 
 Upon this hope, that you will give me 
 reasons, 
 
 Why, and wherein, C«sar was dangerous. 
 Bru. Or else were this a savage spec- 
 tacle : 
 
 445 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS C/ESAR. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Our reasons are so full of good regards, 
 That were you, Antony, tlie son of Csesar, 
 You should be satisfied. 
 
 Ant. That's all I seek : 
 
 And am moreover suitor, that I may 
 Produce his body to the market-place ; 
 And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, 
 Speak in the order of his funeral. 
 Bt-u. You shall, Mark Antony. 
 Cas. Brutus, a word with you. — 
 
 You know not what you do ; do not con- 
 sent. [Aside. 
 That Antony speak in his funeral : 
 Know you how much the people may be 
 
 mav'd — 
 By that which he will utter ? 
 
 Bru. By your pardon ; 
 
 I will myself into the pulpit first. 
 And show the reason of our Caesar's death: 
 What Antony shall speak, I will protest 
 He speaks by leave and by permission ; 
 And that we are contented, Caesar shall 
 Have all true rites, and lawful ceremo- 
 nies. 
 It shall advantage more, than do us 
 wrong. 
 Cas. 1 know not what may fall; I like 
 
 it not. 
 Bru. Mark Antony, here, take you 
 Ceesar's body. 
 You shall not in your funeral speech 
 
 blame us. 
 Bat s2oeak all good you can devise of 
 
 Caesar ; 
 And say, you do't by our permission ; 
 Else shall you not have any hand at all 
 About his funeral : And you shall speak 
 In the same pulpit whereto I am going, 
 After my speech is ended. 
 
 Ant. Be it so ; 
 
 I do desire no more. 
 
 Bru. Prepare the body then, and fol- 
 low us. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Antony. 
 
 Ant. 0, pardon me, thou bleeding 
 piece of earth, 
 
 That I am meek and gentle with these 
 
 butchers ! 
 Thou art the ruins of the noblest man, 
 That ever lived in the tide of times. 
 Woe to the hand that shed this costly 
 
 blood ! 
 Over thy wounds now do I prophesy — 
 AVhich like dumb mouths, do ope their 
 
 ruby lips, 
 To beg the voice and utterance of my 
 
 tongue ; — 
 A curse shall light upon the limbs of 
 
 men ; 
 Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife. 
 Shall cumber all the parts of Italy : 
 Blood and destruction shall be so in use. 
 And dreadful objects so familiar. 
 That mothers shall but smile, when they 
 
 behold 
 Their infants quarter'd with the hands of 
 
 war ; 
 All pity chok'd with custom of felldeeds: 
 And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, 
 With Ate by his side, come hot from hell. 
 Shall in these confines, with a monarch's 
 
 voice. 
 Cry, Havock! and let slip the dogs of 
 
 war ; 
 That this foul deed shall smell above the 
 
 earth. 
 With carrion men groaning for burial. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 You serve Octavius Ca?sar, do you not? 
 Se7'v. I do, Mark Antony. 
 Ant. C«sar did write for him to come 
 
 to Rome. 
 Serv. He did receive his letters, and is 
 coming: 
 And bid me say to you by word of mouth, 
 
 C«sar! [Seeing the iocly. 
 
 Ant. Thy heart is big, get thee apart 
 and weep. 
 Passion, I see, is catching ; for mine eyes 
 Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in 
 
 thine. 
 Began to water. Is thy master coming.^ 
 
 446 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS C/ESAR. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Serv. He lies to-night within seven 
 
 leagues of Rome. 
 Ant. Post back with speed, and tell 
 him what hath chanc'd: 
 
 Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous 
 Rome, 
 
 No Rome of safety for Octavius yet; 
 
 Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet, stay a 
 while; 
 
 Thou shalt not back, till I have borne 
 this corse 
 
 Into the market-place: there shall I try. 
 
 In my oration, how the people take 
 
 The cruel issue of these bloody men; 
 
 According to the which, thou shalt dis- 
 course 
 
 To young Octavius of the state of things. 
 
 Lend me your hand. 
 
 lExeu7it with Ccesar's body. 
 
 Scene II. The Forum. 
 
 Enter Brutus cmd Cassius, and a Tlirong 
 q/" Citizens. 
 
 at. We will be satisfied; let us be 
 
 satisfied. 
 Bru. Then follow me, and give me 
 
 audience, friends. — 
 Cassius, go you into the other street. 
 And part the numbers. — 
 Those that will hear me speak, let them 
 
 stay here; 
 Those that will follow Cassius, go with 
 
 him; 
 And public reasons shall be rendered 
 Of Caesar's death. 
 
 1 Cit.l will hear Brutus speak. 
 
 2 at. I will hear Cassius, and com- 
 
 pare their reasons. 
 When severally we hear them rendered. 
 [Exit Cassius luith some of the Citizens. 
 Brutus goes iiito the Rostrum. 
 
 3 at. The noble Brutus is ascended: 
 
 Silence! 
 Bru. Be patient till the last. 
 Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear 
 me for my cause ; and be silent that ye 
 
 may hear; believe me for mine honor; 
 and have respect to mine honor, that you 
 may believe: censure me in your wisdom: 
 and awake your senses that you may the 
 better judge. If there be any in this 
 assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to 
 him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was 
 no less than his. If then that friend 
 demand, why Brutus rose against Caesar, 
 this is my answer, — Not that I loved 
 Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. 
 Had you rather Caesar were living, and die 
 all slaves; than that Caesar were dead, to 
 live all free men ? As Caesar loved me, 
 I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I 
 rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor 
 him: but, as he was ambitious, I slew 
 him: There is tears, for his love; joy, for 
 his fortune; honor, for his valor; and 
 death, for his ambition. Who is hei-e so 
 base, that would be a bondman ? If anj^, 
 speak: for him have I offended. Who is 
 here so rude, that would not be a Roman? 
 If any, speak; for him have I offended. 
 Who is here so vile, that will not love his 
 country? If any, speak; for him have I 
 offended. I pause for a reply. 
 
 at. None, Brutus, none. 
 
 [Several speaking at once. 
 
 Bru. Then none have I offended. I 
 have done no more to C«sar, than you 
 should do to Brutus. The question of 
 his death is enrolled in the Capitol: his 
 glory not extenuated, wherein he was 
 worthy; nor his offenses enforced, for 
 which he suffered death. 
 
 Enter Antony and others, with . 
 Cesar's Body. 
 
 Here comes his body, mourned by Mark 
 Antony: Who, though he had no hand 
 in his death, shall receive the benefit of 
 his dying, a place in the commonwealth; 
 As which of you shall not ? With this I 
 depart; That as I slew my best lover for 
 the good of Rome, I have the same dag- 
 
 447 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS CJESAH. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 ger for m3'self, when it shall please my 
 country to need my death. 
 
 at. Live, Brutus, live I live ! 
 
 1 at. Bring him with triumph home 
 
 unto his house. 
 
 2 at. Give him a statue with his 
 
 ancestors. 
 
 3 Cit. Let him be Caesar. 
 
 4 Cit. Ceesar's better parts 
 Shall now be crown'd in Brutus. 
 
 1 Cii. We'll bring him to his house 
 
 with shouts and clamors. 
 Bru. My countrymen, — 
 
 2 Cit. Peace; silence ! Brutus speaks. 
 1 Cit. Peace, ho ! 
 
 Bru. Good countrymen, let me de- 
 part alone, 
 And, for my sake, stay here with An- 
 tony: 
 Do grace to Cesar's corpse, and grace his 
 
 speech 
 Tending to Cgesar's glories; which Mark 
 
 Antony, 
 By our permission, is allow'd to make. 
 I do entreat you not a man depart. 
 Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. 
 
 [Exit. 
 1 Cit. Stay, ho ! and let us hear Mark 
 Antony. 
 
 3 Cit. Let him go up into the public 
 
 chair: 
 We'll hear him: — Noble Antony go up. 
 Ant. For Brutus' sake, I am beholden 
 to you. 
 
 4 at. What does he say of Brutus ? 
 
 3 at. He says for Brutus' sake. 
 He finds himself beholden to us all. 
 
 4 at. 'Twere best he speak no harm 
 
 of Brutus here. 
 
 1 at. This Csesar was a tyrant. 
 
 3 at. Nay, that's certain: 
 
 We are bless'd that Rome is rid of him. 
 
 2 at. Peace; let us hear what An- 
 
 tony can say. 
 
 Atif. You gentle Romans, 
 
 at. Peace, ho ! let us hear him. 
 
 A7it. Friends, Romans, countrymen, 
 
 lend me your eai's ; 
 I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
 The evil that men do, lives after them; 
 The good is oft interred with their 
 
 bones ; 
 So let it be with Caesar. The noble 
 
 Brutus 
 Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious; 
 If it were so, it were a grievous fault; 
 And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. 
 Here, under leave of Brutus, and the 
 
 rest, 
 (For Brutus is an honorable man; 
 So are they all, all lionorable men;) 
 Come I to speak in Cassar's funeral. 
 He was my friend, faithful and just to 
 
 me: 
 But Brutus says, he was ambitious; 
 And Brutus is an honorable man. 
 He hath brought many captives home to 
 
 Rome, 
 Whose ransoms did the general coifers 
 
 fill: 
 Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 
 When that the poor have cried, Caesar 
 
 hath wept: 
 Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: 
 Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious; 
 And Brutus is an honorable man. 
 You all did see, that on the Lupercal, 
 I thrice presented him a kingly crown. 
 Which he did thrice refuse. Was this 
 
 ambition? 
 Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious; 
 And, sure, he is an honorable man. 
 I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke. 
 But here I am to speak what I do know. 
 You all did love him once, not without 
 
 cause 
 What cause witholds you then to mourn 
 
 for him? 
 judgment, thou art fled to brutish 
 
 beasts. 
 And men have lost their reason! — Bear 
 
 with me; 
 
 418 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAK. 
 
 SCE2N-E II. 
 
 My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 
 And I must pause till it come back to me. 
 
 1 Git. Methinks there is much reason 
 
 in his sayings. 
 
 2 at. If thou consider rightly of the 
 
 matter, 
 CaBsar has had great wrongs. 
 
 3 at. Has he, masters? 
 
 I fear, there will a worse come in his 
 place. 
 
 4 at. Mark'd ye his words? He 
 
 would not take the crown; 
 Therefore, 'tis certain, he was not ambi- 
 tious. 
 
 1 at. If it be found so, some will 
 
 dear abide it. 
 
 2 at. Poor soul! his eyes are red wiih 
 
 weeping. 
 
 3 at. There's not a nobler man in 
 
 Rome, than Antony. 
 
 4 at. Now mark him, he begins again 
 
 to speak. 
 Ant. But yesterday, th^ word of 
 
 Ceesar might 
 Have stood against the world: now lies he 
 
 there. 
 And none so poor to do him reverence. 
 
 masters! if I were dispos'd to stir 
 Your hearts and minds to mutiny and 
 
 rage, 
 
 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius 
 
 wrong. 
 Who, you all know, are honorable men: 
 I will not do them wrong; I rather choose 
 To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and 
 
 yon, 
 Than I will wrong such honorable men. 
 But here's a parchment, with the seal of 
 
 Csesar, 
 I found it in his closet, 'tis his will: 
 Let but the commons hear this testament, 
 (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to 
 
 read,) 
 And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's 
 
 wounds. 
 And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; 
 Yea, beg a hair of him for memory. 
 
 And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
 Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy. 
 Unto their issue. 
 
 4 Oit. We'll hear the will: Read it, 
 Mark Antony. 
 at. The will, the will; we will hear 
 
 Cassar's will. 
 Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I 
 must not read it; 
 It is not meet you know how Csesar lov'd 
 
 you. 
 You are not wood, you are not stones, but 
 
 men; 
 And being men, hearing the will of 
 
 Caesar, 
 It will inflame you, it will make you mad : 
 'Tis good you know not that you are his 
 
 heirs; 
 For if you should, 0, what would come of 
 it! 
 4 at. Read the will; we will hear it, 
 Antony; 
 You shall read us the will; Caesar's will. 
 Ant. Will you be patient? Will you 
 stay awhile? 
 I have o'ershot myself, to tell you of it. 
 I fear, I wrong the honorable men. 
 Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar: I do 
 fear it. 
 4 at. They were traitors: Honorable 
 
 men! 
 at. The will! the testament! 
 2 at. They were villains, murderers. 
 The will! read the will! 
 
 Ant. You will compel me then to read 
 the will? 
 Then make a ring about the corpse of 
 
 Caesar, 
 And let me show you him that made the 
 
 will. 
 Shall I descend? And will you give me 
 leave? 
 at. Come down. 
 
 2 at. Descend. [He comes dototi from 
 
 the jndpit. 
 
 3 at. You shall have leave. 
 
 4 at. A ring; stand round, 
 
 449 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 1 at. Stand from the liearse, stand 
 
 from the body. 
 
 2 Git. Room for Antony; — most noble 
 
 Antony. 
 Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand 
 
 far off. 
 Git. Stand back! room! bear back! 
 Ant. If you have tears, prepare to 
 
 shed them now. 
 You all do know this mantle: I remember 
 The first time ever Ceesar put it on; 
 "Twas on a summer's evening in his tent; 
 That day he overcame the Nervii: — 
 Look! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger 
 
 through: 
 See, what a rent the envious Casca made: 
 Through this, the well-beloved Brutus 
 
 stabb'd : 
 And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, 
 Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it; 
 As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd 
 If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no; 
 For Brutus, as you know, was Csesar's 
 
 angel: 
 Judge, you gods, how dearly Caesar 
 
 lov'd him! 
 This was the most unkindest cut of all; 
 For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
 Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's 
 
 arms. 
 Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his ' 
 
 mighty heart; 
 And, in this mantle mulHing up his face. 
 Even at the base of Pompey's statute. 
 Which all the while ran blood, great 
 
 Caesar fell. 
 0, what a fall was there, my countrymen! 
 Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
 Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. 
 0, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel 
 The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. 
 Kind souls, what, weep you, when you 
 
 but behold 
 Our Csesar's vesture wounded? Look you 
 
 here. 
 Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with 
 
 traitors. 
 
 1 Git. piteous spectacle! 
 
 2 Git. noble Cfesar! 
 
 3 Git. woful day! 
 
 4 Git. traitors, villains! 
 
 1 Git. most bloody sight! 
 
 2 Git. We will be revenged: revenge; 
 about, seek,— burn, — fire,— kill,— slay ! — 
 let not a traitor live. 
 
 Ant. Stay, countrymen. 
 
 1 Git. Peace there: — Hear the noble 
 
 Antony. 
 
 2 Git. We'll hear him, we'll follow 
 
 him, we'll die with him. 
 Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let 
 
 me not stir you up 
 To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 
 They, that have done this deed, are 
 
 honorable; 
 What private griefs they have, alas, I 
 
 know not, 
 That made them do it; they are wise and 
 
 honorable. 
 And will, no doubt, with reasons answer 
 
 you. 
 I come not, friends, to steal away your 
 
 hearts; 
 1 am no orator, as Brutus is: 
 But, as you know me all, a plain blunt 
 
 man, 
 That love my friend; and that they know 
 
 full well 
 That gave me public leave to speak of him. 
 For I have neither wit, nor words, nor 
 
 worth. 
 Action, nor utterance, nor the power of 
 
 speech. 
 To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; 
 I tell you that, which you yourselves do 
 
 know; 
 Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, 
 
 poor dumb mouths, 
 And bid them speak for me: But were I 
 
 Brutus, 
 And Brutus Antony, there were an .Vn- 
 
 tony 
 Would ru file up your spirits, and put a 
 
 tongue 
 
 it:o 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAK. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 In every wound of CiBsar, that should 
 
 move 
 Tlie stones of Eome to rise and mutiny. 
 at. We'll mutiny. 
 
 1 at. We'll burn the house of 
 
 Brutus. 
 3 at. Away then, come, seek the con- 
 spirators. 
 Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet 
 
 hear me speak. 
 at. Peace, ho ! Hear Antony, most 
 
 noble Antony. 
 Ant. Why, friends, you go to do you 
 know not what : 
 Wherein hath Cjesar thus deserv'd your 
 
 loves ? 
 Alas, you know not: — I must tell you 
 
 then: — 
 You have forgot the will I told you of. 
 at. Most true; — the will; — let's 
 
 stay, and hear the will. 
 Ant. Here is the will, and under 
 Cnesar's seal. 
 To every Horn an citizen he gives. 
 To every several man, seventy-five drach- 
 mas. 
 
 2 at. Most noble Caesar! — we'll re- 
 
 venge his death. 
 
 3 at. royal Ceesar ! 
 
 Ant. Hear me with patience. 
 at. Peace, ho ! 
 
 Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all 
 his walks. 
 His private arbors, and new-planted 
 
 orchards. 
 On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, 
 And to your heirs for ever ; common 
 
 pleasures. 
 To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. 
 Here was a Caesar : When comes such 
 another ? 
 1 at. Never, never : — Come, away, 
 away : 
 We'll burn his body in the holy place. 
 And with the brands fire the traitors' 
 
 houses. 
 Take up the body. 
 
 2 at. Go, fetch fire. 
 
 3 at. Pluck down benches. 
 
 4 at. Pluck down forms, windows, 
 
 any thing. 
 
 \_Exeunt Citizens with the hocly. 
 Ant. Now let it work : Mischief, thou 
 art afoot, 
 Take thou what course thou wilt ! — How 
 now, fellow? 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, Octavius is already come 
 
 to Eome. 
 A nt. Where is he ? 
 Serv. He and Lepidus are at Caesar's 
 
 house. 
 A7it. And thither will I straight to 
 visit him: 
 He comes ui^on a wish. Fortune is 
 
 merry. 
 And in this mood will give us any thing. 
 Serv. I heard him say, Brutus and 
 Cassius 
 Are rid like madmen through the gates 
 of Eome. 
 Ant. Belike, they had some notice of 
 the j^eople 
 How I had mov'd them. Bring me to 
 Octavius. \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. A Street. 
 E7iter CiNNA, the Poet. 
 
 Gin. I dreamt to-night that I did feast 
 with Caesar 
 And things unluckily charge my fan- 
 tasy : 
 I have no will to wander forth of doors. 
 Yet something leads me forth. 
 
 Enter Citizens. 
 
 1 at. What is your name? 
 
 2 at. Whither are you going? 
 
 3 at. Where do you dwell ? 
 
 4 at. Are you a married man, or a 
 
 bachelor? 
 2 at. Answer every man directly. 
 
 451 
 
Act III. 
 
 JULIUS CaESAR. 
 
 SCEXE Til. 
 
 1 at. A.J, and briefly. 
 4 at. Ay, and wisely. 
 
 3 at. Ay, and truly, you were best. 
 
 an. What is my name? Whither am 
 I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a 
 married man, or a bachelor? Then to 
 answer every man directly and briefly, 
 wisely, and truly. Wisely I say, I am a 
 bachelor. 
 
 2 at. That's as much as to say they 
 are fools that marry — You'll bear me a 
 bang for that, I fear. Proceed; directly. 
 
 Cin. Directly, I am going to Caesar's 
 
 funeral. 
 1 at. As a friend, or an enemy? 
 an. As a friend. 
 
 3 at. That matter is answered di- 
 
 rectly. 
 
 4 at. For your dwelling, — briefly. 
 
 an. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. 
 4 at. Your name, sir, truly. 
 an. Truly, my name is Cinna. 
 
 1 at. Tear him to pieces, he's a con- 
 
 spirator. 
 an. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna 
 
 the poet. 
 4 at. Tear him for his bad verses, 
 
 tear him for his bad verses. 
 Cin. I am not Cinna the conspirator. 
 
 2 at. It is no matter, his name's 
 Cinna; pluck but his name out of his 
 heart, and turn him going. 
 
 3 at. Tear him, tear him. Come, 
 brands, ho! firebrands. To Brutus', to 
 Cassius'; burn all. Some to Decius' house, 
 and some to Casca's: some to Ligarius': 
 away; go. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. A Eoom in Antony's House. 
 
 Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus, seated 
 
 at a Tatle. 
 
 Ant. These many then shall die; their 
 
 names are prick'.d. 
 Oct. Your brother too must die; Con- 
 sent you, Lepidus? 
 Lep. I do consent. 
 Oct. Prick him down, Antony. 
 
 Lep. Upon condition Publius shall not 
 live. 
 Who is your sister's son, Mark Antony. 
 Ant. He shall not live ; look, with a 
 spot I damn him. 
 But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar's house; 
 Fetch the will hither, and we will deter- 
 mine 
 How to cut off some charge in legacies. 
 Lep. What, shall I find you here? 
 Oct. Or here or at 
 
 The Capitol. \_Exit Lepidus. 
 
 Ant. This is a slight unmeritable 
 man. 
 
 Meet to be sent on errands: Is it fit. 
 The three-fold world divided, he should 
 
 stand 
 One of the three to share it? 
 
 Oct. So you thought him; 
 
 And took his voice who should be prick'd 
 
 to die. 
 In our black sentence and proscription. 
 Ant. Octavius, I have seen more days 
 
 than 3'ou; 
 And though we lay these honors on this 
 
 man. 
 To ease ourselves of divers slanderous 
 
 loads, 
 He shall but bear them as the ass bears 
 
 gold, 
 To groan and sweat under the business, 
 Either led or driven, as we point the way; 
 And having brought our treasure where 
 
 we will, 
 Then take we down this load, and turn 
 
 him off. 
 Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears. 
 And graze in commons. 
 
 453 
 
Act IV. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Scene IL 
 
 Oct. You may do your will; 
 
 But he's a tried and valiant soldier. 
 
 Ant. So is my horse, Octavius; and, for 
 
 that, 
 I do appoint him store of provender. 
 It is a creature that I teach to fight. 
 To wind, to stop, to run directly on; 
 His corporal motion governed by my 
 
 spirit. 
 And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so; 
 He must be taught, and train'd, and bid 
 
 go forth: 
 A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds 
 On objects, arts, and imitations; 
 Which, out of use, and stal'd by other 
 
 men. 
 Begin his fashion: Do not talk of him. 
 But as a property. And now, Octavius, 
 Listen great things. — Brutus and Cassius, 
 Are levying powers: we must strdght 
 
 make head. 
 Therefore, let our alliance be combined. 
 Our best friends made, and our best 
 
 means stretch'd out; 
 And let us presently go sit in council. 
 How covert matters maybe best disclosed, 
 And open perils surest answered. 
 
 Oct. Let us do so; for we are at the 
 
 stake. 
 And bay'd about with many enemies; 
 And some, that smile, have in their hearts, 
 
 I fear. 
 Millions of mischief. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. Before Brutus' Tent in the 
 Camp near Sardis. 
 
 Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Lucius, 
 a?id Soldiers : Titinius and Pind^rus 
 meeting them. 
 
 Brtt. Stand here. 
 
 Luc. Give the word, ho! and stand. 
 
 Brio. AVhat now, Lucilius? is Cassius 
 
 near? 
 Luc. He is at hand ; and Pindarus is 
 
 come 
 To do vou salutation from his master. 
 
 453 
 
 Pindarus gives a Letter to Brutus. 
 
 Bru. He greets me well. — Your master, 
 Pindarus, 
 In his own charge, or by ill offices. 
 Hath given me some worthy cause to 
 
 wish 
 Things done, undone: but, if he be at 
 
 hand, 
 I shall be satisfied. 
 
 Fin. I do not doubt 
 
 But that my noble master will appear 
 Such as he is, full of regard, and honor. 
 Bru. He is not doubted. — A word, 
 Lucilius: 
 How he received you, let me be resolv'd. 
 Luc. With courtesy, and with respect 
 enough; 
 But not with such familiar instances. 
 Nor with such free and friendly confer- 
 ence. 
 As he hath used of old. 
 
 Bru. Thou hast describ'd 
 
 A hot friend cooling: Ever note, Luci- 
 lius, 
 When love begins to sicken and decay. 
 It useth an enforced ceremony. 
 There are no tricks in pain and simple 
 
 faith : 
 But hollow men, like horses hot at hand. 
 Make gallant show and promise of their 
 
 mettle: 
 But when they should endure the bloody 
 
 spur. 
 They fall their crests, and, like deceitful 
 
 jades. 
 Sink in the trial. Comes his army on? 
 Licc. They mean this night in Sardis 
 to be quarter'd; 
 The greater part, the horse in general, 
 Are come with Cassius. 
 
 [Jilarch within. 
 Bru. Hark, heis arriv'd: — 
 
 March gently on to meet him. 
 
 Enter Cassius and Soldiers. 
 
 Gas. Stand, ho! 
 
 Bru. Stand, ho! Speak the word along. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 [Within.] Stand. 
 [Within.] Stand. 
 [Within.] Stand. 
 Cas. Most noble brother, you have 
 
 done me wrong. 
 Bni. Judge me, you gods! "Wrong I 
 mine enemies? 
 And, if not so, how should I wrong a 
 brother? 
 Cas. Brutus, this sober form of yours 
 hides wrongs; 
 
 And when you do them 
 
 Bni. Oassius, be content, 
 
 Speak your griefs softly, — I do know you 
 
 well: — 
 Before the eyes of both our armies here, 
 Which should perceive nothing but love 
 
 from us. 
 Let us not wrangle: Bid them move 
 
 away; 
 Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your 
 
 griefs. 
 And I will give you audience. 
 
 Cas. Pindarus, 
 
 Bid our commanders lead their charges 
 
 off 
 A little fi-om this ground. 
 
 Bru. Lucilius, do the like ; and let no 
 man 
 Come to our tent, till we have done our 
 
 conference. 
 Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door. 
 
 Bru. You wrong'd yourse'lf, to write 
 
 ill such a case. 
 Cas. In such a time as this, it is not 
 meet 
 That every nice offense should bear his 
 comment. 
 Bt^u. Let me tell you, Cassius, you 
 yourself 
 Are much condemn^! to have an itching 
 
 palm; 
 To sell and mart your offices for gold, 
 To undeservers. 
 
 Cas. I an itching palm? 
 
 You know that you are Brutus that speak 
 I this, 
 
 I Or, by the gods, this speech were else your 
 I last. 
 
 B?-ic. The name of Cassius honors this 
 corruption. 
 And chastisement doth therefore hide his 
 head. 
 Cas. Chastisement! 
 Bru. Remember March, the ides of 
 March remember! 
 Didn't great Julius bleed for justice' 
 
 sake? 
 What villain touch'd his body, that did 
 
 stab. 
 And not for justice? "What, shall one of 
 
 us. 
 That struck the foremost man of all tliis 
 world, 
 
 [Exeiait. I But for supporting robbers; sliall we now 
 
 j Contaminate our fingers with base bribes? 
 
 Scene III. "Within the Tent of Brutus. | And sell the mighty space of our large 
 
 Luuius a)id TiTiNirs at some distance 
 from it. 
 
 Enter Brutus «?ifZ Cassius. 
 
 Cas. That you have wrong'd me dotli 
 
 appear in this: 
 You have condemn'd and noted Lucius 
 
 Bella, 
 For taking bribes here of the Sardiaus; 
 Wherein my letters, praying on his side. 
 Because I knew the man, were slighted 
 
 off. 
 
 honors. 
 For so much trash, as may be grasped 
 
 thus ?— 
 I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon. 
 Than such a Roman. 
 
 Cas. Brutus, bay not me; 
 
 I'll not endure it; you forget yourself 
 To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, 
 Older in practice, abler tlian yourself 
 To make conditions. 
 
 Bru. Go to; you're not, Cassius. 
 
 Cas. I am. 
 
 454 
 
Act IV. 
 
 JULIUS CyESAE. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 i?;-«. I say, yon are not. 
 Qas. Urge me no more, I shall forget 
 myself; 
 Plave mind upon your health, tempt me 
 no further. 
 Bru. Away, slight man! 
 Cas. Is't possible? 
 
 Bri(. Hear me, for I will speak. 
 
 Must I give way and room to your rash 
 
 choler? 
 Shall I be frighted, when a madman 
 stares? 
 Cas. ye gods! ye gods! Must I en- 
 dure all this? 
 Bru. All this? ay, more: Fret, till 
 your proud heart break; 
 Go show your slaves how choleric you 
 
 are, 
 And make your bondmen tremble. Must 
 
 I budge? 
 Must I observe you? Must I stand and 
 
 crouch 
 Under your testy humor? By the gods. 
 You shall digest the venom of your 
 
 spleen. 
 Though it do split you: for, from this day 
 
 forth, 
 I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my 
 
 laughter. 
 When you are waspish. 
 
 Cas. Is it come to this? 
 
 Bru. You say, youare abetter soldier: 
 
 Let it appear so; make your vaunting true. 
 
 And it shall please me well: For mine 
 
 own part, 
 I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 
 Cas. You wrong me every way; you 
 wrong me, Brutus: 
 I said, an elder soldier, not a better: 
 Did I say, better? 
 
 Bru. If yoii did, I care not. 
 
 Cas. When Csesar lived, he durst not 
 
 thus have mov'd me. 
 Br2i. Peace, peace; you durst not so 
 
 have tempted him. 
 Cas. I durst not? 
 Bru. No. 
 
 Cas. What? durst not tempt him? 
 Bru. For your life you durst not. 
 
 Cas. Do not presume too much upon 
 my love, 
 I may do that I shall be sorry for. 
 ■ Bru. You have done that you should 
 be sorry for. 
 There is no terror, Cassius, in your 
 
 threats: 
 For I am arm'd so strong in honesty. 
 That they pass by me, as the idle wind. 
 Which I respect not. I did send to you 
 For certain sums of gold, which you 
 
 denied me; — 
 For I can raise no money by vile means: 
 By heaven, I had rather coin my heart. 
 And drop my blood for drachmas, than to 
 
 wring 
 From the hard hands of peasants their 
 
 vile trash 
 By any indirection. I did send 
 'J'o you for gold to pay my legions, 
 Which you denied me: Was that done 
 
 like Cassius 
 Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so? 
 When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous. 
 To lock such rascal counters from his 
 
 friends. 
 Be ready, gods, with all your thunder- 
 bolts. 
 Dash him to pieces! 
 
 Cas. I denied you not. 
 
 Bru. You did. 
 
 Cas. I did not; — he was but a fool. 
 That brought my answer back. — Brutus 
 
 hath riv'd my heart: 
 A friend should bear his friend's infirmi- 
 ties. 
 But Brutus makes mine greater than they 
 are. 
 Bru. I do not, till you practise them 
 
 on me. 
 Cas. You love me not. 
 Brti. I do not like your faults. 
 
 Cas. A friendly eye could never see 
 such faults. 
 
 i55 
 
Act If. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Bru. A flatterer's would not, thougli 
 they do appear 
 As huge as high Olympus. 
 
 Oas. Come, Antony, and young Octa- 
 vius, come. 
 Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
 For Cassius is aweary of the world: 
 Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his 
 
 brother; 
 Checked like a bondman; all his faults 
 
 observ'd, 
 Set in a note-book, learned, and conn'd by 
 
 rote, 
 To cast into my teeth. 0, I could weep 
 My spirit from mine eyes! — There is my 
 
 dagger. 
 And here my naked breast; within, a 
 
 heart 
 Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than 
 
 gold: 
 If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth; 
 I, that denied thee gold, will give my 
 
 heart; 
 Strike, as thou didst at Csesar; for, I know. 
 When thou didst hate him worst, thou 
 
 lov'dst him better 
 Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. 
 
 Bm. Sheath your dagger: 
 
 Be angry when you will, it shall have 
 
 scope; 
 Do what you will, dishonor shall be hu- 
 mor. 
 Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 
 That carries anger, as the flint bears fire; 
 Who much enforced, shows a hasty spark. 
 And straight is cold again. 
 
 Cas. Hath Cassius liv'd 
 
 To be but mirth and laughter to his Bru- 
 tus, 
 When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth 
 him? 
 Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill- 
 
 temper'd too. 
 Cas. Do you confess so much? Give 
 
 me your hand. 
 Bru. And my heart too. 
 Cas. Brutus! 
 
 Bru. What's the matter? 
 
 Cas. Have you not love enough to bear 
 with me. 
 When that rash humor, which my mother 
 
 gave me, 
 Makes me forgetful? 
 
 Bru. Yes, Cassius; and henceforth. 
 When you are over-earnest with your 
 
 Brutus, 
 He'll think your mother chides, and leave 
 you so. 
 
 l^Noise ivithin. 
 Poet. [ Within.'] Let me go in and 
 see the generals: 
 There is some grudge between them, 'tis 
 
 not meet 
 They be alone. 
 
 Luc. [ Within.] You shall not come 
 
 to them. 
 Poet. [Within.] ISTothing but death 
 shall stay me. 
 
 Cas. 
 Poet. 
 
 Enter Poet. 
 How now? What's the matter? 
 
 For shame, you generals: What 
 do you mean? 
 Love, and be friends, as two such men 
 
 should be; 
 For I have seen more years, I am sure, 
 than ye. 
 Cas. Ha, ha; how vilely doth this 
 
 cynic rhyme! 
 Bru. Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fel- 
 low, hence. 
 Cas. Bear with him, Brutus ; 'tis his 
 
 fashion. 
 Bru. I'll know his humor, when he 
 knows his time: 
 What should the wars do with these jig- 
 ging fools ? 
 Companion, hence. 
 
 Cas. Away, away, begone. 
 
 [Exit Poet. 
 
 Enter Lucilius and Titiiv^ius. 
 
 Bru. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the 
 commanders 
 
 456 
 
Act IV. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAK. 
 
 Scene III, 
 
 Prepare to lodge their companies to- 
 night. 
 Gas. And come yourselves, and bring 
 
 Messala with you, 
 Immediately to us. 
 
 [Exeunt Lucilius and Titinhis. 
 Bru. Lucius, a bowl of wine. 
 
 Gas. I did not think, you could have 
 
 been so angry. 
 Bru. Cassius, I am sick of many 
 
 griefs. 
 Gas. Of your philosophy you make no 
 
 use. 
 If you give place to accidental evils. 
 Bru. No man bears sorrow better : — 
 
 Portia is dead. 
 Gas. Ha ! Portia ? 
 Bru. She is dead. 
 Gas. How scap'd I killing, when I 
 
 cross'd you so ? — 
 
 insupportable and touching loss! — 
 Upon what sickness ? 
 
 Bru. Impatient of my absence ; 
 
 And grief, that young Octavius with Mark 
 
 Antony 
 Have made themselves so strong; — for 
 
 with her death 
 That tidings came; — With this she fell 
 
 distract. 
 And, her attendants absent, swallow'd 
 fire. 
 Gas. And died so ? 
 Bru. Even so. 
 Gas. ye immortal gods ! 
 
 Enter Lucius, xoitli Tl'ms and Tapers. 
 
 Bru. Speak no more of her. — Give me 
 a bowl of wine : — 
 In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. 
 
 YDrinhs. 
 Gas. My heart is thirsty for that noble 
 pledge : — 
 Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the 
 cup ; 
 
 1 cannot drink too much of Brutus' love. 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 Re-enter Titinius, with Messala. 
 
 Bru. Come in, Titinius: — Welcome, 
 good Messala. — 
 Now sit we close about this taper here. 
 And call in question our necessities. 
 Gas. Portia, art thou gone ? 
 Bru. No more, I pray you. — 
 
 Messala, I have here received letters. 
 That young Octavius, and Mark Antony. 
 Come down upon us with a mighty power. 
 Bending their expedition toward Philippi. 
 Mes. Myself have letters of the self- 
 same tenor. 
 Bru. With what addition ? 
 Mes. That by proscription, and bills of 
 outlawry, 
 Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus, 
 Have put to death an hundred senators. 
 Bru. Therein our letters do not well 
 agree : 
 Mine speak of seventy senators, that died 
 By their ^proscriptions, Cicero being one. 
 Gas. Cicero one ? 
 
 Mes. Ay, Cicero is dead. 
 
 And by that order of proscription. — 
 Had you your letters from your wife, my 
 lord? 
 Bru. No, Messala. 
 Mes. Nor nothing in your letters writ 
 
 of her? 
 Bru. Nothing, Messala. 
 Mes. That, methinks, is strange. 
 
 Bru. Why ask you? Hear you aught 
 
 of her in yours? 
 Mes. No, my lord. 
 Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell 
 
 me true. 
 Mes. Then like a Eomau bear the 
 truth I tell. 
 For certain she is dead, and by strange 
 manner. 
 Bru. Why, farewell, Portia. — We 
 must die, Messala: 
 With meditating that she must die once, 
 I have the patience to endure it now. 
 Mes. Even so great men great losses 
 should endure. 
 
 457 
 
Act IV 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 SCEJfE III. 
 
 Cas. I have as much of this in art as 
 
 you. 
 
 But yet my nature could not bear it so. 
 Bru. Well, to our work alive. What 
 
 do yovi think, 
 Of marching to Philippi presently? 
 Cas. I do not think it good. 
 Bru. Your reason? 
 
 Cas. This it is: 
 
 'Tis better, that the enemy seek us: 
 So shall he waste his means, wear}^ his 
 
 soldiers, 
 Doing himself offence; whilst we, lying 
 
 still. 
 Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness. 
 Brii. Good reasons must, of force, give 
 
 place to better. 
 The people, 'twixt PhiliiDpi and this 
 
 ground. 
 Do stand but in a forc'd affection; 
 For they have grudg'd us contribution: 
 The enemy, marching along by them, 
 By them shall make a fuller number up. 
 Come on refresh'd, new-added, and en- 
 
 courag'd; 
 From which advantage shall we cut him 
 
 off. 
 If at Philippi we do face him there. 
 These people at our back, 
 
 Cas. Hear me, good brother. 
 
 Bru. Under your pardon. — You must 
 
 not beside, 
 That we have try'd the utmost of our 
 
 friends. 
 Our legions are brim-full, our cause is 
 
 ripe: 
 The enemy increaseth every day, 
 We, at the height, are ready to decline. 
 There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
 Which taken at the flood, leads on to for- 
 tune; 
 Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
 Is bound in shallows, and in miseries. 
 On such a full sea are we now afloat ; 
 And we must take the current when it 
 
 serves. 
 Or lose our ventures. 
 
 Cas. Then, with yoa, will go on; 
 
 We'll on ourselves, and meet him at 
 Philippi. 
 Brii. The deep of night is crept upon 
 our talk. 
 And nature must obey necessity; 
 Which we will niggard with a little rest. 
 There is no more to say? 
 
 Cas. No more. Good night; 
 
 Earl}' to-morrow will we rise, and hence. 
 
 Brii. Lucius, my gown. [Exit Lu- 
 
 cuis.'\ Farewell, good Messala: — 
 
 Good night, Titinius: — Noble, noble Cas- 
 
 sius. 
 Good night, and good repose. 
 
 Cas. my dear brother ! 
 
 This was an ill beginning of the night : 
 Never come such division 'tween our 
 
 - souls I 
 Let it not, Brutus. 
 
 Bru. Every thing is well. 
 
 Cas. Good night, my lord. 
 Bru. Good night, good brother. 
 
 Tit. Mes. Good night, lord Brutus. 
 Bru. Farewell, every one. 
 
 [Exeunt Cas. Tit. and Mes. 
 
 Re-enter Lucius, with the Goion. 
 
 Give me the gown. Where is thy instru- 
 ment? 
 Luc. Here in the tent. 
 Bru. What, thou speak'st drowsily? 
 Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art 
 
 o'er-watched. 
 Call Claudius, and some other of my men; 
 I'll have them sleep on cushions in my 
 tent. 
 Luc. Varro, and Claudius! 
 
 Enter Varro and Claudius. 
 
 Var. Calls my lord? 
 Bru. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent, 
 and sleep; 
 It may be, I shall raise you by and by 
 On business to my brother Cassius. 
 
 Var. So i^lease you, we will stand-, and 
 watch 3'our pleasure. 
 
 - 458 
 
Act IV. 
 
 JULIUS CiESAR. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Bru. I will not have it so; lie down, 
 good sirs; 
 It may be, I sliall otherwise bethink 
 
 me. 
 Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought 
 
 for so; 
 I put it in the pocket of my gown. 
 
 [Servants lie doivn. 
 Luc. I was sure your lordship did not 
 
 give it me. 
 Bru. Bear with me, good boy, I am 
 much forgetful. 
 Canst thou hold up the heavy eyes 
 
 awhile. 
 And touch thy instrument a strain or 
 two. 
 Luc. Ay, my lord; an it please you. 
 Bru. It does, my boy; 
 
 I trouble thee too much, but thou art will- 
 ing. 
 Luc. It is my duty, sir. 
 Br^l. I should not urge thy duty past 
 thy might; 
 I know, young bloods look for a time of 
 rest. 
 Luc. I have slept, my lord, already. 
 Bru. It is well done; and thou shalfc 
 sleep again; 
 I will not hold thee long: if I do live, 
 I will be good to thee. 
 
 \Music and a Song. 
 This is a sleepy tune: — murd'rous slum- 
 ber! 
 Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my 
 
 boy, 
 That plays thee music? — Gentle knave, 
 
 good night; 
 I will not do thee so much wrong to wake 
 
 thee. 
 If thou dost Jiod, thou break'st thy instru- 
 ment; 
 I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good 
 
 night. 
 Let me see, let me see; — Is not the leaf 
 
 turn'd down. 
 Where I left reading? Here it is, I think. 
 
 [//e sits down. 
 
 Enter the Ghost of C jesar. 
 
 How ill this taper burns! — Ha! who 
 
 comes here? 
 I think it is the weakness of mine eyes. 
 That shapes this monstrous apparition. 
 It comes upon me — art thou any thing? 
 Art thou some god, some angel, or some 
 
 devil. 
 That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair 
 
 to stare? 
 Speak to me, what art thou? 
 Ghost. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. 
 ■Bru. Why com'st thou? 
 
 Ghost. To tell thee, thou shalt see me 
 
 at Philippi. 
 Bru. Well ; 
 Then I shall see thee again ? 
 
 Ghost. Ay, at Philippi. 
 
 [Ghost vanishes. 
 
 Bru. Why, I will see thee at Philippi 
 
 then. — 
 
 Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest. 
 
 Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with 
 
 thee. — 
 Boy! Lucius! — Varro ! Claudius! Sirs, 
 
 awake! — 
 Claudius! 
 
 Luc. The strings, my lord, are false. 
 Bru. He thinks, he still is at his in- 
 strument. — 
 Lucius, awake. 
 Luc. My lord ! 
 Bra. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that 
 
 thou so cry'dst out ? 
 Luc. My lord, I do not know that I 
 
 did cry. 
 Brio. Yes, that thou didst : Didst thou 
 
 see any thing ? 
 Luc. Nothing, my lord. 
 Bru. Sleep again, Lucius. — Sirrah, 
 Claudius ! 
 Fellow thou ! awake. 
 Var. My lord ! 
 Clau. My lord ! 
 Bru. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in 
 
 your sleep ? 
 Var. Clau. Did we, my lord ? 
 
 450 
 
Act IV. 
 
 JULIUS C^SAE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Bru. Ay ; saw you anything ? 
 
 Var. No, my lord, I saw uothing. 
 Glau. Nor I, my lord. 
 
 Cru. Go, and commend me to my 
 brother Cassius : 
 
 Bid him set on his powers betimes before. 
 And we will follow. 
 
 Var. Glau. It shall be done, my lord. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT ^. 
 
 Scene I. The Plains of Philippi. 
 
 Enter Octavius, Ak^to^ty, and their 
 Army. 
 
 Oct. Now, Antony, our hopes are 
 
 answered : 
 You said the enemy would not come 
 
 down. 
 But keep the hills and upper regions ; 
 It proves not so : their battles are at 
 
 hand ; 
 They mean to warn us at Philippi here, 
 Answering before we do demand of them. 
 Ant. Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I 
 
 know. 
 Wherefore they do it : they could be con- 
 tent 
 To visit other places ; and come down 
 With fearful bravery, thinking, by this 
 
 face. 
 To fasten in our thoughts that they have 
 
 courage ; 
 But 'tis not so. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Mess. Prepare you, generals : 
 
 The enemy comes on in gallant show ; 
 Their bloody sign of battle is hung out. 
 And something's to be done immediately. 
 Ayit. Octavius, lead your battle softly 
 on. 
 Upon the left hand of the even field. 
 Oct. Upon the right hand I, keep 
 
 thou the left. 
 Ant. Why do you cross me in this 
 
 exigent? 
 Oct. I do not cross you ; but I will do 
 so. \^March. 
 
 Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and 
 
 their Army; LuciLius, Titinius, 
 
 Messala and others. 
 
 Bru. They stand, and would have 
 
 parley. 
 Cas. Stand fast, Titinius : We must 
 
 out and talk. 
 Oct. Mark Antony, shall we give sign 
 
 of battle? 
 Ant. No, Csesar, we will answer on 
 the charge. 
 Make forth, the generals would have some 
 words. 
 Oct. Stir not until the signal. 
 Bru. AVords before blows : Is it so, 
 
 countrymen? 
 Oct. Not that we love words better, as 
 
 you do. 
 Brit. Good words are better than bad 
 
 strokes, Octavius. 
 Ant. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you 
 give good words : 
 Witness the hole you made in Caesar's 
 
 heart, 
 Crying, Long live! hail Ccesar ! 
 
 Cas. Antony, 
 
 The posture of your blows are yet un- 
 known ; 
 But for your words, they rob the Hybla- 
 
 bees. 
 And leave them honeyless. 
 
 Ant. Not stingless too. 
 
 Bru. 0, yes, and soundless too ; 
 For you have stol'n their buzzing, An- 
 tony, 
 And, very wisely, threat before you sting. 
 Ant. Villains, you did not so, when 
 your vile daggers 
 
 460 
 
Act V- 
 
 JULIUS C/ESAR. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Hack'd one another in the sides of Ciesar: 
 
 You show'd your teeth like apes, and 
 fawn'd like hounds, 
 
 And bow'd like bondmen, kissing Caesar's 
 feet, 
 
 Whilst damned Casca, like a cur behind. 
 
 Struck Csesar on the neck. flatterers! 
 Cas. Flatterers ! — Now, Brutus, thank 
 yourself : 
 
 This tongue had not offended so to-day, 
 
 If Cassius might have rul'd. 
 
 Oct. Come, come, the cause : If argu- 
 ing make us sweat, 
 
 The proof of it will turn to redder drops. 
 
 Look; 
 
 I draw a sword against conspirators; 
 
 When think you that the sword goes up 
 
 again 
 
 ? 
 
 Never till Caesar's three and twenty 
 
 wounds 
 Be well aveng'd ; or till another Cassar 
 Have added slaughter to the sword of 
 traitors. 
 Bru. C«sar, thou canst not die by 
 traitors' hands. 
 Unless thou bring'st them with thee. 
 
 Oct. So I hope; 
 
 I was not born to die on Brutus' sword. 
 Bru. 0, if thou wert the noblest of 
 thy strain. 
 Young man, thou couldst not die more 
 honorable. 
 Cas. A' peevish school-boy, worthless 
 of such honor, 
 Join'd with a masker and a reveller. 
 Ant. Old Cassius still! 
 Oct. Come, Antony; away. — 
 
 Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth: 
 If you dare fight to-day, come to the 
 
 field; 
 If not, when you have stomachs. 
 
 \_Exeunt Octavius, Antony, and their 
 
 Army. 
 
 Cas. Why now, blow, wind; swell, 
 billow; and swim, bark! 
 The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. 
 
 Bru. Ho! 
 Lucilius; hark, a word with you. 
 Luc. My lord. 
 
 [Brutus and Lucilius converse apart. 
 
 Cas. Messala, — 
 
 Mes. What says my general? 
 
 Cas. Messala 
 
 This is my birth-day; as this very day 
 Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, 
 
 Messala : 
 Be thou my witness, that, against my 
 
 will. 
 As Pompey was, am I compell'd to set 
 Upon one battle all our liberties. 
 You 'knov/, that I held Epicurus strong. 
 And his opinion : now I change my 
 
 mind. 
 And partly credit things that do presage. 
 Coming from Sardis, on our former en- 
 sign 
 Two mighty eagles fell, and there they 
 
 perch'd. 
 Gorging and feeding from our soldiers, 
 
 hands ; 
 Who to Philippi here consorted us ; 
 This morning are they fled away, and 
 
 gone; 
 And in their steads, two ravens, crows^ 
 
 and kites. 
 Fly o'er our heads, and downward look on 
 
 us. 
 As we were sickly prey ; their shadows 
 
 seem 
 A canopy most fatal, under which 
 Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. 
 Mes. Believe not so. 
 Cas. I but believe it partly ; 
 
 For I am fresh of spirit, and resolv'd 
 To meet all perils very constantly. 
 Bru. Even so, Lucilius. 
 Cas. Now, most noble Brutus, 
 
 The gods to-day stand friendly ; that we 
 
 may. 
 Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age ! 
 But, since the affairs of men rest still 
 
 uncertain, 
 
 461 
 
Act Y. 
 
 JULIUS a^SAR. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Let's reason with the worst that may 
 
 befall 
 If we do lose this battle, then is this 
 The very last time we shall speak to- 
 gether : 
 What are you then determined to do? 
 Bru. Even by the rule of that philos- 
 ophy, 
 By which I did blame Cato for the death 
 Which he did give himself : — I know not 
 
 how. 
 But I do find it cowardly and vile, 
 For fear of what might fall, so to prevent 
 The time of life : arming myself with 
 
 patience. 
 To stay the Providence of some high 
 
 powers 
 That govern us below. 
 
 Cas. Then, if we lose this battle. 
 
 You are contented to be led in triumph 
 Through the streets of Rome? 
 
 Bru. No, Cassius, no : think not, 
 
 thou noble Roman, 
 That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; 
 He bears too great a mind. But this same 
 
 day 
 Must end that work the ides of March 
 
 begun ; 
 And whether we shall meet again I know 
 
 not. 
 Therefore our everlasting farewell take: — 
 For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius I 
 If we do meet again, why we shall smile ; 
 If not, why then this parting was well 
 
 made. 
 Cas. For ever, and for ever, farewell, 
 
 Brutus ! 
 If we do meet again, we'll smile indeed : 
 If not, 'tis true, this parting V/as well 
 
 made. 
 Bru. AVhy then, lead on. — 0, that a 
 
 man might know 
 The end of this day's business, ere it 
 
 come ! 
 But it sufficeth, that the day will end. 
 And then the end is known. ■ — Come, ho I 
 
 ScE>fE 11. The Field of Battle. 
 
 Alarum. Enter Bri'TUS and Messala. 
 
 Bru. Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and 
 give these bills 
 Unto the legions on the other side : [Loud 
 
 Alarum.^ 
 Let them set on at once ; for I perceive 
 But cold demeanor in Octavius' Aving, 
 And sudden juish gives them the over- 
 throw. 
 Ride, ride, Messala : let them all come 
 down. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. Another Part of the Field. 
 Alai-um. Enter Cassius and TiTixius. 
 
 Cas. 0, look, Titinius, look, the vil- 
 lains fly : 
 Myself have to mine own turn'd enemy : 
 This ensign here of mine was tuiming 
 back ; 
 
 awav 
 
 I slew the coward, and did take it from 
 
 him. 
 Tit. Cassius, Brutus gave the word 
 
 too early. 
 Who having some advantage on Octavius, 
 Took it too eagerly : his soldiers fell to 
 
 spoil. 
 Whilst we by Antony were all enclos'd. 
 
 Enter Pixdakus. 
 Pin. Fly further off, my lord, fly 
 further off ; 
 Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord ! 
 Fly therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off. 
 Cas. This hill is far enough. Look, 
 look, Titinius ; 
 Are those my tents, where I perceive the 
 fire? 
 Tit. They are, my lord. 
 Gas. Titinius, if thou lov'st me. 
 
 Mount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs 
 
 in him. 
 Till he have brought thee up to yonder 
 
 troops. 
 And here again that I may rest assar'd, 
 \_Exeunt. 1 Whether yond troops are friend or enemy. 
 
 463 
 
Act Y. 
 
 JULIUS CiESAR, 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Tit. I will be liere again, even witli a 
 
 thought. [Bxit. 
 
 Cas. Go, Pindariis, get higher on that 
 
 hill ; 
 
 .My sight was ever thick ; regard Titinius, 
 
 And tell me Avhat thou not'st about the 
 
 field. — [Bxii Findarus. 
 
 This day I breathed first : time is come 
 
 round, 
 And Avhere I did begin, there I shall end; 
 My life is run his compass. — Sirrah, 
 what news? 
 Pin. [Alove.'l my lord ! 
 Cas. What news? 
 Pin. Titinius is 
 Enclosed round about with horsemen, 
 
 that 
 Make to him on the spur ; — yet he spurs 
 
 on. — 
 JSTow they are almost on him ; now, Titi- 
 nius ! — 
 Now some 'light : — 0, he 'lights too — 
 he's ta'en — and, hark ! [Shout. 
 They shout for joy. 
 
 Cas. Come down, behold no more. — 
 0, coward that I am, to live so long. 
 To see my best friend ta'en before my 
 face ! 
 
 Entei- PiNDARUS. 
 
 Come hither, sirrah : 
 
 In Parthia did I take thee prisoner; 
 
 And then I swore thee, saving of thy 
 
 life. 
 That whatsoever I did bid thee do, 
 Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, 
 
 keep thine oath ! 
 Now be a freeman ; and, with this good 
 
 sword, 
 That ran through Cesar's bowels, search 
 
 this bosom. 
 Stand not to answer : Here, take thou 
 
 the hilts ; 
 And, when my face is cover'd as 'tis now. 
 Guide thou the sword, — C?esar, thou art 
 
 reveng'd, 
 Even with the sword that kill'd thee. 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 Pin. So I am free, yet would not so 
 
 have been. 
 Durst I have done my will. Cassius ! 
 Far from this country Pindarus shall run, 
 Where never Roman shall take note of 
 
 him. [Uxit. 
 
 Re-enter Titinius ivith Messala. 
 
 Mes. It is but change, Titinius; for 
 Octavius 
 Is overthrown by noble Brutus' power. 
 As Cassius' legions are by Antony. 
 
 Tit. These tidings will well comfort 
 
 Cassius. 
 Mes. V/here did you leave him? 
 Tit. All disconsolate. 
 
 With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill. 
 Mes. Is not that he, that lies upon the 
 
 ground? 
 Tit. He lies not like the living. 
 
 my heart! 
 Mes. Is not that he? 
 Tit. No, this was he, Messala, 
 
 But Cassius is no more. — setting sun I 
 As in thy red rays thou dost sink to-night. 
 So in his red blood Cassius' day is set; 
 The sun of Rome is set! Our day is 
 
 gone; 
 Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our 
 
 deeds are done; 
 Mistrust of my success hath done this 
 deed. 
 Mes. Mistrust of good success hath 
 done this deed. 
 hateful error, melancholy's child! 
 Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts 
 
 of men 
 The things that are not? error, soon 
 
 conceiv'd. 
 Thou never com'st unto a happy birth, 
 But kill'st the mother that engender'd 
 thee. 
 Tit. What, Pindarus? Where art 
 
 thou, Pindarus? 
 Mes. Seek him, Titinius: whilst I go 
 to meet 
 The noble Brutus, thrusting this report 
 
 4i;:3 
 
Act V 
 
 JULIUS C^SAK. 
 
 SCEA^E III. 
 
 Into his ears: I may say, thrusting it; 
 Por piercing steel, and darts envenomed. 
 Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus, 
 As tidings of this sight. 
 
 Tit. Hie you, Messala, 
 
 And I will seek for Pindarus the while. 
 
 [Exit Ifessala. 
 Why didst thou send me forth, brave 
 
 Cassius? 
 Did I not meet thy friends, and did not 
 
 they 
 Put on my brows this wreath of victory, 
 And bid me giv't thee? Didst thou not 
 
 hear their shouts? 
 Alas! thou hast misconstrued every thing. 
 But hold thee, take this garland on thy 
 
 brow; 
 Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I 
 Will do his bidding. — Brutus, come 
 
 apace. 
 And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. — 
 JBy your leave, gods: — This is a Roman's 
 
 part: 
 Come, Cassius' sword, and find Titinius' 
 
 heart. [Dies. 
 
 Alarum. iEe-e??^er Messala, loith Brutus, 
 young Cato, Steato, Volumnius, and 
 LuciLius. 
 
 Bmc Where, where, Messala, doth his 
 
 body lie? 
 Mes. Lo, yonder; and Titinius mourn- 
 ing it. 
 Bru. Titinius' face is upward. 
 Cato, He is slain. 
 
 Bru. Julius Ceesar, thou art mighty 
 yet! 
 Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our 
 
 swords 
 In our own proper entrails. 
 
 [Loio Alarums. 
 Cato. Brave Titinius! 
 
 Look, whe'r he have not crown'd dead 
 Cassius! 
 Bru. Are yet two Romans living such 
 as these? — 
 
 The last of all the Romans, fare thee 
 
 well! 
 It is impossible that ever Rome 
 Should breed thy fellow. — Friends, I owe 
 
 more tears 
 To this dead man, than you shall see me 
 
 pay. — 
 I shall find time Cassius, I shall find 
 
 time. — 
 Come, therefore, and to Thassos send his 
 
 body; 
 His funeral shall not be in our camp. 
 Lest it discomfort us. — Lucilius, come; 
 And nome, young Cato, let us to the 
 
 field.— 
 Labeo, and Flavius, set our battles on : — 
 'Tis three o'clock ; and, Romans, yet ere 
 
 night 
 We shall try fortune in a second fight. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. Another Part of the Field. 
 
 Alarufn. Enter, fighting, Soldiers of 
 
 both Armies ; then Brutus, Cato, 
 
 Lucilius, and others. 
 
 Bru, Yet, countrymen, 0, yet hold up 
 
 your heads ! 
 Cato. What bastard doth not? Who 
 will go with me? 
 I will proclaim my name about the field : 
 I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! 
 A foe to tyrants, and my country's 
 
 friend ; 
 I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! 
 
 [Charges the Enemy 
 Bru. And I am Brutus, Marcus Bru- 
 tus, I ; 
 Brutus, my country's friend ; know me 
 for Brutns. 
 
 [Exit, charging the Enemy. "Cato 
 is overpowered, and falls. 
 Luc. young and noble Cato, art 
 thou down? 
 Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titi- 
 nius ; 
 And mayst be honor'd, being Cato's son. 
 
 464 
 
Act V. 
 
 JULIUS O^SAE. 
 
 SCENB V. 
 
 1 Sold. Yield, or thou cliest. 
 Luc. Only I yield to die : 
 
 There is so much that thou wilt kill me 
 straight ; 
 
 [Offer inff Money. 
 Kill Brutus, and be honor'd in his death. 
 
 1 Sold. We must not. — A noble pris- 
 
 oner ! 
 
 2 Sold. Room, ho ! Tell Antony, Bru- 
 
 tus is ta'en. 
 1 Sold. I'll tell the news. — Here 
 comes the general : 
 
 Enter Antony. 
 
 Brutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord. 
 Ant. Where is he? 
 Luc. Safe, Antony ; Brutus is safe 
 enough ; 
 I dare assure thee, that no enemy 
 Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus: 
 The gods defend him from so great a 
 
 shame! 
 When you do find him or alive, or dead. 
 He will be found like Brutus, like him- 
 self. 
 Ant. This is not Brutus, friend ; but, 
 I assure you, 
 A prize no less in worth : keep this man 
 
 safe. 
 Give him all kindness : I had rather have 
 Such men my friends than enemies. Go 
 
 on. 
 And see whe'r Brutus be alive, or dead : 
 xind bring us word, unto Octavius' tent. 
 How every thing is chanc'd, [Bzennt. 
 
 Scene V. Another Part of the Field. 
 
 Bnter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, 
 
 Strato, and Volumnius. 
 
 \ 
 
 Bru. Come, poor remains of friends, 
 
 rest on this rock. 
 Cli. Statilius show'd the torch-light ; 
 but, my lord. 
 He came not back ; he is or .ta'en, or 
 slain. 
 
 Bru. Sit thee down, Clitus, slaying is 
 the word ; 
 It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Cli- 
 tus. — [miispering. 
 Cli. What, I, my lord? No, not for all 
 
 the world. 
 Bru. Peace, then, no words. 
 Cli. I'll rather kill myself. 
 
 Bru. Hark thee, Dardanius! 
 
 [ Whispers him. 
 Bar. I do such a deed? 
 
 Cli. 0, Dardanius! 
 Bar. 0, Clitus! 
 Cli. What ill request did Brutus make 
 
 to thee? 
 Bar. To kill him, Clitus : Look, he 
 
 meditates. 
 Cli. Now is that noble vessel full of 
 grief. 
 That it runs over even at his eyes. 
 
 Bru. Come hither, good Volumnius : 
 
 list a word. 
 Vol. What says my lord? 
 Bru. Why, this, Volumnius : 
 
 The ghost of Csesar hath appeared to me 
 Two several times by night : at Sardis, 
 
 once ; 
 And, this last night, here in Philippi' 
 
 fields. 
 I know, my hour is come. 
 
 Vol. Not so, my lord. 
 
 Brti. Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius. 
 Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it 
 
 goes ; 
 Our enemies have beat us to the pit : 
 It is more worthy to leap in ourselves. 
 Than tarry till they push us. Good 
 
 Volumnius, 
 Thou know'st, that we two went to school 
 
 together ; 
 Even for that our love of old I pray thee. 
 Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run 
 on it. 
 Vol. That's not an office for a friend, 
 my lord. [Ala rum fit ill. 
 
 Cli. Fly, fly, my lord ; there is no 
 tarrying here. 
 
 465 
 
Act V 
 
 JULIUS CiESAR. 
 
 SCEKE Y. 
 
 Bru. Farewell to you ; — and you ; — 
 and you, Yolumnius. — 
 
 Strato, thou liast been all this while 
 asleep ; 
 
 Farewell to thee, too, Strato. — Country- 
 men 
 
 My heart doth joy, that yet in all my 
 life, 
 
 I found no man, but he was true to me. 
 
 I shall have glory by this losing day. 
 
 More than Octavius, and Mark Antony, 
 
 By this vile conquest shall attain unto. 
 
 So fare you well at once ; for Brutus, 
 tongue 
 
 Hath almost ended his life's history : 
 
 Night hangs upon mine eyes ; my bones 
 would rest 
 
 That have but labor'd to attain this hour. 
 [^Alarnm. Cry wUhin; Fly, fly, fly. 
 Gli. Fly, my lord, fly. 
 Bru. Hence ; I will follow thee. 
 
 {Exeunt Clitus, Dakdakius, and 
 
 YOLUJIKIUS. 
 
 I pr'ythee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord : 
 Thou art a fellow of a good respect ; 
 Thy life hath had some smatch of honor 
 
 in it : 
 Hold then my sword and turn away thy 
 
 face. 
 While I do run iipon it. Wilt thou, 
 Strato ? 
 Stra. Give me your hand first: Fare 
 
 you well, my lord. 
 Bru. Farewell, good Strato. — Csesar, 
 now be still, 
 I kiird not thee with half so good a will. 
 [He runs OJi Jiis Sword, and dies. 
 
 Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, 
 Antony, Messala, Lucilius, and their 
 Army. 
 
 Oct. What man is that? 
 Mes. My master's man. — Strato, where 
 is thy master?^v, 
 
 Stra. Free from the bondage you are 
 in, Messala; 
 The conquerors can but make a fire of 
 
 him; 
 For Brutus only overcame himself. 
 And no man else hath honor by his 
 death. 
 Luc. So Brutus should be found. — I 
 thank thee, Brutus, 
 That thou hast prov'd Lucilius' saying 
 true. 
 Oct. All that serv'd Brutus, I will 
 entertain them. 
 Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with 
 me? 
 Stra. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to 
 
 you. 
 Oct. Do so, Messala. 
 Mes. How died my master, Strato? 
 
 Stra. I held the sword, and he did 
 
 run to it. 
 Mes. Octavius, then take him to fol- 
 low thee. 
 That did the latest service to my master. 
 A7it. This was the noblest Eoman of 
 them all: 
 All the conspirators, save only he, 
 Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; 
 He only, in a general honest thought. 
 And common good to all, made one of 
 
 them. 
 His life was gentle, and the elements 
 So mix'd in him, that Nature might 
 
 stand up. 
 And say to all the world, Tliisioasaman! 
 Oct. According to his virtue let us 
 use him. 
 With all respect and rights of burial. 
 Within my tent his bones to-night shall 
 
 lie, 
 Most like a soldier, order'd honorably. — 
 So, call the field to rest: and let's away. 
 To part the glories of this happy day. 
 
 l^Exeunt. 
 
 466 
 
The Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 KATHERINE, the Shrew, was the eldest daughter of Baptista, a rich gentle- 
 man of Padua. She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit and fiery tem- 
 per, such a loud-tonged scold, that she was known in Padua by no other name than 
 Katherine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeed, impossible, that any gentle- 
 man would ever be found who would venture to marry this lady, and therefore Bap- 
 tista was much blamed for deferring his consent to many excellent offers that were 
 made to her gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, 
 that when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands they should have free leave to 
 a,ddress young Bianca. 
 
 It happened, however, that a gentleman named Petruchio came to Padua, pur- 
 posely to look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these reports of Katherine's 
 temper, and hearing she was rich and handsome, resolved ujoon marrying this famous 
 termagant, and taming her into a meek and manageable wife. And truly none was 
 so fit to set about this herculean labor as Petruchio, whose spirit was as high as 
 Katherine's, and he was a witty and most happy tempered humorist, and withal so wise, 
 and of such a true judgment, that he well knew how to feign a passionate and furious 
 deportment, when his spirits were so calm that himself could have laughed merrily 
 at his own angry feigning, for his natural temper was careless and easy; the boister- 
 ous air he assumed when he became the husband of Katherine being but in sport, or 
 more properly speaking, affected by his excellent discernment, as the only means to 
 overcome in her own way the passionate ways of the furious Katherine. 
 
 A courting then Petruchio went to Katherine the Shrew, and first of all he 
 applied to Baptista, her father, for leave to woo his gentle daughter Katherine, as 
 Petruchio called her, saying archly that, having heard of her bashful modesty and 
 mild behavior, he had come from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, though he 
 wished her married, was forced to confess Katherine would ill answer this character, 
 it being soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she was composed, for her music 
 master rushed into the room to complain that the gentle Katlierine, his pupil, had 
 broken his head with her lute for presuming to find fault A^^ith her performance; 
 which, when Petruchio heard, he said, "It is a brave wench; I love her moi*e than 
 ever, and long to have some chat with her;" and hurrying the old gentleman for a 
 positive answer, he said, "My business is in haste, Siguier Baptista, I cannot come 
 every day to woo. You knew my father. He is dead, and has left me heir to all his 
 lands and goods. Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love, what dowry you will 
 give with her." Baptista thought his manner was somewhat blunt for a lover, 
 but being glad to get Katherine married, he answered that he would give her twenty 
 thousand crowns for her dowry, and half his estate at his death ; so this odd match 
 was quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to apprise his shrewish daughter of her 
 lover's addresses, and sent her in to Petruchio to listen to his suit. 
 
 In the meantime Petruchio was settling with himself the mode of courtship he 
 should pursue; and he said, "I will woo her with some spirit M'hen she comes. If she 
 
 407 
 
THE TAMKs'Ct of the SHEEW 
 
 rails at me, wliy, tlien I will tell lier she sings as sweeth^ as a nightingale; and if she 
 frowns, I will say she looks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she will not 
 speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her language; and if she bids me leave her, . 
 I will give her thanks as if she bid me stay with her a week." Now the stately Kath- 
 eriue entered, and Petrucliio first addressed her with "Good morrow, Kate, for that 
 is your name, I hear." Katherine, not liking this plain salutation, said disdainfully, 
 "They call me Katherine who do speak to me." "You lie," replied the lover, "for 
 you are called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the Shrew: but 
 Kate, you are the prettiest Kate in Christendom, and therefore, Kate, hearing your 
 mildness praised in every town, I am come to woo you for my wife." 
 
 
 A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud and angry terms showing him 
 how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, while he still praised her sweet and 
 courteous words, till at length, hearing her father coming, he said (intending to make 
 as quick a wooing as possible), "Sweet Katherine, let us set this idle chat aside, for 
 your father has consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed on, and 
 whether you will or no, I will marry you." 
 
 And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his daughter had received him 
 kindly, and that she had promised to be married the next Sunday. This Katherine 
 denied, saying she would rather see him hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father 
 for wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her 
 father not to regard her angry words, for they had agreed she should seem reluctant 
 
 468 
 
THE T.4MIXG OF THE SHEEW. 
 
 before him, but that Avhen they were alone he had found her very fond and loving, 
 and he said to her, "Give me your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice to buy you fine 
 apparel against our wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the wedding 
 guests. I will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich clothes, that my Katherine 
 may be fine; and kiss me, Kate, for we will be married on Sunday." 
 
 On the Sunday all the wedding guests were assembled, but they waited long 
 before Petruchio came, and Katherine wept for vexation to think that Petruchio had 
 only been making a jest of her. At last, however, he appeared, but he brought none 
 of the bridal finery he had promised Katherine, nor was he dressed himself like a 
 bridegroom, but in a strange, disordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport of the 
 serious business he came about; and his servant and the very horses on which they 
 rode were in like manner in mean and fantastic fashion habited. 
 
 Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his dress; he said Katherine 
 was to be married to him and not to his clothes; and finding it was in vain to argue 
 with him, to the church they went, he still behaving in the same mad way, for when 
 the priest asked Petruchio if Katherine should be his wife, he swore so loud that she 
 should, that, all-amazed, the priest let fall his book, and as he stooped to take it up, 
 this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a cuff, that down fell the priest and his 
 book again. And all the while they were being married he stamped and swore so 
 that the high-spirited Katherine trembled and shook with fear. After the ceremony 
 was over, Avhile they were yet in church, he called for wine, and drank a loud health 
 to the company, and threw a sop which was at the bottom of the glass full in the 
 sexton's face, giving no other reason for this strange act than that the sexton's beard 
 grew thin and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he was drinking. Never, sure, 
 was there such a mad marriage ; but Petruchio did but put this wildness on the 
 better to succeed in the plot he had formed to tame his shrewish wife. 
 
 Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast, but when they returned from 
 church, Petruchio, taking hold of Katherine, declared his intention of carrying 
 his wife home instantly; and no remonstrance of his father-in-law, or angry words of 
 the enraged Katherine, could make him change his purpose: he claimed a husband's 
 right to dispose of his wife as hejjleased, and away he hurried Katherine off; he seemed 
 so daring and so resolute that no one dared attempt to stop him. 
 
 Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and lank, which he 
 had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his servant no better mounted, they 
 journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and ever when the horse of Katherine's 
 stumbled, he would storm and sw«ar at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce crawl 
 under his burden, Jai£i| he had b6611 ttlfe most passi^ilUllB'flra if arive.! /* 
 
 At length, after a weary journey during Avliich Katherine-tiad-'neard nothing but 
 the wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and the horses; they arrived at his house. 
 Petruchio welcomed her kindly to her home, but he resolved that she should have 
 neither rest nor food that night. The tables were spread, and supper soon served; 
 but Petruchio pretending to find fault witli every dish, threw the meat about the floor, 
 and ordered the servants to remove it away, and all this he did, as he said, in love for 
 his Katherine that she might not eat meat that was not well dressed. And Mhen 
 Katherine, weary, and supperless, retirerd to rest, he found the same fault with the 
 bed, throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so that she was forced to 
 sit down in a chair where if she chauced to drop asleep, she was presently awakened by 
 
 •toy 
 
THE TAMING OF TPIE SHEEW. 
 
 the loud voice of lier husband storming at the servants for the ill-making of his wife's- 
 bridal-bed. 
 
 The next day Petruchio pursued the same course, still speaking kind words to 
 Katherine, but when she attempted to eat, finding fault with everything that was set 
 before her, throwing the breakfast on the floor as he had the supper: and Katherine, 
 the haughty»Katherine, was fain to beg the servants to bring her secretly a morsel of 
 food, but they, being instructed by Petruchio, replied they dare not give her anything 
 unknown to their master. "Ah," said she, "did he marry me to famish me? Beg- 
 gars that come to my father's door have food given them. But I, who never knew 
 what it was to entreat for anything, am starved for want of food, giddy for want of 
 sleep, with oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed, and that which vexes me more 
 than all, he does it under the name of perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, 
 it were present death to me." Here her soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of 
 Petruchio : he, not meaning she should be quite starved, had brought her a small por- 
 tion of meat, and he said to her, "How fares my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see 
 how diligent I am, I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits 
 thanks. What, not a word! Nay, then you love not the meat, and all the pains I 
 have taken is to no purpose." He then ordered the servant to take the dish away. 
 Extreme hun;jer, which had abated the pride of Katheriue, made her say, though 
 angered to the heart, "I pray you let it stand." But this was not all Petruchio 
 intended to bring her to, and he replied, "The poorest service is repaid with thanks, 
 and so shall mine before you touch the meat." On this Katherine brought out a 
 reluctant "I thank you, sir." And now he suffered her to make a slender meal, 
 saying, "Much good may it do your gentle heart, Kate, eat apace! And now, my 
 honey love, we will return to your father's house, and revel it as bravely as 
 the best, with silken coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs 
 and fans and double change of finery ;" and to make her believe he really 
 intended to give her these gay things, he called in a tailor and a haberdasher, 
 who brought some new clothes he had ordered for her, and then giving her plate to 
 the servant to take away, before she had half satisfied her hunger, he said, "What, 
 have you dined ?" The haberdasher presented a cap, saying, " Here is the cap your 
 worship bespoke;" on which Petruchio began to storm afresh, saying the cap was 
 moulded in a porringer, and that it was no bigger than a cockle or walnut shell, desir- 
 ing the haberdasher to take it away and make a bigger. Katherine said, " I v/ill have 
 this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as these." "When you are gentle," replied 
 Petruchio, "you shall have one too, and not till then." The meat Katherine had 
 eaten had a little revived her fallen spirits, and she said, " Why, sir, I trust I may 
 have leave to speak, and speak I will: I am no child, no babe; your betters have 
 endured to hear me say my mind; and if you cannot, you had better stop your ears." 
 Petruchio would not hear these angry words, for he had happily discovered a better 
 way of managing his wife than keeping up a jaugling argument with her; therefore 
 his answer was, "Why, you say true, it is a paltry cap, and I love you for not liking 
 it." " Love me, or love me not," said Katherine, "I like this cap, and will have this 
 cap, or none." " You say you wish to see the gown," said Petruchio, still affecting to 
 misunderstand her. The tailor then came "forward and showed her a fine gown he 
 had made for her. Petruchio, whose intent was that she should have neither cap nor 
 gown, found as much fault with that. " mercy, Heaven!" said he, " what stuff is 
 
 470 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, 
 
 here ! What, do you call this a sleeve? it is like a demi-canuon, carved up and down 
 like an apple-tart." The tailor said, "You bid me make it according to the fashion 
 of the times;" and Katheriue said she never saw a better fashioned gown. This was 
 enough for Petruchio, and privately desiring these people might be paid for their 
 goods, had excuses made to them for the seemingly strange treatment he bestowed 
 upon them, he with fierce words and furious gestures drove the tailor and the haber- 
 dasher out of the room; and then, turning to Katherine, he said, ''Well, come, my 
 Kate, we will go to your father's even in these mean garments we now wear." And 
 then he ordered his horses, affirming they should reach Baptista's house by dinner- 
 time, for that it was but seven o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the very 
 middle of the day, when he spoke this; therefore Katherine ventured to say, though 
 modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of his manner, " I dare assure 
 you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be supper-time before we get there." But Petru- 
 chio meant that she should be so completely subdued, that she should assent to every- 
 thing he said, before he carried her to her father; and therefore, as if he were lord 
 even of the sun, and could command the hours, he said it should be what time he 
 pleased to have it, before he set forward: " For," said he, " whatever I say or do, 
 you still are crossing it. I will not go to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o'clock 
 I say it is." Another day Katherine was forced to practise her newly-found obedi- 
 ence, and not till he had brought her proud spirit to such a perfect subjection that 
 she dared not remember there Avas such a word as contradiction, would Petruchio 
 allow her to go to her father's house; and even while they were upon their journey 
 thither, she was in danger of being turned back again, only because she happened to 
 hint it was the sun, when he affirmed the moon shone brightly at noonday. " Now 
 by my mother's son," said he, "and that is myself, it shall be the moon, or stars, or 
 what I list, before I journey to your father's house." He then made as if he was going 
 back again; but Katherine, ijo longer Katherine the Shrew, but the obedient wife, 
 said, " Let us go forward, I pray, now we have come so far, and it shall be the sun, or 
 moon, or what you please; and if you please to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vow 
 it shall be so for me." This he was resolved to prove, therefore he said again, " I say 
 it is the moon." " I know it is the moon," replied Katherine. " You lie, it is the 
 blessed sun," said Petruchio. "Then it is the blessed sun," replied Katherine; "but 
 sun it is not, when you say it is not. What you will have it named even so it is, and 
 so it ever shall be for Katherine." Now then he suffered her to proceed on her jour- 
 ney; but further to try if this yielding humor would last, he addressed an old gentle- 
 man he met on the road as if he had been a young woman, saying to him, " Good 
 morrow, gentle mistress:" and asked Katherine if she had ever beheld a fairer gentle- 
 woman, praising the red and white of the old man's cheeks, and comparing his eyes 
 to two bright stars; and again he addressed him, saying, " Fair, lovely maiden, once 
 more good day to you! "and said to his wife, "Sweet Kate, embrace her for her 
 beauty's sake." The now completely vanquished Katherine quickly adopted her hus- 
 band's opinion, and made her speech in like sort to the old gentleman, saying to him, 
 "Young budding virgin, you are fair, and fresh, and sweet: wliither are you going, 
 and where is your dwelling? Happy are the parents of so fair a child." "Why, 
 how now, Kate," said Petruchio; " I hope you are not mad. This is a man, old and 
 wrinkled, faded and withered, and not a maiden, as you say he is." On this Kath- 
 erine said, "Pardon me, old gentleman; the sun has so dazzled my eyes, that every- 
 
 471 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. 
 
 tiling 1 look on seemetli green. Now I perceive you are a reverend father : I lioj)e you 
 will pardon me for my sad mistake." "Do, good old grandsire," said Petrucliio, 
 "and tell us wliich way you are traveling. We shall be glad of your good company, 
 if you are going our way." The old gentleman replied, "Fair sir, and you my merry 
 mistress, your strange encounter has much amazed me. My name is Vincentio, and 
 I am going to visit a son of mine who lives at Padua.'' Then Petruchio knew the old 
 gentleman to be the father of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be married to 
 Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he made Vincentio very happy, by telling 
 him the rich marriage his sou was about to make; and the}'' all journeyed on pleasantly 
 together till they came to Baptista's house, where there was a large company assem- 
 bled to celebrate the wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having willingly con- 
 sented to the marriage of Bianca when he had got Katherine ofi his bands. 
 
 When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the wedding feast, and there was 
 present also another newly-married pair. 
 
 Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the other new-married man, could 
 not forbear sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish disposition of Petruchio's 
 wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed highly pleased with the mild tempers of the 
 ladies they had chosen, laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. Petru- 
 chio took little notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner, and then 
 he perceived Baptista himself joined in the laugh against him : for when Petruchio 
 affirmed that his wife would prove more obedient than theirs, the father of Kather- 
 ine said, "Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the veriest shrew 
 of all." " Well," said Petruchio, " I say no, and therefore for assurance that I speak 
 the truth, let us each one send for his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to 
 come at first Avhen she is sent for, shall win a wager which we will propose." To this 
 the other two husbands willingly consented, for they were quite confident that their 
 gentle wives would prove more obedient than the headstrong Katherine ; and they 
 proposed a wager of twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily said, he would lay as much 
 as that upon his hawk or hounds, but twenty times as much upon his wife. Lucen- 
 tio and Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred crowns, and Lucentio first sent his 
 servant to desire Bianca would come to him. But the servant returned, and said, 
 " Sir, my mistress sends you word she is busy and cannot come." "How," said 
 Petruchio, " does she say she is busy and cannot come? Is that an answer for a wife?" 
 Then they laughed at him, and said it would be well for him if Katherine did not 
 send him a worse answer. And now it was Hortensio's turn to send for his wife ; and 
 he said to his servant, "Go, and entreat my wife to come to me." " Oh ho ! entreat 
 her!" said Petruchio. "Nay, then, she needs must come." "I am afraid, sir," 
 said Hortensio, "your wife will not be entreated." But presently this civil husband 
 looked a little blank, when the servant returned without his mistress; and he said to 
 him, " How now ! Where is my wife?" "Sir," said the servant, " my mistress says 
 you must have some goodly jest in hand, and therefore she will not come. She bids 
 you come to her." "Worse and worse!" said Petruchio; and then he sent his ser- 
 vant, saying, " Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I command her to come tome." 
 The company had scarcely time to think she would not obey this summons, when 
 Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed, " Now, by my halidom, here comes Katherine ! " 
 and she entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, "What is your will sir, that you send 
 for me? " " Where is your sister and Hortensio's wife? " said he. Katherine replied, 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 "They sit conferring by the parlor fire." " Go, fetch, them hither," said Petruchio. 
 Away went Katherine without replying to perform her husband's command. "Here 
 is a wonder," said Lucentio, "if you talk of a wonder." "And so it is," said Hor- 
 tensio; " I marvel what it bodes." " Marry, peace it bodes," said Petruchio, "and 
 love, and quiet life, and right supremacy ; and to be short, everything tliat is sweet 
 and happy." Katherine's father, overjoyed to see this reformation in his daughter, 
 said, "Now, fair befall thee, son Petruchio! yovi have won the wager, and I will add 
 another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry, as if she were another daughter, for 
 she is changed as if she had never been." "' Nay," said Petruchio, "I will win the 
 wager better yet, and show more signs of her uew-built virtue and obedience." Kath- 
 erine now entering with the two ladies, he continued, "See where she comes, and 
 brings your forward wives as prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Katherine, that 
 cap of yours does not become you; off with that bauble and throw it under foot." 
 Katherine instantly took off her cap and threw it down. " Lord!" said Hortensio's 
 wife, "may I never have a cause to sigh till I am brought to such a silly pass! " 
 And Bianca, she too said, " Fie, what foolish duty call you this? " On this Bianca's 
 husband said to her, " I wish your duty were as foolish too! The wisdom of your 
 duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a hundred crowns since dinner-time." " The more 
 fool you," said Bianca, "for laying on my duty." " Katherine," said Petruchio, "I 
 charge you tell these headstrong women what duty they owe their lords and hus- 
 bands." And, to the wonder of all present, the reformed shrewish lady spoke as elo- 
 quently in praise of the wife-like duty of obedience, as she had practised it implicitly 
 in a ready submission to Petruchio's will. And Katherine once more became famous 
 in Padua, not as heretofore, as Katherine the Shrew, but as Katherine the most obe- 
 dient and duteous wife in Padua. 
 
 473 
 
Familiar Quotations From Shakespeare. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 GKEillO. 
 
 Our cake^s dough on both sides. 
 
 Act 1, Sc.l,l. 109. 
 
 Grumio. 
 If I were not a little pot, and soon hot. 
 
 Act. 4:, Sc.l,l. 8. 
 
 Petkuchio. 
 
 Our purses shall be proud, our garments 
 poor; 
 
 For 't is the mind that makes the body 
 rich ; 
 
 And as the sun breaks through the dark- 
 est clouds. 
 
 So honor "peareth in the meanest habit. 
 
 What, is the Jay more precious than the 
 lark, 
 
 Because his feathers are more beautiful ? 
 
 Or is the adder better than the eel. 
 
 Because his painted skin contents the 
 
 eye 
 
 Act 4. Sc. 3, I. 167. 
 
 Widow. 
 He that is giddy thinks the world turns 
 round. Act 5, Sc. 2, I. 20. 
 
 Kathakina. 
 A woman mov'd is like a fountain 
 
 troubled, 
 Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of 
 
 beauty ; 
 And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty 
 Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it. 
 Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy 
 
 keeper. 
 Thy head, thy sovereign : one that cares 
 
 foi^ thee. 
 And for thy maintenance : commits his 
 
 body 
 To painful labor, both by sea and land. 
 To watch the night in storms, the day in 
 
 cold. 
 Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure 
 
 and safe ; 
 And craves no other tribute at thy hands 
 But love, fair looks, and true obedience ; 
 Too little payment for so great a debt. 
 
 Act 5, Sc. 2, I. 142. 
 
 474 
 
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. 
 
 DRAMA TI8 
 
 Claudius, King of Denmark. ' 
 
 Hamlet, Son to the former, and Nepheiu \ 
 
 to the present King. 
 PoLONius, Lord Chamherlain. 
 Horatio, Friend to Hamlet. 
 Laertes, Son to Polonius. 
 
 VOLTIMAND, 
 CORXELIUS, 
 EOSENCRANTZ, 
 GUILDEN^STERN, 
 
 OsRic, a Courtier. 
 Another Courtier. 
 A Priest. 
 Marcellus, ) 
 Bernardo, \Officers. 
 
 Courtiers. 
 
 PER80NJE. 
 
 Francisco, a Soldier, 
 
 Reynaldo, Servant to Polouius. 
 
 A Captain. 
 
 An Atnbassador. 
 
 Ghost of Hamlet's Father. 
 
 FoRTlNBRAS, Prince of A^orway. 
 
 Gertrude, Queen of DenmsLrk, and Mother 
 of Hamlet. 
 
 Ophelia, Daughter of Polonius. 
 
 Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Players, 
 Grave-diggers, Sailors. Messengers and 
 other Attendants. 
 
 SCENE— E^^i-^QVi^. 
 
 PREFACE TO HAMLET. 
 
 When so great a writer as Johnson de- 
 clares himself unable to perceive any 
 satisfactory cause for Hamlet's counter- 
 feiting madness, I fear I shall be accused 
 of presumption, if I attempt to offer any 
 solution of the joroblem; yet I really think 
 that the difficulty is not as great as he 
 supposes it to be. He says that Hamlet 
 does nothing in the character of a lunatic, 
 which he might not have done in his 
 proper senses; but in this observation he 
 appears to have overlooked what Hamlet 
 intended to do, which ought to have been 
 taken into consideration as well as what 
 he actually did. 
 
 The state of the question I take to be 
 as follows: — 
 
 Hamlet being informed by the Ghost of 
 the murder of his father, and being at 
 the same time required to revenge it, 
 forms the resolution of killing his uncle; 
 but, being sensible that he has no proof 
 of the murder, except what was said by 
 
 the Ghost to himself alone, which could 
 have no weight with any other person, he 
 feels conscious that his killina; the king 
 would be considered as the act of a traitor 
 and an assassin: he therefore determines 
 to assume the appearance of madness, in 
 order that the intended blow might be 
 ascribed to distraction rather than to 
 treason. Having formed this resolution, 
 he requires the most solemn oaths from 
 Horatio and Marcellus that they will not, 
 if he 
 
 "Perchance hereafter shall think meet, 
 To put an antic disposition on," 
 
 allow any expression to escape them, 
 which would convey an idea of what might 
 have occasioned the alteration in his be- 
 havior. 
 
 Hamlet is nevertheless induced, by 
 more mature reflection, to doubt the 
 propriety of proceeding to extremities, till 
 he has further proof of the king's guilt 
 
HAMLET, PRIKCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 " The spirit that I have seen 
 
 Maybe a devil; 
 
 I'll have grounds 
 More relative than this." 
 
 He therefore has recourse to the play. 
 The stratagem succeeds; and, being now 
 convinced of the truth of what was said 
 by the Ghost, he determines to kill the 
 king. 
 
 "Now could I drink hot blood," etc. 
 
 This resolution he would immediately 
 afterwards have carried into efEect, if a 
 very extraordinary circumstance (the 
 finding the king engaged in prayer) had 
 not induced him to postpone it. I am 
 happy that it is by no means necessary for 
 me to say anything resi^ecting his horrid 
 reflections on that occasion; they do not 
 affect the course of argument which I am 
 pursuing, and in this, as in other in- 
 stances, I attempt nothing more than to 
 point out the motives of Hamlet's con- 
 duct, without entering into the propreity 
 or impropriety of those motives, or of the 
 actions to which they gave birth. 
 
 Hamlet now goes to his mother, and 
 while he is with her, he does (as he sup- 
 ■ poses) what he had before resolved to do. 
 He thinks he is killing the king, Avhen he 
 kills Polonius. That he supj^osed the 
 person behind the arras to be the king, is 
 evident from his words to his mother: "Js 
 it the king?" and to the dead Polonius, 
 "I took thee for thy better." After this, 
 he entreats the queen by no means to dis- 
 close the secret of his madness being 
 counterfeit, and not real distraction. 
 
 Here, then, with all due stibmission to 
 Dr. Johnson, is an act done by Hamlet 
 
 while supposed to be mad, which would 
 have been thought an unpardonable mur- 
 der if he had been in his proper senses ; 
 and this is the use which Hamlet after- 
 wards makes of his counterfeit madness. 
 He excuses himself to Laertes on this 
 very ground : 
 
 " This, presence knows, and you must needs 
 
 have heard, 
 How I am punished with a sore distraction. 
 What I have done, 
 
 That might your nature, honor, and exception, 
 Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness," 
 
 etc. 
 
 It ajDpears, then, that Hamlet resolved 
 to counterfeit madness, that he might 
 kill the king without being considered as 
 a traitor and a murderer. He thought he 
 was killing him when he was killing Po- 
 lonius, and if the person behind the arras 
 had been the king, Hamlet would have 
 excused his death, as he excused the 
 death of Polonius, by saying, 
 
 " What I have done, 
 I here proclaim was madness." 
 
 I shall add one word in answer to a 
 ♦ question which I have heard frequently 
 asked: Why did Hamlet act the madman 
 in a manner so distressing to the amiable 
 Ophelia ? The reason I take to be this : 
 Ophelia was known to be the object of 
 his affection. The queen hoped 
 " She would have been her Hamlet's wife." 
 If, then, it appeared that he acted as a 
 madman in the presence of the object of 
 his tenderest regard, he considered it as a 
 certain consequence, that no doubt could 
 be entertained of the reality of his dis- 
 traction. 
 
 476 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Scene I. Elsinore. A Platform 
 before the Castle. 
 
 Francisco on Ids Post. Enter to him 
 Bernardo. 
 
 Ber. Who's there ? 
 
 Fran. Nay, answer me : stand, and 
 
 unfold yourself. 
 Ber. Long live the king ! 
 Fran. Bernardo ? 
 
 Ber. He.^ 
 
 Fran. You come most carefully upon 
 
 your hour, 
 Ber. 'Tis now struck twelve ; get thee 
 
 to bed, Francisco. 
 Fran. For this relief, much thanks ; 
 
 'tis bitter cold. 
 And I am sick at heart. 
 
 Ber. Have you had quiet guard ? 
 Fran. Not a mouse stirring. 
 Ber. Well, good night. 
 If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, 
 The rivals of my watch, bid them make 
 
 haste. 
 
 Enter Horatio and Marcellus. 
 
 Fran. I think, I hear them. — Stand, 
 lio ! Who is there ? 
 
 Hor. Friends to this ground. 
 
 Mar. And liegemen to the Dane. 
 
 Fran. Give you good night. 
 
 Mar. 0, farewell, honest soldier : 
 
 Who hath reliev'd you ? 
 
 Fran. Bernardo hath my place. 
 
 Give you good night. \^Exit Francisco. 
 
 Mar. Holla ! Bernardo ! 
 
 Ber. Say, 
 
 What, is Horatio tliere ? 
 
 Hor. A piece of him. 
 
 Ber. Welcome, Horatio ; welcome, 
 good Marcellus. 
 
 Hor. What, has this thing appear'd 
 again to-night ? 
 
 Ber. I liave seen nothing. 
 
 Mar. Horatio says, 'tis but our fan- 
 tasy, 
 
 ACTL 
 
 And will not let belief take hold of him. 
 Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen 
 
 of us; 
 Therefore I have entreated him, along 
 With us to watch the minutes of this 
 
 night ; 
 That, if again this apparition come. 
 He may approve our eyes, and speak to 
 
 it. 
 Hor. Tush ! tush ! 'twill not appear. 
 Ber. Sit down awhile ; 
 
 And let us once again assail your ears. 
 That are so fortified against our story. 
 What we two nights have seen. 
 
 Hor. Well, sit we down. 
 
 And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. 
 
 Ber. Last night of all. 
 When yon same star, that's westward 
 
 from the pole. 
 Had made his course to illume that part 
 
 of heaven 
 Where now it burns, Marcellus, and my- 
 self. 
 The bell then beating one, — 
 
 Mar. Peace, break thee off ; look, 
 
 where it comes again ! 
 
 Enter Ghost. 
 
 Ber. In the same figure, like the king 
 
 that's dead. 
 Mar. Thou art a scholar, speak to it, 
 
 Horatio. 
 Ber. Looks it not like the king? mark 
 
 it, Horatio. 
 Hor, Most like : — It harrows me witli 
 
 fear, and wonder. 
 Ber. It would be spoke to. 
 Mar. Speak to it, Horatio. 
 
 Hor. What art thou, that usurp'st this 
 
 time of night. 
 Together with that fair and warlike form 
 In which the majesty of buried Denmark 
 Did sometimes march ? By heaven I 
 
 charge thee speak. 
 3Iar. It is oilended. 
 
 477 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PEIXCE OF DEXMAEK. 
 
 SCEKE I. 
 
 Ber. See ! it stalks away. 
 
 Hor. Stay, speak: speak I charge thee, 
 
 speak. \^ExU Ghost. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer. 
 Ber. How now, Horatio? you tremble, 
 
 and look pale : 
 
 Hor. That can I ; 
 
 At least, the whisper goes so. Our last 
 
 king. 
 Whose image even but now appeard to us, 
 "Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Nor- 
 way, 
 
 Is not this something more than fantasy ? | Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate 
 
 What think you of it ? 
 
 Hor. Before my God, I might not this 
 
 believe. 
 Without the sensible and true avouch 
 Of mine own eyes. 
 
 Mar. Is it not like the king ? 
 
 Hor. As thou art to thyself : 
 Such was the very armor he had on. 
 When he the ambitious Xorway com- 
 bated ; 
 So frown'd he once, when, in an angry 
 
 parle. 
 He smote the sledded Polack on the ice. 
 ^Tis strange. 
 
 Mar. Thus, twice before, and jump at 
 
 this dead hour. 
 With martial stock hath he gone by our 
 
 watch. 
 Hor. In what particular thought to 
 
 work, I know not ; 
 But in the gross and scope of my opinion, 
 This bodes some strange eruption to our 
 
 state. 
 Mar. Good now, sit down, and tell me, 
 
 he that knows. 
 Why this same strict and most observant 
 
 watch 
 So nightly toils the subject of the land : 
 And why such daily cast of brazen can- 
 non. 
 And foreign mart for implements of war: 
 Why such impress of shipwrights, whose 
 
 sore task 
 Does not divide the Sunday from the 
 
 week : 
 What might be toward, that this sweaty 
 
 haste 
 Doth make the night joint-laborer with 
 
 the day ; 
 Who is't, that can inform me ? 
 
 pride, 
 Dar'd to the combat ; in which our valiant 
 
 Hamlet 
 (For so this side of our known world es- 
 teemed him,) 
 Did slay this Fortinbras ; who, by aseal'd 
 
 compact. 
 Well ratified by law and heraldry. 
 Did forfeit, with his life, all those his 
 
 lands. 
 Which he stood seis'd of, to the con- 
 queror : 
 Against the which, a moiety competent 
 Was gaged by our king ; which had re- 
 
 turn'd 
 To the inheritance of Fortinbras, 
 Had he been vanquisher ; as, by the same 
 
 comart. 
 And carriage of the article designed, 
 His fell to Hamlet : Now, sir, young For- 
 tinbras, 
 Of unimproved mettle hot and full, 
 Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and 
 
 there, 
 Shark'd up a list of landless resolutes. 
 For food and diet, to some enterprise 
 That hath a stomach in't : which is no 
 
 other 
 (As it doth well appear unto our state,) 
 But to recover of us, by strong hand. 
 And terms compulsatory, those "foresaid 
 
 lands 
 So by his father lost : And this, I take it, 
 Is the main motive of our preparations ; 
 The source of this our watch ; and the 
 
 chief head 
 Of this post-haste and romage in the 
 land. 
 Ber. I think, it be no other, but even 
 so : 
 
 478 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 IVell may it sort, that this portentous fig- 
 ure 
 Comes armed through our watch ; so like 
 
 the king 
 That was, and is the question of tliese 
 
 wars. 
 Hor. A mote it is, to trouble the 
 
 mind's eye. 
 In the most high and i:)almy state of 
 
 Rome, 
 A little ere the mightiest Julius fell. 
 The graves stood tenantless, and the 
 
 sheeted dead 
 Did squeak and gibber in the Roman 
 
 streets. 
 5tars shone with trains of fire ; dews of 
 
 blood fell ; 
 Disasters veil'd the sun ; and the moist 
 
 star. 
 Upon whose influence Neptune's empire 
 
 stands, 
 Was sick almost to doomsday with 
 
 eclipse. 
 And even the like precurse of fierce 
 
 events, — 
 As harbingers preceding still the fates, 
 And prologue to the omen coming on, — 
 
 For which, they say, you spirits oft walk 
 
 in death, \ C'och croios. 
 
 Speak of it : — stay, and speak. — Stop it, 
 
 Marcellus. 
 
 Mar. Shall I strike at it with my par-. 
 
 tizan? 
 Hor. Do, if it will not stand. 
 Ber. 'Tishere! 
 
 Hor. 'Tis here! 
 
 Mar. 'Tisgone! [Exit Ghost. 
 
 We do it wrong, being so majestical. 
 To offer it the show of violence; 
 For it is, as the air, invulnerable. 
 And or'' vain blows malicious mockery. 
 Ber. It was about to speak, when the 
 
 cock crew. 
 
 Hor. And then it started like a guilty 
 
 thing 
 
 Upon a fearful summons. I have heard. 
 
 The cock, that is the trumpet of the morn. 
 
 Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding 
 
 throat 
 Awake the god of day; and, at his warn- 
 ing. 
 Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air. 
 The extravagant and erring spirit hies 
 To his confine: and of the truth herein 
 
 Have heaven and earth together demon- This present object made probation. 
 
 strated 
 Unto our climatures and countrymen. — 
 
 Re-enter Ghost. 
 
 Mar. It faded on the crowing of the 
 cock. 
 Some say, that ever 'gainst that season 
 comes 
 But, soft ; behold I lo, where it comes I Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
 
 again ! 
 I'll cross it, though it blast me. — Stay, 
 
 illusion ! 
 If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, 
 Speak to me : 
 
 If there be any good thing to be done. 
 That may to thee do ease, and grace to 
 
 me. 
 Speak to me: 
 
 If thou art privy to thy country's fate, 
 Which, happily, foreknowing, may avoid, 
 speak! 
 
 Or, if thou hast uphoarded in thy life 
 Extorted treasure in the womb of earth. 
 
 This bird of dawning singeth all night 
 long: 
 
 And then they say no spirit dares stir 
 abroad ; 
 
 The nights are wholesome; then no plan- 
 ets strike. 
 
 No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to 
 charm. 
 
 So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 
 Hor. So have I heard, and do in part 
 believe it. 
 
 But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad. 
 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern 
 hill: 
 
 179 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PEmCE OF DEXMAEK. 
 
 ScEIfE II. 
 
 Break we our watch up; and, by my ad- 
 vice. 
 Let us impart what we hare seen to-night 
 Unto young Hamlet: for, upon my life, 
 ' This spirit, dumb to us^ will speak to him: 
 Do you consent we shall acquaint him 
 
 with it. 
 As needful in our loves, fitting our duty? 
 3£ar. Let's do't, I pray; and I this 
 morning know 
 Where we shall find him most convenient. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. A Room of State in the Same. 
 
 Enter the KixG, Queen, Hamlet, 
 PoLONius, Laertes, Voltimand, 
 Cornelius, Lords, and Attendants. 
 
 King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear 
 
 brother's death 
 The memory be green; and that it us be- 
 fitted 
 To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole 
 
 kingdom 
 To be contracted in one brow of woe; 
 Yet so far hath discretion fought with 
 
 nature, 
 That we with wisest sorrow think on him. 
 Together with remembrance of ourselves. 
 Therefore our sometime sister, now our 
 
 CLueen, 
 The imperial jointress of this warlike 
 
 state. 
 Have we, as 'twere, with a defeated joy, — 
 With one auspicious, and one dropping 
 
 eye; 
 With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in 
 
 marriage. 
 In equal scale weighing delight and dole, — 
 Taken to wife: nor have we herein barrd 
 Your better wisdoms, v/hich have freely 
 
 gone 
 With this affair 
 
 thanks. 
 Now follows, that you know, young 
 
 Fortinbras, 
 Holding a weak supposal of our worth; 
 
 along:- 
 
 ■For all, our 
 
 Or thinking, by our late dear brother's 
 
 death. 
 Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, 
 Colleagued with this dream of his advan- 
 tage. 
 He hath not fail'd to pester us with mes- 
 sage. 
 Importing the surrender of those lands 
 Lost by his father, with all bands of law. 
 To our most valiant brother. — So much 
 
 for him. 
 Now for ourself, and for this time of 
 
 meeting. 
 Thus much the business is: We have here 
 
 writ 
 To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras, — 
 Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears 
 Of this his nephew's purpose, — to sup- 
 press 
 His further gait herein; in that the levies, 
 The lists, the full proportions, are all 
 
 made 
 Of his subject: — and we here despatch 
 You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimand, 
 For bearers of this greeting to old Nor- 
 way; 
 Giving to you no further personal power 
 To business with the king, more than the 
 
 scope 
 Of those dilated articles allow. 
 Farewell; and let your haste commend 
 your duty. 
 Cor. Vol. In that, and all things, will 
 
 we show our duty. 
 King. We doubt it nothing; heartily 
 farewell. 
 
 {^Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius. 
 And now, Laertes, what's the news with 
 
 you? 
 You toldus of some suit: What is't, Laer- 
 tes? 
 You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, 
 And lose your voice: What wouldst thou 
 
 beg, Laertes, 
 That shall not be my offer, not thy ask- 
 ing? 
 The head is not more native to the heart. 
 
 480 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DEXMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 The hand more instrumental to the mouth. 
 Than is the throne of Denmark to thy 
 
 father. 
 What wouldst thou have, Laertes? 
 
 Laer. My dread lord. 
 
 Your leave and favor to return to France; 
 From whence though willingly I came to 
 
 Denmark, 
 To show my duty in your coronation; 
 Yet now I must confess, that duty done. 
 My thoughts and wishes bend again to- 
 ward France, 
 And bow them to your gracious leave and 
 pardon. 
 King. Have you your father's leave ? 
 
 What says Polonius? 
 Pol. He hath, my lord, wrung from 
 me my slow leave, 
 By laborsome petition; and, at last. 
 Upon his will I seal'd my hard consent: 
 I do beseech you, give him leave to go. 
 King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes; 
 time be thine, 
 And thy best graces: spend it at thy will. — 
 But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my 
 
 son, 
 
 Ham. A little more than kin, and less 
 
 than kind. \^Aside. 
 
 King. How is it that the clouds still 
 
 hang on you? 
 Ham. Not so, my lord, I am too much 
 
 i' the sun. 
 Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted 
 color off. 
 And let thine eye look like a friend on 
 
 Denmark. 
 Do not, for ever, with thy vailed lids 
 Seek for thy noble father in the dust: 
 Thou know'st 'tis common; all, that live, 
 
 must die. 
 Passing through nature to eternity. 
 Ham. Ay, madam, it is common. 
 Queen. If it be, 
 
 Why seems it so particular with thee? 
 Ham. Seems, madam ! nay, it is ; I 
 know not seems. 
 
 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good 
 
 mother. 
 Nor customary suits of solemn black, 
 Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath. 
 No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 
 Nor the dejected havior of the visage. 
 Together with all forms, modes, shows of 
 
 grief, 
 That can denote me truly: These, indeed, 
 
 seem. 
 For theyare actions that a man might play: 
 But I have that within, which passeth 
 
 slow; 
 These, but the trappings and the suits of 
 
 woe. 
 King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in 
 
 your nature, Hamlet, 
 To give these mourning duties to your 
 
 father: 
 But, you must know, your father lost a 
 
 father; 
 That father lost his; and the survivor 
 
 bound 
 In filial obligation, for some term 
 To do obsequious sorrow: But to persever 
 In obstinate condolement, is a course 
 Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly 
 
 grief: 
 It shoAvs a will most incorrect to heaven, 
 A heart unfortified, or mind impatient; 
 An understanding simple and unschool'd : 
 For what, we know, must be, and is as 
 
 common 
 As any the most vulgar thing to sense. 
 Why should we, in our peevish opposition. 
 Take it to heart? Fye! 'tis a fault to 
 
 heaven, 
 A fault against the dead, a fault to na- 
 ture, 
 To reason most absurd; whose common 
 
 theme 
 Is death of fathers, and who still hath 
 
 cried, 
 From the first corse, till he that died to- 
 day. 
 This must he so. We pray you, throw to 
 earth 
 
 481 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DEJsTMAEK. 
 
 SCE>-E II. 
 
 This unprevailing woe; and think of us | How Aveary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 
 As of a father: for let the world take : Seem to me all the uses of this 
 
 note, 
 
 You are the most immediate to our 
 throne; 
 
 And, with no less nobility of love, 
 
 Than that which dearest father bears his 
 son, 
 
 Do I impart toward you. For your in- 
 tent 
 
 In going back to school in Wittenberg, 
 
 It is most retrograde to our desire: 
 
 And, we beseech you, bend you to re- 
 main 
 
 Here, in the cheer and comfort of our 
 eye, 
 
 Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. 
 Queen. Let not thy mother lose her 
 prayers, Hamlet; 
 
 I pray thee stay with us, go not to Witten- 
 berg. 
 Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, 
 
 madam. 
 Xing. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair 
 reply; 
 
 Be as ourself in Denmark. — Madam, 
 come; 
 
 This gentle and unforc'd accord of Ham- 
 let 
 
 Sits smiling to mv heart: in grace where- 
 of, 
 
 No jocund health, that Denmark drinks 
 to-day. 
 
 But the great canon to the clouds shall 
 tell; 
 
 And the king's rouse the heaven shall 
 bruit again, 
 
 Ee-speaking earthly thunder. Come 
 away. 
 
 [Exeunt King, Queen, Lords, etc., 
 Polonius, and Laertes. 
 Ham. 0, that this too too solid flesh 
 would melt. 
 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 
 
 Or that the Everlasting had not fixVl 
 
 His canon 'gainst self-slaughter I God ! 
 God ! 
 
 world ! 
 Fye on't ! fye ! 'tis an unweeded gar- 
 den. 
 That grows to seed; things rank, and 
 
 gross in nature. 
 Possess it merely. That it should come 
 
 to this I 
 But two months dead I — nay, not so much, 
 
 not two: 
 So excellent a king; that was, to this, 
 Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my 
 
 mother. 
 That he might not beteem the winds of 
 
 heaven 
 Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and 
 
 earth I 
 Must I remember? why, she would hang 
 
 on him 
 As if increase of appetite had grown 
 By what it fed on : And yet, within a 
 
 month, — 
 Let me not think on't; — Frailty, thy 
 
 name is woman I — 
 A little month; or ere those shoes Mere 
 
 old. 
 With which she follow'd my poor father's 
 
 body. 
 Like Niobe, all tears; — why she, even 
 
 she, — 
 heaven I a beast, that wants discourse 
 
 of reason. 
 Would have mourn'd longer, — married 
 
 with my uncle. 
 My father's brother; but no more like my 
 
 father, 
 Than I to Hercules: Within a month; 
 Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous 
 
 tears 
 Had left the flushing in her galled eyes. 
 She married : — most wicked speed, to 
 
 post 
 With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 
 It is not, nor it cannot come to, good; 
 But break, my heart: for I must hold my 
 
 tongue! 
 
 48-! 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Enter Horatio, Bernardo, and Mar- 
 
 CELLUS. 
 
 Hor. Hail to your lordship! 
 Ham. I am glad to see you well: 
 
 Horatio, — or I do forget myself. 
 Hor. The same, my lord, and your 
 
 poor servant ever. 
 Ham, Sir, my good friend ; I'll change 
 that name with you. 
 And what make you from Wittenberg, 
 
 Horatio ? — 
 Marcellus? 
 
 Mar. My good lord, 
 
 Ham. I am very glad to see you; good 
 
 even, sir. 
 
 But what, in faith, make you from Wit- 
 tenberg? 
 Hor. A truant disposition, good my 
 
 lord. 
 Ham. I would not hear your enemy 
 say so: 
 Nor shall you do mine ear that violence. 
 To make it truster of your own report 
 Against yourself: I know, you are no 
 
 truant. 
 But Avhat is your affair in Elsinore? 
 We'll teach you liow to drink deep ere yol^ 
 depart. 
 Hor. My lord, I came to see your fa- 
 ther's funeral. 
 Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, 
 fellow student; 
 I think, it was to see my mother's wed- 
 ding. 
 Hor. Indeed, my lord, it follow'd hard 
 
 upon. 
 Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the fu- 
 neral bak'd meats 
 Did coldly furnish forth the marriage ta- 
 bles. 
 'Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven 
 Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! — 
 My father, — Methinks, I see my father. 
 
 Hor. Where, 
 
 My lord? 
 
 Ha7n. In my mind's eye, Horatio. 
 
 Hor. I saw him once, he was a goodly 
 
 king. 
 Ham. He was a man, take him for all 
 in all, 
 I shall not look upon his like again. 
 Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yes- 
 ternight. 
 Ham. Saw! who? 
 Hor. My lord, the king your father. 
 Ham. The king my father! 
 
 Hor. Season your administration for a 
 while 
 With an attent ear; till I may deliver. 
 Upon the witness of these gentlemen, 
 This marvel to you. 
 
 Ham. For Heaven's love, let me hear. 
 
 Hor. Two nights together had these 
 
 gentlemen, 
 
 Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch. 
 
 In the dead waist and middle of the night. 
 
 Been thus encounter'd. A figure like 
 
 your father. 
 Armed at point, exactly cap-ii-pe. 
 Appears before them, and, with solemn 
 
 march, 
 Croes slowly and stately by them: thrice 
 
 he walk'd. 
 By their oppress'd and fear-surprized eyes. 
 Within his truncheon's length; while they, 
 
 distill'd 
 Almost to jelly with the act of fear. 
 Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This 
 
 to me 
 In dreadful secrecy impart they did; 
 And I with them, the third night kept 
 
 the watch: 
 Where, as they had deliver'd, both in 
 
 time, 
 Form of the thing, each word made true 
 
 and good, 
 The apparition comes: I know your fa- 
 ther: 
 These hands are not more like. 
 
 Ham. But where was this? 
 
 Mar. My lord, upon the platform 
 
 where we watch'd: 
 Ham. Did you speak to it? 
 
 483 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PRIXOE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 SCElfE II. 
 
 Hor. My lord, I did; 
 
 But answer made it none: yet once, me- 
 
 tllOUglltj 
 
 It lifted up its head, and did address 
 Itself to motion, like as it ■would speak: 
 But, even then, the morning cock crew 
 
 loud; 
 And at the sound it shrunk in haste 
 
 away. 
 And vanish'd from our sight. 
 
 Ham. 'Tis very strange. 
 
 Jlor. As I do live, my honor'd lord, 
 'tis tiue; 
 And we did think it writ doAvu iu our 
 
 duty, 
 To let you know of it. 
 
 Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this 
 troubles me. 
 Hold you the watch to-night? 
 
 All. We do, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Arm'd, say you ? 
 
 All. Arm'd, my lord. 
 
 Ham. From top to toe? 
 
 All. My lord, from head to foot. 
 
 Ham. Then saw you not 
 
 His face? 
 
 Hor. 0, yes, my lord ! he wore his 
 beaver up. 
 
 Ham. What, look'd he frowningly? 
 
 Hor. A countenance more 
 
 In sorrow than in anger. 
 
 Ham. Pale, or red? 
 
 Hor. Nay, very pale. 
 
 Ham. And fix'd his eyes upon you? 
 
 Hor. Most constantly. 
 
 Ham. I would, I had been there. 
 
 Hor. It would have much amaz'd you. 
 
 Ham. ^'ery like. 
 
 Very like : Stay'd it long? 
 
 Hor. While one with moderate haste 
 might tell a hundred. 
 
 Mar. Ber. Longer, longer. 
 
 Hor. Not when I saw it. 
 
 Havi. His beard was gizzFd? no? 
 
 Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his 
 life, 
 A sable silver'd. 
 
 Hara. I will watch to-night ; 
 
 Perchance, 'twill walk again. 
 
 Hor. I warrant, it will. 
 
 Ham. If it assume my noble fathers 
 
 person, 
 I'll speak to it, though hell itself should 
 
 gape. 
 And bid me hold mv peace. I pray you 
 
 all. 
 If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight, 
 Let it be tenable in your silence still : 
 And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, 
 Give it an understanding, but no tongue ; 
 I will requite your loves : So, fare you 
 
 well : 
 L'jjon the platform, 'twixt eleven and 
 
 twelve, 
 I'll visit you. 
 
 All. Our duty to your honor. 
 
 Ham. Your loves, as mine to you : 
 
 Farewell. 
 
 [Exeunt Hor., Mar. and Ber. 
 My father's spirit in arms ! all is not 
 
 well; 
 I doubt some foul play : 'would, the night 
 
 were come I 
 Till then sit still my soul : Foul deeds 
 
 will rise. 
 Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to 
 
 men's eyes. [Exit. 
 
 ScE^TE III. A Room in Polonius's House. 
 Enter Laertes and Ophelia. 
 
 Laer. ily necessaries are embark'd ; 
 farewell : 
 And, sister, as the winds give benefit. 
 And convoy is assistant, do not sleep. 
 But let me hear from you. 
 
 02)h. Do you doubt that? 
 
 Laer. For Hamlet, and the triBing of 
 his favor. 
 Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood; 
 A violet iu the yoiith of primy nature, 
 Forward, not permanent, sweet, not last- 
 ing. 
 
 484 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE- OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 The perfume and suppliance of a minute; 
 No more. 
 
 Ojo/i. No more but so? 
 Laer. Think it no more: 
 
 For nature, crescent, does not grow alone 
 In tliews, and bulk, but, as this temple 
 
 waxes. 
 The inward service of the mind and soul 
 Grows wide withal. Perhaps, he loves 
 
 you now; 
 And now no soil, nor cautel, doth be- 
 smirch 
 The virtue of his will: but, 3'ou must 
 
 fear. 
 His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his 
 
 own; 
 For he himself is subject to his birth: 
 He may not, as unvalued persons do. 
 Carve for himself; for on his choice de- 
 pends 
 The safety and the health of the whole 
 
 state; 
 And therefore must his choice be circum- 
 
 scrib'd 
 Unto the voice and yielding of that body. 
 Whereof he is the head: Then if he says 
 
 he loves you. 
 It fits your wisdom so far to believe it, 
 As he is in his particular act and place 
 May give his saying deed; which is no 
 
 further. 
 Than the main voice of Denmark goes 
 
 withal. 
 Then weigh what loss your honor may 
 
 sustain. 
 If with too credent ear you list his songs: 
 Orlo.se your heart; or your chaste treasure 
 
 ojien 
 To his unmaster'd importunity. 
 Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister; 
 And keep you in the rear of your affec- 
 tion, 
 Out of tlie shot and danger of desire. 
 The chariest maid is prodigal enough, 
 If she unmask her beauty to the moon: 
 Virtue itself scapes not calumnious 
 strokes: 
 
 The canker galls the infants of the spring. 
 Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd;' 
 And in the morn and liquid dew of youth 
 Contagious blastments are most imminent. 
 Be wary then: best safety lies in fear; 
 Youth to itself rebels, though none else 
 
 near. 
 Opli. I shall the effect of this good 
 
 lesson keep. 
 As watchman to my heart: But, good my 
 
 brother, 
 Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, 
 Show me the steep and throny way to 
 
 heaven: 
 Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless liber- 
 tine. 
 Himself the primrose path of dalliance 
 
 treads. 
 And recks not his own read. 
 
 Laer. fear me not. 
 
 I stay too long; — But here my father 
 
 comes. 
 
 Enter PoLOisrius. 
 
 A double blessing is a double. grace; 
 
 Occasion smiles upon a second leave. 
 Pol. Yet here, Laertes I aboard, aboard, 
 for shame; 
 
 The wind sits in the shoulder of j'our 
 sail. 
 
 And you are staid for: There, — my bless- 
 ing with you; 
 \^Laying Ids hand on Laerles' head. 
 
 And these few precepts in thy memory 
 
 Look thou character. Give thy thoughts 
 no tongue. 
 
 Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. 
 
 Be thou familiar, but byno means vulgar. 
 
 The friends thou hast, and their adoi^tion 
 tried, 
 
 Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of 
 steel: 
 
 But do not dull thy palm with entertain- 
 ment 
 
 Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. 
 Beware 
 
 Of entrance to a quarrel: but, being in. 
 
 485 
 
Act I, 
 
 HAMLET, PEmCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Bear it, that the opposer may beware of 
 thee. 
 
 Give every man thine ear, but few thy 
 voice : 
 
 Take each man's censure, but reserve tliy 
 judgment. 
 
 Costly thy liabit, as thy purse can buy. 
 
 But not express'd in fancy ; rich, not 
 gaudy: 
 
 For the apparel oft proclaims the man; 
 
 And they in France of the best rank and 
 station, 
 
 Are most select and generous, chief in 
 that. 
 
 Neither a borrower, nor a lender be: 
 
 For loan oft loses both itself and friend; 
 
 And borrowing dulls the edge of hus- 
 bandry 
 
 This above all, — To thine ownself be 
 true; 
 
 And it must follow, as the night the day. 
 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man. 
 
 Farewell; my blessing season this in thee! 
 Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, 
 
 my lord. 
 Pol. The time invites you; go, your 
 
 servants tend. 
 Laer. Farewell, Ophelia; and remem- 
 ber well 
 
 What I have said to you. 
 
 Oph. 'Tis in my memory lock'd. 
 
 And you yourself shall keep the key of it. 
 Laer. Farewell ! [Lxit Laertes. 
 
 Pol. What is't, Ophelia, he hath said 
 
 to you? 
 Op7i. So please you, something touch- 
 ing the lord Hamlet. 
 Pol. Marry, well bethought: 
 
 'Tis told me, he hath very oft of late 
 
 Given private time on you: and you your- 
 self 
 
 Have of your audience been most free and 
 bounteous: 
 
 If it be so, (as so "tis put on me. 
 
 And that in way of caution,) I must tell 
 
 You do not understand yourself so clearly. 
 
 As it behoves my daughter, and your 
 
 honor: 
 What is between you? give me up the 
 
 truth. 
 OpJi. He hath my lord, of late, made 
 
 many tenders. 
 Of his affection to me. 
 Pol. Affection? Puh! you speak like a 
 
 green girl. 
 Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. 
 Do you believe his tenders, as you call 
 
 them? 
 Oj)?i. I do not know, my lord, what I 
 
 should think. 
 Pol. Marry, Til teach you; think your- 
 self a baby; 
 That you have ta'en these tenders for true 
 
 pay 
 Which are not sterling. Tender yourself 
 
 more dearly; 
 Or (not to crack the wind of the poor 
 
 phrase. 
 Wronging it thus,) you'll tender me a fool. 
 Oph. My lord, he hath importun'd me 
 
 with love. 
 In honorable fashion. 
 
 Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, 
 
 go to. 
 Oph. And hath given countenance to 
 
 his speech, my lord, 
 With almost all the holy vows of heaven. 
 Pol. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. 
 
 I do know, 
 When the blood burns, how prodigal the 
 
 soul 
 Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, 
 
 daughter. 
 Giving more light than heat, — extinct in 
 
 both. 
 Even in their promise, as it is a making, 
 You must not take for fire. From this 
 
 time. 
 Be somewhat scanter of your maiden pies- 
 
 ence; 
 Set your entreatmente at a higher rate, 
 Than a command to parley. For lord 
 
 Hamlet, 
 
 486 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Believe so much iu him, That he is young; 
 And with a larger tether may he M'alk, 
 Than may be given you: In few, Ophelia, 
 Do not believe his vows, for they are 
 
 brokers, 
 Not of that die which their investments 
 
 show, 
 But mere implorators of unholy suits, 
 Breathing like sanctified and pious bonds. 
 The better to beguile. This is for all, — 
 I would not, in plain terms, from this 
 
 time forth. 
 Have you so slander any moment's leisure, 
 As to give words or talk with the lord 
 
 Hamlet. 
 Look to't, I charge you; come your ways. 
 Ojih. I shall obey, my lord. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. The Platform. 
 Fnfc7' Hamlet, Horatio, and Mar- 
 
 CELLUS. 
 
 Haiti. The air bites shrewdly; it is very 
 
 cold. 
 Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air. 
 Ham. What hour now? 
 Hor. I think, it lacks of twelve. 
 
 Ma7\ No, it is struck. 
 Hor. Indeed? I heard it not; it then 
 draws near the season, 
 Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. 
 [A Flou7-ish of Tmmpets, and Ord- 
 nance shot off, within. 
 What does this mean, my lord? 
 
 Ham. The king doth wake to-night, 
 and takes his rouse. 
 Keeps wassel, and the swaggering up- 
 
 spring reels; 
 And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish 
 
 down. 
 The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray 
 
 out 
 The triumph of his pledge. 
 
 Hor. Is it a custom? 
 
 Ham. Ay, marry, is't: 
 But to my mind, — though I am native 
 here. 
 
 And to the manner born, — it is a custom 
 More honor'd in the breach, than the 
 
 observance. 
 This heavy-headed revel, east and west. 
 Makes us traduc'd and tax'd of other 
 
 nations: 
 They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish 
 
 phrase 
 Soil our addition; and, indeed, it takes 
 From our achievements, though perform'd 
 
 at height. 
 The pith and marrow of our attribute. 
 So oft it chances in particular men. 
 That for some vicious mode of nature in 
 
 them. 
 As, in their birth, (wherein they are not 
 
 guilty. 
 Since nature cannot choose his origin,) 
 By the o'ergrowth of some complexion. 
 Oft breaking down the pales and forts of 
 
 reason ; 
 Or by some habit, that too much o'er- 
 
 leavens 
 The form of plausive manners ; — that 
 
 these men, — 
 Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect : 
 Being nature's livery, or fortune's stai-, — 
 Their virtues else (be they as pure as 
 
 grace, 
 As infinite as man may undergo,) 
 Shall in the general censure take corrup- 
 tion 
 From that particular fault : The dram of 
 
 base 
 Doth all the iioble substance often dout. 
 To his own scandal. 
 
 Enter Ghost. 
 
 Hor. Look, mj' lord, it comes ! 
 
 Ham. Angels and ministers of grace 
 defend us ! — 
 Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin 
 
 damn'd. 
 Bring with thee airs from heaven, or 
 
 blasts from liell, 
 Be thy intents wicked, or charitable. 
 Thou com'st in such a questionable shaj)e. 
 
 487 
 
 r . 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 That I ^yill speak to thee : I'll call tliee, 
 
 Why 
 
 thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in 
 
 Hamlet, 
 
 
 death. 
 
 King, father, roj'al Dane: 0, answer me: 
 
 Have 
 
 burst their cerements ! why the 
 
 Let me not burst in ignorance ! but tell. 
 
 
 sepulchre. 
 
 Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urn'd, 
 Hath op'd his ponderous and marble 
 
 jaws. 
 To cast thee up again ! What may this 
 
 mean. 
 
 That thou, dead corse, again, in complete 
 
 steel 
 Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, 
 Making night hideous ; and we fools of 
 
 nature. 
 
 488 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OP DENMARK. 
 
 SCEKE lY. 
 
 So horridly to shake our disposition. 
 With thoughts beyond the reaches of our 
 
 souls? 
 Say, why is this? wherefore? what should 
 we do? 
 Hor. It beckons you to go away with 
 it, 
 As if it some impartment did desire 
 To you alone. 
 
 ^Far. Look, with what courteous ac- 
 tion 
 It waves you to a more removed ground: 
 But do not go with it. 
 
 Hor. No, by no means. 
 
 Ham. It will not speak ; then I will 
 
 follow it. 
 Hor. Do not, my lord. 
 Ham. Why, what should be the fear? 
 I do not set my life at a pin's fee ; 
 And, for my soul, what can it do to 
 
 that, 
 Being a thing immortal as itself ? 
 It waves mo forth again ; — ^I'll follow it. 
 Ilor. What, if it tempt you toward 
 the flood, my lord. 
 Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff. 
 That beetles o'er his base into the sea! 
 And there assume some other horrible 
 
 form, 
 Which might deprive your sovereignty of 
 
 reason. 
 And draw you into madness ? think of it: 
 The very place puts toys of* despera- 
 tion. 
 Without more motive, into every brain. 
 That looks so many fathoms to the sea. 
 And hears it roar beneath. 
 
 Ham. It Avaves me still: 
 
 Go on, rU follow thee. 
 
 Mar. You shall not go, my lord. 
 Ham. Hold off your hands. 
 
 Hor. Be rul'd, you shall not go. 
 Ham. My fate cries out, 
 
 And makes each petty artery in this 
 
 body 
 As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve. — 
 
 [ Ghost hechons. 
 
 Still am I call'd ; — unhand me, gentle- 
 men ; — 
 
 yBrcal:!)ig from them. 
 By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that 
 
 lets me : — 
 I say, away: — Go on, I'll follow thee. 
 
 \_Exeiint Ghcst and Hamlet. 
 Hor. He waxes desperate with imag- 
 ination. 
 Mar. Let's follow; — 'tis not fit thus 
 
 to obey him. 
 Hor. Have after: — To Avhat issue will 
 
 this come ? 
 Mar. Something is rotten in the state 
 
 of Denmark. 
 Hor. Heaven will direct it. 
 Mar. Nay, let's follow him. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene Y. A more remote part of the 
 Platform. 
 
 Re-enter Ghost and Hamlet. 
 
 Ham. Whither wilt thou lead me? 
 Speak, I'll go no further. 
 Ghost. Mark me. 
 Ham. I will. 
 
 Ghost. My hour is almost come. 
 
 When I to sulphurous and tormenting 
 
 flames 
 ]\Iust render up myself. 
 
 Ham. Alas, poor Ghost ! 
 
 Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy seri- 
 ous hearing 
 To what I shall unfold. 
 
 Ham. Sjoeak, I am bound to hear. 
 
 Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when 
 
 thou shalfc hear. 
 Ham. What ? 
 
 Ghost. I am thy father's spirit; 
 Doom'd for a certain term to walk the 
 
 night; 
 And, for the day, confin'd to fast in 
 
 fires. 
 Till the foul crimes, done in my days of 
 nature. 
 
 ■ISO 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PKINCE OF DENMAKK, 
 
 SCEXE Y 
 
 Are burnt and purg'd away. But that 
 
 I am forbid 
 To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest 
 
 word 
 Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy 
 
 young blood; 
 Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from 
 
 their spheres; 
 Thy knotted and combined locks to part. 
 And each particular hair to stand on 
 
 end 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine r 
 But this eternal blazon must not be 
 To ears of flesh and blood: — List., list, 
 list ! — 
 
 If thou didst ever thy dear father love, 
 
 Ham. heaven I 
 
 Ghost. Eevenge his foul and most un- 
 natural murder. 
 Ham. Murder ? 
 Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the 
 
 best it is; 
 But this most foul, strange, and un- 
 natural. 
 Ham. Haste me to know it; that T, 
 
 with wings as swift 
 As meditation, or the thoughts of love. 
 May sweep to my revenge. 
 
 Ghost. I find thee apt; 
 
 And duller shouldst thou be than the fat 
 
 weed 
 That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, 
 Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, 
 
 Hamlet, hear: 
 'Tis given out, that sleeping in mine 
 
 orchard, 
 A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of 
 
 Denmark 
 Is by a forged process of my deatli 
 Rankly abus'd; but know, thou noble 
 
 youth. 
 The serpent that did sting thy father's 
 
 life, 
 Now wears his crown. 
 
 Ham. 0, my prophetic soul ! my 
 
 uncle. 
 
 Ghost. Ay, that incestuous, that adult- 
 erous beast. 
 With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous 
 
 gifts, 
 (0 wicked wit, and gifts, that have the 
 
 power 
 So to seduce I ) won to his shameful lust 
 The will of my most seeming virtuous 
 
 queen: 
 0, Hamlet, what a falling off was there I 
 From me, whose love was that of dignity. 
 That it went hand in hand even with the 
 
 vow 
 I made to her in marriage; and to decline 
 Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were 
 
 poor 
 
 To those of mine 1 
 
 But, soft ! methinks I scent the morning 
 
 air; 
 Brief let me be: — Sleeping within mine 
 
 orchard. 
 My custom always of the afternoon. 
 Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole. 
 With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial 
 And in the porches of my ears did jjour 
 The leprous distillment: whose effect 
 Holds such an emnity with blood of man. 
 That, swift as quicksilver, it courses 
 
 through 
 The natural gates and alleys of the body; 
 And, with sudden vigor, it doth posset 
 And curd, like eager droppings into milk. 
 The thin and wholesome 'blood: so did it 
 
 mine; 
 And a most instant tetter bark'd about. 
 Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome 
 
 crust. 
 All my smooth body. 
 Thus was I, sleeping, by a brotlier's hand. 
 Of life, of crown, of queen, at once de- 
 
 spatch'd : 
 Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, 
 Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd; 
 No reckoning made, but sent to my ac- 
 count 
 With all my imperfections on my head. 
 0, horrible I 0, horrible I most horrible ! 
 
 •too 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; 
 Let not the royal bed of Denmark be 
 A couch for luxury and horrid incest. 
 But, liowsoever tliou jjursu'st this act, 
 Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul con- 
 trive 
 Against thy mother aught; leave her to 
 
 heaven. 
 And to those thorns that in her bosom 
 
 lodge. 
 To prick and sting her. Fare thee well 
 
 at once ! 
 The glow-worm shows the matin to be 
 
 near. 
 And 'gins to pale his unefiectual fire: 
 Adieu, adieu, adieu ! remember me, 
 
 [Exit. 
 Ham. all you host of heaven ! 
 
 earth ! What else ? 
 And shall I couple hell ?— fye !— Hold, 
 
 hold, my heart; 
 And j'ou, my sinews, grow not instant old. 
 But bear me stiffly up ! — Remember 
 
 thee ? 
 Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds 
 
 a seat 
 In this distracted globe. Remember 
 
 thee ? 
 Yea, from the table of my memory 
 I'll wipe away all trivial fond records. 
 All saws of books, all forms, all pressures 
 
 past. 
 That youth and observation copied there; 
 And thy commandment all alone shall 
 
 live 
 Within the book and volume of my brain, 
 Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by 
 
 heaven. 
 O most pernicious woman ! 
 villain, villain, smiling, damned villain; 
 My tables, — meet it is, I set it down. 
 That one may smile, and smile, and be a 
 
 villain; 
 At least, I am sure, it may be so in Den- 
 mark: [W?'ifi}ig. 
 So, uncle, there you are. Now to my 
 
 word; 
 
 It is, Adieu, adieu! remember me. 
 
 I have sworn't. 
 
 Hor. [Within.'] My lord, my lord, — 
 
 Mar. [ Within.'] Lord Hamlet, 
 
 Hor. [Within.] Heaven secure him. 
 Ham. So be it ! 
 
 Mar. [Within.] Illo, ho, ho, my lord ! 
 Huvi. Hillo, ho, ho, boy ! come, bird! 
 come. 
 
 Enter Horatio and Marcellus. 
 
 Mar. How is't, my noble lord ? 
 Hor. What news, my lord ? 
 
 Ham. wonderful I 
 Hor. Good, my lord, tell it. 
 
 Ham. No; 
 
 You will reveal it. 
 
 Hor. Not I, my lord, by heaven. 
 Mar. Nor I, my lord. 
 
 Ham. How say you then: would heart 
 of man once think it? — 
 
 But you'll be secret, 
 
 Hor. Mar. Ay, by heaven, my lord. 
 Ham. There's ne'er a villain, dwelling 
 in all Denmark, 
 But he's an arrant knave. 
 
 Hor. There needs no ghost, my lord, 
 Come from the grave. 
 To tell us this. 
 
 Ham. Why, right; you are in the right; 
 And so, without more circumstances at 
 
 all, 
 I hold it fit, that we shake hands, and 
 
 part : 
 You, as your business, and desire, shall 
 
 point you; — 
 For every man hath business, and desire. 
 Such as it is, — and, for my own poor 
 
 part. 
 Look you, I will go pray. 
 Hor. These are but wild and whirling 
 
 words, my lord. 
 Ham. I am sorry they offend you, 
 heartily; yes. 
 Faith, heartily. 
 
 Hor. There's no offense, my lord. 
 
 4!n 
 
Act I. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 SCEKE V. 
 
 Ham. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but 
 
 Ham. Well said, old mole ! canst work 
 
 there is, Horatio, 
 
 i' the earth so fast ? 
 
 And much offense too. Touching this 
 
 A worthy pioneer ! — Once more remove, 
 
 vision here, 
 
 good friends. 
 
 It is an honest ghost, tliat let me tell 
 
 Hor. day and night, but this is 
 
 you; 
 
 wondrous strange ! 
 
 For your desire to know what is between 
 
 Ham. And therefore as a stranger 
 
 us. 
 
 give it welcome. 
 
 O'er-master it as you may. And now, 
 
 There are more things in heaven and 
 
 good friends. 
 
 earth, Horatio, 
 
 As you are friends, scholars, and sol- 
 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 
 
 diers. 
 
 Bat come; 
 
 Give me one poor request. 
 
 Here, as before, never, so help you mercy! 
 
 Hor. What is\ my lord? 
 
 How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself. 
 
 We will. 
 
 As I, perchance, hereafter shall think 
 
 Ham. Never make known what you 
 
 meet 
 
 have seen to-night. 
 
 To put an antic disposition on, — 
 
 Hor. Mar. My lord, we will not. 
 
 That you, at such times seeing me, never 
 
 Ham. Nay, but swear't. 
 
 shall. 
 
 Hor. In faith. 
 
 With arms encumber'd thus, or this head- 
 
 My lord, not I. 
 
 shake, 
 
 Mar. Nor I, my lord, in faith. 
 
 Or by pronouncing of some doubtful 
 
 Ham. Upon my sword. 
 
 phrase. 
 
 Mar. We have sworn, my lord. 
 
 As, Well, tvell, tve Iciioio ; — or, We could, 
 
 already. 
 
 an if we would; — or. If we list to speak; 
 
 Ham. Indeed, upon my sword, in- 
 
 — or. There he, an if thexj might ; 
 
 deed. 
 
 Or such ambiguous giving out, to note 
 
 Ghost. [Beveath.] Swear. 
 
 That you know aught of me: — This do 
 
 Hatn. Ha, ha, boy ! say'st thou so ? 
 
 you swear. 
 
 art thou there, true-penny ? 
 
 So grace and mercy at your most need 
 
 Come on, — you hear this fellow in the 
 
 help you ! 
 
 cellarage, — 
 
 Ghost. [Beneath.] Swear. 
 
 Consent to swear. 
 
 Ham. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit I So 
 
 Hor. Propose the oath, my lord. 
 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Ham. Never to speak of this that you 
 
 With all my love I do commend me to 
 
 have seen. 
 
 you : 
 
 Swear by my sword. 
 
 And what so poor a man as Hamlet is 
 
 Ghost. [Beneath.] Swear. 
 
 May do, to express his love and friending 
 
 Ham. Hie ei iibiquo? then we'll 
 
 to you. 
 
 shift our ground: — 
 
 Heaven willing, shall not lack. Let us 
 
 Come hither, gentlemen. 
 
 go in together ; 
 
 And lay your hands again upon my 
 
 And still your fingers on 3'our lips, I 
 
 sword : 
 
 pray. 
 
 Swear by my sword: 
 
 The time is out of joint ; — cursed 
 
 Never to speak of this that you have 
 
 spite ! 
 
 heard. 
 
 That ever I was born to set it right I 
 
 Ghost. {Beneath.] Swear by his sword. 
 
 Nay, come, let's go together. [Exeuiit. 
 
 492 
 
Act 11. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 SCE>s-E I. 
 
 ACT 11 
 SCEXE I. A Eoom in Polonius's House. 
 Enter Polonius and Reykaldo. 
 
 Pol. Give him this money, and these 
 
 notes, Reynaldo. 
 Rey. I will, my lord. 
 Pol. You shall do marvellous wisely, 
 good Reynaldo, 
 
 Before you visit him, to make inquiry 
 
 Of his behavior. 
 
 Bey. My lord, I did intend it. 
 
 Pol. Marry, well said: very well said. 
 Look you, sir. 
 
 Inquire me first what Danskers are in 
 Paris; 
 
 And how, and who, what means, and 
 where they keep, 
 
 Wliat company, at what expense; and find- 
 ing. 
 
 By this encompassment and drift of ques- 
 tion, 
 
 That they do know my son, come j'ou more 
 nearer 
 
 Than your particular demands will touch 
 it: 
 
 Take you, as 'twere, some distant knowl- 
 edge of him; 
 
 As thus, — / Jc7iow his fatlier, and his 
 friends, 
 
 And, in part, him; — Do you mark this, 
 Reynaldo? 
 Rey. Ay, very well, my lord. 
 Pol. And, inpurt, him; — h\it, you may 
 say, not well: 
 
 But, if't be he I mean, he's very wild; 
 
 Addicted so and so; — and there put on 
 him 
 
 "What forgeries you please; marry, none so 
 rank 
 
 As may dishonor him; take heed of that: 
 
 But, sir, such wanton, wild and usual 
 slips. 
 
 As are companions noted and most known 
 
 To youth and liberty. 
 
 Rey. As gaming, my lord; 
 
 Pol. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swear- 
 ing, quarreling. 
 Rey. My lord, that would dishonor 
 
 him. 
 Pol. 'Faith, no; as you may season it in 
 the charge. 
 You must not put another scandal on him. 
 That he is open to incontinency; 
 That's not my meaning: but breathe his 
 
 faults so quaintly. 
 That they may seem the taints of liberty: 
 The flash and out-break of a fiery mind; 
 A savageness in unreclaimed blood. 
 Of general assault. 
 
 Rey. But, my good lord, 
 
 Pol. Wherefore should you do this? 
 Rey. Ay, my lord, 
 
 I would know that. 
 
 Pol. Marry, sir, here's my drift; 
 
 And, I believe, it is a fetch of warrant: 
 You laying these slight sullies on my son. 
 As 'twere a thing a little soil'd i' the work- 
 ing, 
 ^lark you. 
 Your party in converse, him you Avould 
 
 sound. 
 Having ever seen him in the prenominate 
 
 crimes. 
 The youth you breath of, guilty, be 
 
 assur'd, 
 He closes with you in this consequence; 
 Good sir, or so; or, friend, or gentleman, — 
 According to the phrase, or the addition, 
 Of man, and country. 
 
 Rey. Very good, my lord. 
 
 Pol. And then, sir, does he this, — 
 
 He does — 
 
 What was I about to say? — By the 
 
 mass, I was about to say something: — 
 
 AVhere did I leave? 
 
 Rey. At, closes in the consequence. 
 Pol. At, closes in the consequence, — 
 Ay, marry, 
 lie closes with you thus: — I l-noio the 
 (jentleman; 
 
 493 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 I saw him yesterday, or t'other day, 
 
 Or then, or then; with such, or such; and, 
 
 as you say. 
 There was lie gaming; there o'ertoclc in his 
 
 rouse; 
 There falling out at tennis: or so forth. — 
 See you now; 
 Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of 
 
 truth: 
 And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, 
 With windlaces, and with assays of bias. 
 By indirections find directions out; 
 So, by former lecture and advice, 
 Shall you, my son: You have me, have 
 you not? 
 Rey. My lord, I have. 
 Pol. Then, fare you well. 
 
 Rey. Good my lord, 
 
 Pol. Observe his inclination in your- 
 self. 
 Rey. I shall, my lord. 
 Pol. And let him ply his music. 
 Rey. Well, my lord. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Opu^hiA. 
 
 Pol. Farewell ! — How now, Ophelia? 
 
 what's the matter? 
 Oph. 0, my lord, my lord, I have been 
 
 so affrighted ! 
 Pol. With what, in the name of 
 
 heaven? 
 Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my 
 closet. 
 Lord Hamlet, — with his doublet all un- 
 
 brac'd; 
 No hat upon his head; his stockings f oul'd, 
 Ungarter'd, and down-gyved to his ankle; 
 Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each 
 
 other; 
 And with a look so piteous in purport. 
 As if he had been loosed out of hell. 
 To speak of horrors, — he comes before 
 me. 
 Pol. Mad for thy love? 
 Oph. My lord, I do not know; 
 
 But, truly, I do fear it. 
 
 Pol. What said he? 
 
 Oph. He took me by the wrist, and 
 held me hard; 
 Then goes he to the length of all his arm: 
 And with his other hand thus o'er his 
 
 brow. 
 He falls to such perusal of my face, 
 As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so; 
 At last, — a little shaking of mine arm. 
 And thrice his head thus waving up and 
 
 down, — 
 He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound. 
 As it did seem to shatter all his bulk. 
 And end his being: That done, he lets me 
 
 go: 
 And, with his head over his shoulder 
 
 turn'd. 
 He seem'd to find his way without liis 
 
 eyes; 
 For out of doors he went without their 
 
 helps. 
 And, to the last, bended their light on 
 
 me. 
 Pol. Come, go with me; I will go seek 
 the king. 
 This is the very ecstasy of love; 
 Whose violent property foredoes itself, 
 And leads the will to desperate under- 
 takings. 
 As oft as any passion under heaven. 
 That does afflict our nature. I am 
 
 sorry, — 
 What, have you given him any hard words 
 
 of late? 
 Oph. No, my good lord: but, as you 
 did command, 
 I did repel his letters, and denied 
 His access to me. 
 
 Pol. That hath made him mad. 
 
 I am sorry, that with better heed and 
 
 judgment, 
 I had not quoted him: I fear'd, he did 
 
 but trifle, 
 And meant to wreck thee ; but, beshrew 
 
 my jealousy ! 
 It seems, it is as proper to our age 
 To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions, 
 As it is common for the younger sort 
 
 49i 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 To lack discretion. Come, go we to the 
 
 king; 
 This must be known ; which, being kept 
 
 close, might move 
 More grief to hide, than hate to utter 
 
 love. 
 Come. [Bxeunt. 
 
 ScEXE II. A Room in the Castle. 
 
 Biihr King, Queen, Rosencrantz, 
 GuiLDENSTEKN, and Attendants. 
 
 King. WelcomCj dear Rosencrantz, 
 
 and Guildenstern! 
 Moreover that we much did long to see 
 
 you. 
 The need, we have to use you, did pro- 
 voke 
 Our hasty sending. Something have you 
 
 heard 
 Of Hamlet's transformation ; so I call it. 
 Since not the exterior nor the inward 
 
 man 
 Resembles that it was : What it should 
 
 be. 
 More than his father's death, that thus 
 
 hath put him 
 So much from the understanding of him- 
 self, 
 I cannot dream of : I entreat you both, 
 That, — being of so young days brought 
 
 up with him : 
 And, since, so neighbor'd to his youth 
 
 and humor, — 
 That you vouchsafe your rest here in our 
 
 court 
 Some little time : so by your companies 
 To draw him on to pleasures ; and to 
 
 gather. 
 So much as from occasion you may glean. 
 Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts 
 
 him thus. 
 That, open'd, lies within our remedy. 
 Queen. Good gentlemen, he hath much 
 
 talk'd of you ; 
 And, sure I am, two men there are not 
 
 living, 
 
 To whom he more adheres. If it will 
 please you 
 
 To show us so much gentry, and good 
 will, 
 
 As to expend your time with us awhile. 
 
 For the supply and profit of our hope. 
 
 Your visitation shall receive such thanks 
 
 As fits a king's remembrance. 
 
 Ros. Both your majesties 
 
 Might, by the sovereign power you have 
 of us. 
 
 Put your dread pleasures more into com- 
 mand 
 
 Than to entreaty. 
 
 Giiil. But we both obey ; 
 
 And here give up ourselves, in the full 
 bent ; 
 
 To lay our service freely at your feet, 
 
 To be commanded. 
 
 King. Thanks, Rosencrantz, and gen- 
 tle Guildenstern. 
 Queen. Thanks, Guildenstern, and 
 gentle Rosencrantz : 
 
 And I beseech you instantly to visit 
 
 My too much changed son. — Go, some of 
 
 yo". 
 And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet 
 is. 
 Oicil. Heavens make our presence, and 
 our practices. 
 Pleasant and helpful to him! 
 Queen. Ay, amen! 
 
 \Exeunt Rosencrmitz, Guildenstern, 
 and some Attendants. 
 
 Enter Polonius. 
 
 Pol. The ambassadors from Norway, 
 my good lord. 
 Are joyfully return'd. 
 
 King. Thou still hast been the father 
 
 of good news. 
 Pol. Have I, my lord? Assure you, my 
 good liege, 
 I hold my duty, as I hold my soul. 
 Both to my God, and to my gracious king: 
 And I do think, (or else this brain of 
 mine 
 
 195 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Hunts not the trail of policy so sure 
 
 As it liatli us'd to do,) that I have found 
 
 The A^ery cause of Hamlet's lunacy. 
 
 King. 0, speak of that: that do I long 
 
 to hear. 
 Pol. Give first admittance to the am- 
 bassadors; 
 ]\Iy news shall be the fruit to that great 
 feast. 
 King. Thyself do grace to them, and 
 bring them in. [Exit Polonius. 
 
 He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath 
 
 found 
 The head and source of all your son's dis- 
 temper. 
 Queen. I doubt it is no other but the 
 main; 
 His father's death, and our o'er hasty 
 marriage. 
 
 Re-enter PoLOXius, ivitli Yoltimajv"d and 
 Cornelius. 
 
 King. Well, we shall sift him. — Wel- 
 come, my good friends! 
 Say, Voltimand, what from our brother 
 
 Norway? 
 Volt. Most fair return of greetings, 
 
 and desires. 
 Upon our first, he sent out to supress 
 His nephew's levies; which to him aj^pear'd 
 To be a preparation 'gainst the Polack; 
 But, better look'd into, he truly found 
 It was against your highness: Whereat 
 
 griev'd, — 
 That so his sickness, age, and impotence. 
 Was falsely borne in hand, — sends out 
 
 arrests 
 On Fortiiibras; which he, in brief obevs; 
 Receives rebuke from Norway; and, in 
 
 fine. 
 Makes vow before his uncle, never more 
 To give the assay of arms against your 
 
 majesty. 
 Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, 
 Gives him three thousand crowns in annual 
 
 fee; 
 
 And his commission to employ these sol- 
 diers 
 
 So levied as before, against the Polack: 
 
 With an entreaty, herein further shown, 
 
 \_Gives a pajjer. 
 
 That it might jjlease you to give quiet pass 
 
 Through your dominions for this enter- 
 prize; 
 
 On such regards of safety and allowance. 
 
 As therein are set down. 
 
 King. It likes us well: 
 
 And, at our more consider'd time, we'll 
 read. 
 
 Answer, and think upon this business. 
 
 Mean time, we thank you for your well- 
 took labor: 
 
 Go to your rest; at night we'll feast to- 
 gether: 
 
 Most welcome homel 
 
 \_Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius. 
 Pol. This business is well ended. 
 
 My liege, and madam, to expostulate 
 
 What majesty should be, what duty is. 
 
 Why day is day, night, night, and time is 
 • time. 
 
 Were nothing but to waste night, day, and 
 time. 
 
 Therefore, — since brevity is the soul of 
 wit. 
 
 And tediousness the limbs and outward 
 flourishes, 
 
 I will be brief : Your noble son is mad: 
 
 Mad call I it: for, to define true mad- 
 ness. 
 
 What is't, but to be nothing else but mad? 
 
 But let that go. 
 
 Queen. More matter with less art. 
 Pol. Madam, I swear I use no art at 
 all. 
 
 That he is mad, 'tis true; 'tis true, 'tis pity; 
 
 And pity 'tis 'tis true : a foolish figure; 
 
 But farewell it, for I will use no art. 
 
 Mad let us grant him then : and now re- 
 mains. 
 
 That we find out the cause of this effect; 
 
 Or, rather say, the cause of this defect; 
 
 For this effect, defective, comes by cause: 
 
 496 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET, PKINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. 
 
 Perpend. 
 
 I have a daughter ; have, while she is 
 
 mine; 
 Who, in her duty and obedience, mark. 
 Hath given me this : Now gather and 
 
 surmise. 
 — To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the 
 
 most beautified Ojjhelia, 
 
 That's an ill phrase, a vile phrase ; heauti- 
 fied is a vile phrase; but you shall hear. — 
 Thus : 
 In her excellent luhite hosom, these, ate. 
 Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her ? 
 Pol. Good madam, stay awhile ; I will 
 be faithful. — 
 
 [Eeads. 
 Doubt thou, the stars are fire ; 
 
 Doubt, that the sun doth move : 
 Doubt truth to be a liar ; 
 But never do^ibt, I love. 
 dear Ophelia, I am ill at these num- 
 bers ; I have not art to reckon my groans ; 
 but that I love thee best, most best, be- 
 lieve it. Adieu. 
 
 TJiifie evermore, most dear lady, whilst 
 
 this machine is to him, Hamlet. 
 
 This, in obedience, hath my daughter 
 
 shown me : 
 And more above, hath his solicitings, 
 As they fell out by time, my means, and 
 
 place, 
 All given to mine ear. 
 
 King. But how hath she 
 
 Eeceiv'd his love? 
 
 Pol. What do you think of me? 
 
 King. As of a man faithful and hon- 
 orable. 
 Pol. I would vain prove so. But what 
 might you think, 
 When I had seen this hot love on the 
 wing, 
 
 (As I perceiv'd it, I must tell you that. 
 Before my daughter told me,) what might 
 
 you. 
 Or my dear majesty your queen here, 
 
 think, 
 
 If I had play'd the desk, or table book; 
 Or given my heart a working, mute and 
 
 dumb; 
 Or look'd upon this love with idle sight; 
 What might you think? no, I went round 
 
 to work. 
 And my young mistress thus did I be- 
 speak: 
 Lord Hamlet is a prince out of thy sphere ; 
 Tliis must not be : and then I precepts 
 
 gave her, 
 That she should lock herself from his re- 
 sort. 
 Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. 
 Which done, she took the fruits of my 
 
 advice ; 
 And he, repulsed, (a short tale to make,) 
 Fell into a sadness ; then into a fast ; 
 Thence to a watch; thence into weak- 
 ness; 
 Thence to a lightness ; and, by this de- 
 clension, 
 Into the madness wherein now he raves, 
 And all we mourn for. 
 
 King. Do you think, 'tis this? 
 
 Queen. It may be, very likely. 
 Pol. Hath there been such a time, (I'd 
 fain know that,) 
 That I have positively said, 'Tis so. 
 When it prov'd otherwise? 
 King. Not that I know. 
 
 Pol. Take this from this, if this be 
 otherwise: 
 [Pointitig to his Head and Shoulder. 
 If circumstances lead me, I will find 
 Where truth is hid, though it were hid 
 
 indeed 
 AVithin the centre. 
 
 Ki7ig. How may we try it further? 
 
 Pol. You know, sometimes he walks 
 four hours together, 
 Here in the lobby. 
 
 Queen. So he does, indeed. 
 
 Pol. At such a time I'll loose my 
 daughter to him; 
 Be you and I behind an arras then; 
 Mark the encounter: if he love her not. 
 
 497 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DEIs^MAEK. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 And be not from his reason fallen thereon, 
 Let me be no assistant for a state. 
 But keep a farm, and carters. 
 King. We will try it. 
 
 Filter Hamlet, reading. 
 
 Queen. But look, where sadly the poor 
 wretch comes reading. 
 
 Pol. Away, I do beseech you, both 
 away; 
 I'll board him presently: — 0, give me 
 leave. — 
 \ Exeunt King , Queen, and Attendants. 
 How does my good lord Hamlet? 
 
 Ham. Well, god-'a-mercy. 
 
 Pol. Do you know me, my lord? 
 
 Ham. Excellent well: you are a fish- 
 monger. 
 
 Pol. Not I, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Then I would you were so honest 
 a man. 
 
 Pol. Honest, my lord ? 
 
 Ham. Ay, sir; to be honest, as this 
 world goes, is to be one man picked out of 
 ten thousand. 
 
 Pol. That's very true, my lord. 
 
 Ham. For if the sun breed maggots 
 in a dead dog, being a god, kissing carrion, 
 Have you a daughter? 
 
 Pol. I have, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Let her not walk i' the sun: 
 conception is a blessing; but not as your 
 daughter may conceive — friend, lookto't. 
 
 Pol. How say you by that? [Aside.'] 
 Still harping on my daughter: — yet he 
 knew me not at first; he said, I was a fish- 
 monger; He is far gone, far gone: and, 
 truly in my youth I suffered much ex- 
 tremity for love: very near this. I'll 
 speak to him again. — What do you read, 
 my lord? 
 
 Ham. Words, words, words! 
 
 Pol. What is the matter, my lord? 
 
 Ham. Between who? 
 
 Pol. I mean the matter that you read, 
 -my lord. 
 
 Ha7n. Slanders, sir: for the satirical 
 rogue says here, that old men have grey 
 beards; that their faces are wrinkled; 
 their eyes purging thick amber, and plum- 
 tree gum; and that they have a plentiful 
 lack of wit: all of which, sir, though I 
 most powerfully and potently believe, yet 
 I hold it not honesty to have it thus set 
 down; for yourself, sir, shall be as old as 
 I am, if, like a crab, you could go back- 
 ward. 
 
 Pol. Though this be madness, yet 
 there's method in it, [Aside.] Will you 
 walk out of the air, my lord? 
 
 Ham. Into my grave? 
 
 Pol. Indeed, that is out o' the air. — 
 How pregnant sometimes his replies are! 
 a happiness that often madness hits on, 
 which reason and sanity could not so pros- 
 perously be delivered of. I will leave him, 
 and suddenly contrive the means of meet- 
 ing between him and my daughter. — My 
 honorable lord, I will most humbly take 
 my leave of you. 
 
 Ham. You cannot, sir, take from me 
 any thing that I will more willingly part 
 withal; except my life, except my life. 
 
 Pol. Fare you well, my lord. 
 
 Ham. These tedious old fools! 
 
 Enter Rosencraktz and Guildexstern. 
 
 Pol. You go to seek the lord Hamlet; 
 there he is. 
 
 Eos. God save you, sir! 
 
 [To Polo7iitis. 
 
 [Exit Polonius. 
 
 Guil. My honored lord ! — 
 
 Ros. My most dear lord! — 
 
 Ham. My excellent good friends! 
 
 How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, 
 
 Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both? 
 
 Ros. As the indifferent children of 
 
 the earth. 
 Guil. Happy, in that we are not over 
 happy; 
 On fortune's cap we are not the very 
 button. 
 
 498 
 
Act II, 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Ham. Nor the soles of her shoe? 
 
 Ros. Neither, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Then you live in ^he middle of 
 her favors? 
 Well, what news? 
 
 Ros. None, my lord: but that the 
 world is grown honest. 
 ■ Havi. Then is doomsday near: But 
 your news is not true. Let me question 
 more in particular: What have you, my 
 good friends, deserved at the hands of 
 fortune, that she sends you to prison 
 hither? 
 
 Guil. Prison, my lord! 
 
 Ham. Denmark's a prison. 
 
 Ros. Then is the world one. 
 
 Ham. A goodly one; in which there 
 are many confines, wards, and dungeons ; 
 Denmark being one of the worst. 
 
 Ros. We think not so, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Why, then 'tis none to you; 
 for there is nothing either good or bad, 
 hut thinking makes it so: to me it is a 
 prison. 
 
 Ros. Why then your ambition makes 
 it one; 'tis too narrow for your mind. 
 
 Ham. heaven! I could be bounded 
 in a nutshell, and count myself a king of 
 infinite space; were it not that I have bad 
 dreams. 
 
 Guil. Which dreams, indeed, are am- 
 bition ; for the very substance of the am- 
 Taitious is merely the shadow of a dream. 
 
 Ham. A dream itself is but a shadow. 
 
 Ros. Truly, and I hold ambition of 
 so airy and light a quality, that it is but a 
 shadow's shadow. 
 
 Ros. Then are our beggars, bodies; 
 and our monarchs, and outstretched 
 heroes, the beggars' shadows: Shall we to 
 tlie court? for, by my fay, I cannot 
 reason. 
 
 Ros. Guil. We'll wait upon you. 
 
 Ham. No such matter: I will not sort 
 you with the rest of my servants ; for, to 
 speak to you like an honest man, I am 
 most dreadfully attended. But, in the 
 
 beaten way of friendship, what make you 
 at Elsinore? 
 
 Ros. To visit you, my lord; no other 
 occasion. 
 
 Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even 
 poor in thanks; but I thank you: and 
 sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear 
 at a halfpenny. Were you not sent for ? 
 Is it your own inclining? Is it a free 
 visitation ? Come, come ; deal justly with 
 me : come, come ; nay speak. 
 
 Giiil. What should we say, my lord? 
 
 Ham. Any thing — but to the pur- 
 pose. You were sent for; and there is a 
 kind of confession in your looks, which 
 your modesties have not craft enough to 
 color: I know the good king and queen 
 have sent for you. 
 
 Ros. To what end, my lord? 
 
 Ham. That you must teach me. But 
 let me conjure you by the rights of our 
 fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, 
 by the obligation of our ever-preserved 
 love, and by what more dear a better pro- 
 poser could charge you withal, be even 
 and direct with me, Avhether you were 
 sent for, or no ? 
 
 Ros. What say you? 
 
 {To GUILDEKSTERN. 
 
 Ham. Nay, then I have an eye of you; 
 [^Aside.^ — if j^ou love me, hold not off. 
 
 Guil. My lord, we were sent for. 
 
 Ham. I will tell you why; so shall my 
 anticipation prevent your discovery, and 
 your secrecy to the king and queen moult 
 no feather. I have of late, (but, where- 
 fore, I know not,) lost all my mirth, for- 
 gone all custom of exercise: and indeed, 
 it goes so heavily with my disposition,that 
 this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me 
 a sterile promontory: this most excellent 
 canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'er- 
 hanging firmament, this majestical roof 
 fretted with golden fire, why, it appears 
 no other thing to me, than a foul and 
 pestilent congregation of vapors. What 
 a piece of work is a man! How noble in 
 
 499 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET. PRINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 SCEXE 11. 
 
 reason! how infinite in faculties! inform 
 and moving, how express and admirable! 
 in action, how like an angel! in appre- 
 hension, how like a god I the beauty of the 
 world ! the paragon of animals ! And yet, 
 to me, what is this quintessence of dust? 
 man delights not me, — nor woman neither; 
 though by your smiling, you seem to say 
 so. 
 
 Ros. My lord, there is no such stuff 
 in my thoughts. 
 
 Ham. Why did you laugh then, when 
 I said, Man delights not me ? 
 
 Ros. '- To think, my lord, if you delight 
 not in man, what lenten entertainment 
 the players shall receive from you: we 
 coted them on the way: and hither are 
 they coming, to offer you service. 
 
 Ha7n. He that plays the king, shall be 
 welcome ; his majesty shall have tribute 
 of me ; the adventurous knight shall use 
 his foil, and target: the lover shall not 
 sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end 
 his part in peace: the clown shall make 
 those laugh whose lungs are tickled o' the 
 sere : and the lady shall say her mind 
 freely, or the blank verse shall halt for't. 
 — What players are they? 
 
 Ros. Even those you were wont to take 
 such delight in, the tragedians of the city. 
 
 Hain. How chances it they travel ? 
 their residence, both reputation and profit, 
 was better both ways. 
 
 Ros. I think their inhibition comes by 
 the means of the late innovation. 
 
 Ham. Do they hold the same estima- 
 tion they did when I was in the city? Are 
 they so followed? 
 
 Ros. No, indeed, they are not. 
 
 Ham. How comes it? Do they grow 
 rusty? 
 
 Ros. Nay, their endeavor keeps in the 
 wonted pace: But there is, sir, an aiery 
 of children, little eyases, that cry out on 
 the top of question, and are most tyranni- 
 cally clapp'd for't: these are now the 
 fashion; and so berattle the common 
 
 stages (so they call them), that many, 
 wearing rapiers, are afraid of goose quills, 
 and dare scarce come thither. 
 
 Ha7n. What, are they children? Who 
 maintains them? how are they escoted? 
 Will they pursue the quality no longer 
 than they can sing? will they not say 
 afterwards, if they should grow themselves 
 to common players, (as it is most like, if 
 their means are no better,) their writers 
 do them wrong, to make them exclaim 
 against their own succession? 
 
 Ros. Faith, there has been much to 
 do on both sides; and the nation holds it 
 no sin, to terre them on to controversy: 
 there was, for a while, no money bid for 
 argument, unless the poet and the player 
 went to cuffs in the question. 
 
 Ham. Is it possible? 
 
 Guil. 0, there has been much throw- 
 ing about of brains. 
 
 Ham. Do the boys carry it away? 
 
 Ros. Ay, that they do, my lord; Her- 
 cules and his load, too. 
 
 Ham. It is not very strange: for my 
 uncle is king of Denmark, and those, that 
 would make mouths at him while my 
 father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, an 
 hundred ducats a-piece, for his picture 
 in little. There is something in this more 
 natural, if philosophy could find it out. 
 [Flourish of Triimj^ets loithin. 
 
 Guil. There are the players. 
 
 Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome 
 to Elsinore. Yonr hands. Come then: 
 the appurtenance of welcome is fashion 
 and ceremony: let me comply with you 
 in this garb; lest my extent to the plaj'ers, 
 which, I tell you, must show fairly out- 
 ward, should more appear like entertain- 
 ment than ' yours. You are welcome; 
 but my uncle-father, and aunt-mother, 
 are deceived. 
 
 Guil. In what, my dear lord? 
 
 Ham. I am mad but mad north-north 
 west: when the wind is southerly, I know 
 a hawk from a hand-saw. 
 
 500 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Enter Polon-ius. 
 
 Pol. Well be with you, gentleman! 
 
 Ham. Hark you, Guilderstern; — and 
 you too: — at each ear a hearer: that great 
 baby, you see there, is not yet out of his 
 swaddling-clouts. 
 
 lios. Happily, he's the second time 
 come to them; for they say an old man is 
 twice a child. 
 
 Ham. I will prophesy, he comes to tell 
 me of the player; mark it. — You say 
 right, sir: of Monday morning; 'twas then, 
 indeed. 
 
 Pol. My lord, I have neAvs to tell you. 
 
 Ham. My lord, I have news to tell 
 you; When Roscius was an actor in 
 Rome, 
 
 Pol. The actors are come hither, my 
 lord. 
 
 Ham. Buz, buz! 
 
 Pol. Upon my honor, 
 
 Ham. Tlicn came each actor on his 
 
 ass, 
 
 Pol. The best actors in the world, 
 either for tragedy, comedy, history, pas- 
 toral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, 
 [tragical -historical, tragical-comical-his- 
 torical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem 
 unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, 
 nor Plautus too light. For the law of 
 writ and the liberty, these are the only 
 men. 
 
 Ham. Je])hthah, judge of Israel, — 
 what a treasure hadst thou! 
 
 Pol. What a treasure had he, my lord? 
 
 Ham. Why — One fair daughter and no 
 more, 
 The xvhich he loved jjassing ivell. 
 
 Pol. Still on my daughter. [Aside. 
 
 Ham. Am I not i' the right, old Jeph- 
 thah? 
 
 Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, 
 I have a daughter, that I love passing Avell. 
 
 Ham. Nay, that follows not. 
 
 Pol. What follows then, my lord? 
 
 Ham. Why, As by lot, God wot, and 
 then you know, It came to j^nss, As most 
 
 like it was, — The first row of the pious 
 chanson will show you more: for look, my 
 abridgment comes. 
 
 Enter four or five Placers. 
 
 You are welcome, masters: welcome all; — 
 I am glad to see thee well: — welcome, good 
 friends: — 0, old friend! Why, thy face is 
 valanced since I saw thee last; Com'st thou 
 to beard me in Denmark? — What! my 
 young lady and mistress! your ladyshijj is 
 nearer to heaven than when I saw you last, 
 by the altitude of a chopine. Pray heav- 
 en, your voice, like a i^iece of uncur- 
 rent gold, be not cracked within the ring. 
 — Masters, you are all welcome. We'll 
 e'en to't like French falconers, fly at any- 
 thing we see: We'll have a speech straight: 
 Come, give us a taste of your quality; 
 come, a passionate speech. 
 
 1 Play. What speech, my lord ? 
 
 Ham. 1 heard thee sjDeak me a speech 
 once, — but it was never acted; — or, if it 
 was, not above once: for the play, I re- 
 member, j^leased not the million; 'twas a 
 caviare to the general: but it was (as I 
 received it, and others, whose judgments, 
 in such matters, cried in the top of mine.) 
 an excellent play; well digested in the 
 scenes, set down with as much modesty as 
 cunning. I remember, one said, there 
 were no salads in the lines, to make the 
 matter savory; nor no matter in the phrase, 
 that might indite the author of affection: 
 but called it, an honest method, as whole- 
 some as sweet, and by very much more 
 handsome than fine. One speech in it I 
 chiefly loved: 'twas Eneas' tale to Dido; 
 and thereabout of it especially, where he 
 speaks of Priam's slaughter: If it live in 
 your memoi'y, begin at this line: let me 
 see, let me see; — 
 
 TJie rugged Pyrrhus, like the Pyrcanian 
 least, — 'tis not so; it begins with Pyrrhus. 
 Tlie rugged Pyrrhus, — he, xohose sable arms. 
 Blade as his ptirpose, did the night resem- 
 ble 
 
 501 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OP DENMAEK. 
 
 SCEifE 11. 
 
 When he lay couched in the ominous horse, 
 Hath now this dread and black complexion 
 
 smear'd 
 With heraldry more dismal; head to foot 
 Noio is he total gules; horridly trick' d 
 With hlood of fathers, mothers, daughters, 
 
 sons; 
 Bak'd and imparted loith the parching 
 
 streets, 
 That lend a tyrannous and a fearful light 
 To their lord's murder: Roasted ifi lorath 
 
 and fire, 
 And thus o'er-sizedwith coagulate gore. 
 With eyes like cariuncles, the hellish Pyr- 
 
 rhus 
 Old grandsire Priam seeks; — So proceed 
 
 you. 
 Pol. My lord, well spoken; with good 
 accent, and good discretion. 
 
 1 Play. Anon he finds him 
 Striking too short at Greeks; his antique 
 
 sword. 
 Rebellious to his armlies where it falls. 
 Repugnant to command : Unequal 
 
 match'd, 
 Pyrrhus at Priam drives; iyi rage, strikes 
 
 wide; 
 But with the whiff and wind of his fell 
 
 sword 
 Tlie unnerved father falls. Tlien sense- 
 less Ilium, 
 Seeming to feel this blow, ivith fiamiiig top 
 Stoops to his base; and with a hideous 
 
 crash 
 Takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear; for, lo! his 
 
 sword. 
 Which was declining on the milky head 
 Of reverend Priam, seem'd i' the air to 
 
 stick: 
 So, as a painted tyrant Pyrrhus stood; 
 And, like a neutral to his will and matter, 
 Did nothing. 
 
 But, as we often see, against some storm, 
 A silence in the heavens, the rack stand 
 
 still, 
 Tlie bold winds speechless, and the orb he- 
 low 
 
 As hush as death : anon the dreadful thun- 
 der 
 Doth rend the region: So, after Pyrrhus' 
 
 pause, 
 A roused vengeance sets him netv a work; 
 And never did the Cyclops' ha^nmers fall 
 On Mars' s armour , f org' d for proof eterne. 
 With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding 
 
 sword 
 Now falls on Priam. — 
 Out, out, thou strumpet, Fortune! All 
 
 you gods. 
 In general synod, take away her power; 
 Break all the spokes and fellies from her 
 
 loheel. 
 And bowl the round nave down the hill of 
 
 heaven, 
 Aslow as to the fiends! 
 Pol. This is too long. 
 Ham. It shall to the barber's with, 
 your beard. — Pr'ythee, say on: — He's for 
 a jig, or he sleeps; — say on: come to 
 Hecuba. 
 
 1 Play. But who, ah woe! had seen the 
 
 mobled queen 
 
 Ham. The mobled queen? 
 
 Pol. That's good; mobled queen is 
 
 good. 
 1 Play. Run barefoot up and down, 
 
 threat'ning the flames 
 With bisson rheum; a clout upon that 
 
 head. 
 Where late the diadem stood; and for a 
 
 robe. 
 About her lank and all o'erteemed loins, 
 A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up; 
 Who this had seen, with tongue in venom 
 
 steep'd, 
 ' Gainst fortune' s state would treason Jiave 
 
 pronounced: 
 But if the gods themselves did see lier 
 
 then, 
 When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious 
 
 sport 
 In mincing with his sword her husband's 
 
 limbs; 
 Tlie instant btirst of clamor that she made, 
 
 502 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II' 
 
 {Unless things mortal move them not at 
 
 all,) 
 Would have made milch the burning eye of 
 
 heaven, 
 And passion in the gods. 
 
 Pol. Look, whether he has not turn'd 
 his color, and has tears in 's eyes. — Pr'y- 
 thee, no more. 
 
 Ham. 'Tis well: I'll have thee speak 
 out the rest of this soon. — Good my lord, 
 will you see the players well bestowed? 
 Do you hear, let them be well used; for 
 they are the abstract, and brief chroni- 
 cles, of the time: After your death you 
 were better have a bad epitaph, than their 
 ill report while you live. 
 
 Pol. My lord, I will use them accord- 
 ing to their desert. 
 
 Hain. Much better, man: Use every 
 man after his desert, and who shall 'scape 
 whipping? Use them after your own 
 honor and dignity: The less they deserve, 
 the more merit is your bounty. Take 
 them in. 
 
 Pol. Come, sirs. 
 \_Exit Polonius, with some of the Players. 
 
 Ham. Follow him, friends: we'll hear 
 a play to-morrow. — Dost thou hear me, 
 old friend; can you play the murder of 
 Gonzago? 
 
 1 Play. Ay, my lord. 
 
 Ham. We'll have it to-morrow night. 
 You could, for a need, study a speech of 
 some dozen or sixteen lines, which I 
 would set down, and insert in't: could 
 you not? 
 
 1 Play. Ah, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Very well — Follow that lord; and 
 look you mock him not. \_Exit Player.] 
 My good friends, [To Ros. ayid GuiL.] I'll 
 leave you till night; you are welcome to 
 
 Elsinore. 
 . Ros. Good my lord! 
 
 Exeunt Rosencrantz and Gtiildenstern. 
 
 Ham. Ay, so adieu, and, — Now I am 
 alone. 
 0, what a rogue and peasant slave am II 
 
 Is it not monstrous, that this player here. 
 But in a fiction, in a dream of passion. 
 Could force his soul so to his own con- 
 ceit. 
 That from her working, all his visage 
 
 wann'd; 
 Tears in his eyes, distraction in 's aspect, 
 A broken voice, and his whole function 
 
 suiting 
 With forms to his conceit? And all for 
 
 . nothing! 
 For Hecuba! 
 
 What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, 
 That he should weep for her ? What would 
 
 he do. 
 Had he the motive and the cue for passion. 
 That I have? He would drown the stage 
 
 with tears. 
 And cleave the general ear with horrid 
 
 speech; 
 Make mad the guilty, and appal the 
 
 free. 
 Confound the ignorant ; and amaze, 
 
 indeed, 
 The very faculties of eyes and ears. 
 Yet I, 
 
 A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak. 
 Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my 
 
 cause. 
 And can say nothing ; no, not for a king. 
 Upon whose property, and most dear life, 
 A vile defeat was made. Ami a coward? 
 Who calls me villian? ' breaks my pate 
 
 across? 
 Plucks off my beard, and blows it in ray 
 
 face? 
 Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie 
 
 i' the throat. 
 As deep as to the lungs? Who does me 
 
 this? 
 Ha! 
 
 Why, I should take it: for it cannot be. 
 But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall 
 To make oppression bitter; or, ere this, 
 I should have fatted all the region kites 
 With this slave's offal: Bloody, murd'rous 
 
 villian! 
 
 603 
 
Act II. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Remorseless, treacherous, unnatural vil- 
 lain ! 
 Why, what an ass am I? This is most 
 
 brave ; 
 That I, the son of a dear father murder'd. 
 Prompted to my revenge by heaven and 
 
 hell. 
 Must, like a drab, unpack my heart with 
 
 words. 
 And fall a cursing! 
 Fye upon't! fob! About my brains! 
 
 Humph! I have heard, 
 That guilty creatures, sitting at a play. 
 Have by the'very cunning of the scene 
 Been struck so to the soul, that presently 
 They have proclaira'd their malefactions; 
 For murder, though it have no tongue, 
 will speak 
 
 With most miraculous organ. I'll have 
 
 these players 
 Play something like the murder of my 
 
 father. 
 Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks; 
 I'll tent him to the quick; if he do blench 
 I know my course. The spirit, that I 
 
 have seen, 
 May be a devil: and the devil hath power 
 To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, 
 
 perhaps. 
 Out of my weakness, and my melancholy, 
 (As he is very potent with such spirits,) 
 Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds 
 More relative than this : The plays the 
 
 thing. 
 Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the 
 
 king. [Fxif. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 ScEiSTE I. A Room in the Castle. 
 Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, 
 
 ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN. 
 
 King. And can you, by no drift of 
 conference 
 Get from him, why he puts on this con- 
 fusion; 
 Grating so harshly all his days of quiet 
 With turbulent and dangerous lunacy? 
 Ros. He does confess, he feels him- 
 self distracted; 
 But from what cause he will by no means 
 speak. 
 Guil. Nor do we find him forward to 
 be sounded; 
 But with a crafty madness, keeps aloof, 
 When we would bring him on to some 
 
 confession 
 Of his true state. 
 
 Queen. Did he receive you well? 
 
 Ros. Most like a gentleman. 
 Ouil. But Avith much forcing of his 
 disposition. 
 
 Ros. Niggard of question; but, of our 
 demands. 
 Most free in his reply. 
 
 Queen. Did you assay him 
 
 To any pastime? 
 
 Ros. Madam, it so fell out, that cer- 
 tain jDlayers 
 We o'er-raught on the way: of these we 
 
 told him; 
 And there did seem in him a kind of 
 
 joy 
 
 To hear of it: They are about the court; 
 And, as I think, they have already order 
 This night to play before him. 
 
 Pol. 'Tis most true: 
 
 And he beseech'd me to entreat your 
 
 majesties. 
 To hear and see the matter. 
 
 King. With all my heart; and it doth 
 much centent me 
 To hear him so inclin'd. 
 Good gentlemen, give me a further edge. 
 And drive his purpose on to these delights. 
 
 Ros. We shall, my lord. 
 
 \_Exeu7it Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
 
 504 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Kmg. Sweet Gertrude, leave us too, 
 
 'For we have closely sent for Hamlet 
 hither; 
 
 That he, as 'twere by accident, may here 
 
 Affront Ophelia: 
 
 Her father, and myself (lawful espials). 
 
 Will so bestow ourselves, that, seeing, un- 
 seen. 
 
 We may of their encounter frankly 
 judge; 
 
 And gather by him, as he is behav'd, 
 
 If't be the affliction of his love, or no. 
 
 That thus he suffers for. 
 
 Quee7i. I shall obey you: 
 
 And, for your part, Ophelia, I do wish. 
 
 That your good beauties be the happy 
 cause 
 
 Of Hamlet's wildness : so shall I hope, 
 your virtues 
 
 Will bring him to his wonted way again. 
 
 To both your honors. 
 
 Oph. Madam, I wish it may. 
 
 [Exii Queen. 
 Pol. Ophelia, walk you hear: — Gra- 
 cious, so please you. 
 
 We will bestow ourselves: — Read on this 
 book; [To Ophelia. 
 
 That show of such an exercise may color 
 
 Your loneliness. — We are oft to blame in 
 this, — 
 
 •"Tistoo much prov'd, — that, with devo- 
 tion's visage. 
 
 And pious action, we do sugar o'er 
 
 The devil himself. 
 
 lung. 0, 'tis too true! how smart 
 
 A lash that speech doth give my con- 
 science! 
 
 The harlot's cheek, beautied with plaster- 
 ing art. 
 
 Is not more ugly to the thing that helps 
 it. 
 
 Than is my deed to my most painted 
 word : 
 
 O heavy burden! [Aside. 
 
 Pol. I liear him coming ; let's with- 
 draw, my lord. 
 
 [Exeunt King and Polonius. 
 
 Enter Hamlet. 
 
 Ham. To be, or not to be, that is the 
 
 question: — 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous 
 
 fortune; 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
 And, by opposing, end them? — To die, 
 
 — to sleep, — 
 No more; — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
 The heart-ache, and the thousand natural 
 
 shocks 
 That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consumma- 
 tion 
 Devoutly to be wish'd. To die; — to 
 
 sleep: — 
 To sleep! perchance to dream; — ay 
 
 there's the rub ; 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams 
 
 may come. 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal 
 
 coil, 
 Must give us pause: There's the resjDect, 
 That makes calamity of so long life: 
 For who would bear the whips and scorns 
 
 of time, 
 The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's 
 
 contumely, 
 The pangs of despis'd love, the law's de- 
 lay. 
 The insolence of office, and the spurns 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
 When he himself might his quietus make 
 With a bare bodkin? Wlio would fardels 
 
 bear. 
 To grunt and sweat under a weary life ! 
 But that the di-ead of something after 
 
 death, — 
 The undiscover'd country, from whose 
 
 bourn 
 No traveler returns, — puzzles the will; 
 And makes us rather bear those ills we 
 
 have. 
 Than fly to others that we know not of ? 
 Thus conscience does make coM-ards of us 
 
 all; 
 
 50) 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 And thus the native hue of resolution 
 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of 
 
 thought; 
 And enterprizes of great pith and 
 
 moment, 
 With this regard, their currents turn 
 
 awry. 
 And lose the name of action. — Soft you, 
 
 now ! 
 The fair Ophelia: — Nymph, in thy 
 
 orisons 
 Be all my sins rememher'd. 
 
 Oph. Good my lord, 
 
 How does your honor for this many a 
 day? 
 Ham. I humbly thank you; well. 
 Opli. My lord, I have rememberance 
 of yours. 
 That I have longed long to re-deliver ; 
 I pray you, now receive them. 
 
 Ham. No, not I: 
 
 I never gave you aught. 
 
 O^pli. My honor'd lord, you know right 
 well, you did ; 
 And, with them, words of so sweet breath 
 
 compos'd 
 As made the things more rich: their per- 
 fume lost. 
 Take these again; for to the noble mind. 
 Rich gifts wax poor, when givers prove 
 
 unkind. 
 There, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Ha, ha ! are you honest ? 
 Opli. My lord? 
 Ham. Are you fair? 
 Opli. What means your lordship? 
 Ham. That if you be honest and fair, 
 you should admit no discourse to 
 your beauty. 
 O'pli. Could beauty, my lord, have 
 better commerce than with honesty. 
 
 Ham. Ay, truly; for the power of 
 beauty will sooner debase honesty from 
 what it is, than the force of honesty can 
 translate beauty into his likeness ; this 
 was some time a paradox, but nowthe time 
 gives it proof. I did love you once. 
 
 Opli. Indeed, my lord you made me- 
 believe so. 
 
 Ham. You should not have believed me:: 
 for virtue cannot so inoculate our old 
 stock, but we shall relish of it : I lov'd 
 you not. 
 
 Opli. I was the more deceived. 
 Ham. Get thee to a nunnery ; Why 
 would'st thou be a breeder of sinners? L 
 am myself indifferent honest ; but yet I 
 could accuse me of such things, that it 
 were better my mother had not borne me:; 
 I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious ;. 
 with more offences at my beck, than I 
 have thoughts to put them in, imagina- 
 tion to give them shape, or time to act- 
 them in: What should such fellows as 
 I do crawling between earth and heaven T 
 We are arrant knaves, all ; believe none 
 of us: Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where's^ 
 your father? 
 
 Opli. At home, my lord. 
 Ham. Let the doors be shut upon him;; 
 that he may play the fool no where but 
 in^s own house. Farewell. 
 
 Opli. 0, help him, you sweet heavens \ 
 Ham. If thou dost marry, I'll give 
 thee this plague for thy dowry ; Be thou: 
 as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou' 
 shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a 
 nunnery; farewell: Or, if thou wiltneeds^ 
 marry, marry a fool; for wise men know 
 well enough, what monsters you make of 
 them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly 
 too. Farewell. 
 
 Opli. Heavenly powers, restore him ! 
 Ham. I have heard of your paintings; 
 too, well enough; Nature hath given yoa 
 one face,and you make yourselves another: 
 you jig, you amble, and you lisp,andnick- 
 name God's creatures, and make your 
 wantonness your ignorance: I'll no more 
 oft; it hath made me mad. I say, we 
 will have no more marriages; those that 
 are married already, all but one, shall live;, 
 the rest shall keep as they are. To a. 
 nunnery, go. \Exit Hamlets. 
 
 506 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 SCENK I. 
 
 Opli. 0, what a noble mind is here 
 o'erthrown. 
 The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, 
 
 tongue, sword: 
 The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 
 The glass of fashion, and the mould of 
 
 form. 
 The observed of all observers! quite, quite 
 
 down! 
 And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 
 That sucked the honey of his music 
 
 vows. 
 Now see that noble and most sovereign 
 
 reason. 
 Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and 
 
 harsh; 
 That unmatched form and feature of 
 
 blown youth. 
 Blasted with ecstasy; 0, woe is me! 
 To have seen what I have seen, see what 
 
 I see! 
 
 Re-enter Kikg and Polonius. 
 
 King. Love ! his affections do not that 
 way tend; 
 Nor what he spake, though it lack'd form 
 
 a little, 
 Was not like madness. There's something 
 
 in his soul. 
 O'er which his melancholy sits on brood : 
 And, I do doubt, the hatch, and the dis- 
 close. 
 Will be some danger: Which for to prevent 
 I have, in quick determination. 
 Thus set it down; He shall with speed to 
 
 England, 
 For the demand of our neglected tribute: 
 Haply, the seas, and countries different, ■ 
 With variable objects shall expel 
 This something-settled matter in his 
 
 heart; 
 Whereon his brains, still beating, puts 
 
 him thus 
 From fashion of himself. What think 
 
 you on't ? 
 Pol. It shall do well : but yet I do be- 
 lieve. 
 
 The origin and commencement of his 
 
 grief 
 Sprung from neglected love. — How now, 
 
 Ophelia, 
 You need not tell us what lord Hamlet- 
 said; 
 We heard it all. — My lord, do as you 
 
 please; 
 But, if you hold it fit, after the play. 
 Let this queen mother all alone entreat 
 
 him 
 To show his grief; let her be round with. 
 
 him; 
 And I'll be plac'd, so please you in the 
 
 ear. 
 Of all their conference: If she find him 
 
 not. 
 To England send him: or confine him,. 
 
 where 
 Your wisdom best shall think. 
 
 King. It shall be so: 
 
 Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd 
 
 go. \^Exeunt, 
 
 Scene II. A Hall in the same. 
 
 Enter Hamlet, and certain Players. 
 
 Ham. Speak the speech, I pray you, as 
 I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the 
 tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of 
 our players do, I had as lief the town-crier 
 spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air 
 too much with your hand, thus; but use 
 all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, 
 and (as I may say) whirlwind of your pas- 
 sion, you must acquire and beget a tem- 
 perance, that may give it smoothness. 0, 
 it offends me to the soul,tohear a robusti- 
 ous periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to 
 tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of 
 the groundlings ; who, for the most part 
 are capable of nothing but inexplicable 
 dumb shows and noise: I would have 
 such a fellow whipt for o'er-doing Ter- 
 magant; it out-herods Herod: Pray you, 
 avoid it. 
 
 507 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 SCEXE ]I. 
 
 1 Play. I warrant your honor. 
 
 Ham. Be not too tame neither, but let 
 your own discretion be your tutor : suit 
 the action to the word, the word to the 
 action; with this special observance, that 
 you o'er-step not the modesty of nature: 
 for any thing so overdone is from the pur- 
 pose of playing, whose end, both at the 
 first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 
 'twere, the mirror up to nature ; to show 
 virtue her own feature, scorn her own im- 
 age, and the very age and body of the 
 time, his form and pressure. Now this, 
 overdone, or come tardy off, though it 
 make the unskillful laugh, cannot but 
 make the judicious grieve; the censure of 
 which one, must, in all allowance, o'er- 
 weigh a whole theatre cf others. 0, there 
 be players, that I have seen play, — and 
 heard others praise, and that highly, — not 
 to speak it profanely, that, neither hav- 
 ing the accent of Christians, nor the gait 
 of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so 
 strutted, and bellowed, that I have thought 
 some of nature's journeymen had made 
 men, and not made them well, they im- 
 itated humanity so abominably. 
 
 1 Play. I hope, we have reformed that 
 indifferently with us. 
 
 Ham. 0, reform it altogether. And 
 let those, that play your clowns, speak no 
 more than is set doM^n for them: for there 
 be of them, that will themselves laugh, 
 to set on some quantity of barren specta- 
 tors to laugh too; though, in the mean 
 time, some necessary question of the play 
 be then to be considered: that's villain- 
 ous; and shows a most pitiful ambition in 
 the fool that uses it. Go, make you 
 Tsady. — [^Exeunt Players. 
 
 Enter Polonius, Rosenckantz and 
 
 GriLDENSTERN. 
 
 How now, my lord? will the king hear 
 this piece of work? 
 Pol. And the queen too, and that 
 presently. 
 
 Ham. Bid the players make haste. — 
 [Exit Polonius. 
 Will you two help to hasten them ? 
 Both. Ay, my lord. 
 \_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Ouildenstern. 
 Ham. What, ho; Horatio! 
 
 Enter Horatio. 
 
 Hor. Here, sweet lord, at your service. 
 Ham. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a 
 
 man 
 As e'er my conversation cop'd withal. 
 
 Hor. 0, my lord, 
 
 Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter: 
 
 For what advancement may I hope from 
 
 thee. 
 That no revenue has, but thy good spirits. 
 To feed, and clothe thee? Why should 
 
 the poor be flatter'd? 
 No, let the candid tongue lick absurd 
 
 pomp; 
 And crook the pregnant hinges of the 
 
 knee, 
 Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost 
 
 thou hear? 
 Since my dear soul was mistress of her 
 
 choice, 
 And could of men distinguish her elec- 
 tion. 
 She hath seal'd thee for herself : for thou 
 
 hast been 
 As one, in suffering all, that suffers 
 
 nothing; 
 A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards 
 Hast ta'en with equal thanks : and bless'd 
 
 are those 
 Whose blood and judgment are so well 
 
 co-mingled. 
 That they are not a pipe for fortune's 
 
 finger 
 To sound what stop she please: Give me 
 
 that man 
 That is not passion's slave, and I will 
 
 wear him 
 In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of 
 
 heart. 
 
 508 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 As I do thee. — Something too much of 
 
 this. 
 
 There is a play to-night before the king : 
 One scene of it comes near the circum- 
 stance. 
 Which I have told thee of my father's 
 
 death. 
 I pr'ythee, when thou seest that act 
 
 afoot, 
 Even with the very comment of thy 
 
 soul 
 Observe my uncle: if his guilt 
 Do not itself unkennel in one speech, 
 It is a damned ghost that we have seen ; 
 And my imaginations are as foul 
 As Vulcan's stithy. Give him heedful 
 
 note : 
 For I mine eyes will rivet to his face: 
 And, after, we will both our Judgments 
 
 join - v< -^ 
 In censure of_£&is seeming. 
 
 Ror. Well, my lord : 
 
 If he steal aught, the whilst this play is 
 
 playing. 
 And 'scape detecting, I will pay the 
 
 theft. 
 Ham. They are coming to the play ; I 
 
 must be idle : 
 Get you a place. 
 
 Danish March. A Flourish. Enter 
 King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, 
 
 ROSENCRANTZ, GuiLDENSTERN, 071(1 
 
 others. 
 
 King. How fares our cousin Hamlet ? 
 
 Ham. Excellent, i' faith ; of the came- 
 lion's dish ; I eat the air, promise-cram- 
 med : You cannot feed capons so. 
 
 King. I have nothing with this 
 answer, Hamlet ; these words are not 
 mine. 
 
 Ham. No, nor mine now. My lord, — 
 you played once in the university, you 
 say ? [To Polonius. 
 
 Pol. That did I, my lord : and was 
 accounted a good actor. 
 
 Ham. And. what did you enact ? 
 
 Pol. I did enact Julius C^sar ; I was 
 kill'd. i' the Capitol ; Brutus killed me. 
 
 Ham. It was a brute part of him, to 
 kill so capital a calf there. — Be the 
 players ready ? 
 
 Ros. Ay, my lord ; they stay upon 
 your patience. 
 
 Queen. Come hither, my dear Hamlet, 
 sit by me. 
 
 Ham. No, good mother, here's metal 
 more attractive. 
 
 [Lying doiun at Ophelia's Feet. 
 Pol. ho ! do you mark that ? 
 
 {To /7?eKiNG. 
 Oph. You are merry, my lord. 
 Ham. Who, I ? 
 Oijh. Ay, my lord. 
 
 Ham. ! your only jig-maker. What 
 should a man do, but be merry ? for, 
 look you, how cheerfully my mother 
 looks, and my father died within these 
 two hours. 
 
 Ojih. Nay, 'tis twice two months, my 
 lord. 
 
 Ham. So long ? Nay, then let the 
 devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of 
 sables. heavens ! die two months ago, 
 and not forgotten yet ? Then there's 
 hope, a great man's memory may outlive 
 his life half a year: But he must build 
 churches then : or else shall he suffer 
 not thinking on, with the hobby-horse ; 
 whose epitaph is. For, 0, for, 0, the 
 hobby-horse is forgot. 
 
 Tricmpets sound. The dumb Shoto follows. 
 Enter a King and a Queen, very 
 lovingly; the Queen embracing him, and 
 he her. She hneels, and makes show of 
 protestation unto him. He takes her 
 up, and declines his head upon her 
 neck ; lays him down upon a bank of 
 flowers; she, seeing him asleep, leaves 
 him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off 
 his crown, kisses it, and pours poison in 
 the King's ears, and exit. Tlie Queen 
 returns ; finds the king dead, and makes 
 passionate action. The poisoner, loith 
 
 509 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 some two or tliree Mutes, comes in again, 
 seeming to lament tvitli her. The dead 
 tody is carried away. The i^oisoner 
 tuooes the Queen with gifts; she seems 
 loath and tinwilling awhile, hut, in the 
 end, accepts his love. \Exeunt. 
 
 Oph. What means this, my lord ? 
 Ham. Marry, this is miching mallecho; 
 
 it means mischief. 
 
 Ojih. Belike, this show imports the 
 
 argument of the play. 
 
 Enter Prologue. 
 Ham. We shall know by this fellow : 
 
 the players cannot keep counsel they'll 
 
 tell all. 
 
 02)h. Will he tell us what this show 
 
 meant ? 
 Ham. Ay. 
 
 Oph. I'll mark the play. 
 Pro, For tis, and for our tragedy, 
 
 Here stooping to your clemeitcy, 
 We heg yotir hearing p)atiently. 
 Is this a prologue, or the posy of 
 
 Ham. 
 a ring ? 
 Oph. 
 Ham. 
 
 'Tis brief, my lord. 
 As woman's love. 
 
 Enter a 'King and a Queen. 
 
 hath 
 
 P. King. Full thirty times 
 
 Phoebus' cart gone round 
 Neptune's salt wash, and Tellus' orbed 
 
 ground ; 
 And thirty dozen moons, with borrow'd 
 
 sheen, 
 About the world have times twelve 
 
 thirties been ; 
 Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our 
 
 hands. 
 Unite commutual in most sacred bands. 
 P. Queen. So many journeys may the 
 
 sun and moon 
 Make us again count o'er, ere love be 
 
 done ! 
 But, woe is me, you are so sick of late, 
 So far from cheer, and from your former 
 
 state. 
 
 Yet, though I dis- 
 lord, it nothing 
 
 That I distrust you. 
 
 trust, 
 Discomfort you, my 
 
 must : 
 For women fear too much, even as they 
 
 love ; 
 And women's fear and love hold quantity; 
 In neither aught, or in extremity. 
 Now, what my love is, proof hath made 
 
 you know ; 
 And as my love is siz'd, my fear is so. 
 Where love is great, the littlest doubts 
 
 are fear ; 
 Where little fears grow great, great love 
 
 grows there. 
 P. King. 'P'aith, I must leave thee, 
 
 love, and shortly too ; 
 My operant powers their functions leave 
 
 to do; 
 And thou shalt live in this fair world 
 
 behind, 
 Honor'd, belov'd ; and haply one as 
 
 kind 
 
 For husband shalt thou 
 
 P. Queen. 0, confound the rest ! 
 
 Such love must needs be treason in my 
 
 breast: 
 In second husband let me be accurst! 
 None wed the second, but who kill'd the 
 
 first. 
 Ham. That's wormwood. 
 P. Queen. The instances, that second 
 
 marriage move. 
 Are base respects of thrift, but none of 
 
 love; 
 A second time I kill my husband dead. 
 When second husband wins me to his 
 
 bed. 
 P. King. I do believe, you think what 
 
 now you speak; 
 But, what we do determine, oft we break. 
 Purpose is but the slave to memory: 
 Of violent birth, but poor validity: 
 Which now like fruit unripe, sticks on 
 
 the tree: 
 But fall, unshaken, when they mellow be. 
 Most necessary 'tis, that we forget 
 
 510 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt: 
 
 "What to ourselves in passion we propose, 
 
 'The passion ending, doth the purpose 
 lose. 
 
 The violence of either grief or joy 
 
 Their own enactures with themselves de- 
 stroy: 
 
 "Where Joy most revels, grief doth most 
 lament; 
 
 Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender ac- 
 cident. 
 
 This world is not for aye; nor 'tis not 
 strange. 
 
 That even our loves should with our for- 
 tunes change; 
 
 For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, 
 
 "Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune 
 love. 
 
 The great man down, you mark, his 
 favorite flies; 
 
 'The poor advanc'd makes friends of 
 enemies. 
 
 And hitherto doth love on fortune tend: 
 
 For who not needs, shall never lack a 
 friend; 
 
 And who in want a hollow friend doth 
 
 try. 
 
 Directly seasons him his enemy. 
 But, orderly to end Avhere Ibegun, — 
 Our wills, and fates, do so contrary run. 
 That our devices still are overthrown; 
 Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of 
 
 our own: 
 ,So think thou wilt no second husband 
 
 wed; 
 . But die thy thoughts, when thy first lord 
 is dead. 
 P. Queen. Nor earth to give me food, 
 nor heaven light! 
 Sport and repose lock from me, day and 
 
 night! 
 ■ To desperation turn my trust and hope! 
 An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope! 
 Each opposite, that blanks the face of 
 
 joy, 
 
 .Meet what I would have well, and it de- 
 stroy! 
 
 Both here, and hence, pursue me, lasting 
 
 strife. 
 If, once a widow, ever I be wife! 
 
 Ham. If she should break it now, 
 
 [To Ophelia. 
 
 P. King. 'Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, 
 leave me here a while; 
 My spirits grow dull, and fain I would 
 
 beguile 
 The tedious day with sleep. \_Sleeps. 
 
 P. Queen. Sleep rock thy brain; 
 
 And never come mischance between us 
 
 twain! [Exit. 
 
 Ham. Madam, how like you this play? 
 
 Queen. The lady doth protest too 
 much, methinks. 
 
 Ham. 0, but she'll keep her word. 
 
 Kmg. Have you heard the argument? 
 Is there no offence in 't? 
 
 Ha7n. No, no, they do but jest, poison 
 in jest; no offense i' the world. 
 
 King. "What do you call the play? 
 
 Ham. The mousetrap. Marry, how? 
 Tropically. This play is the image of a 
 murder done in "Vienna: Gonzago is the 
 duke's name; his wife, Baptista: you 
 shall see anon; 'tis a knavish piece of 
 work: But what of that? your majesty, 
 and we that have free souls, it touches us 
 not: Let the galled jade wince, our 
 withers are unwrung. — 
 
 Enter Lucianus. 
 
 This is one Lucianus, nephew to the 
 king. 
 Oph. You are as good as a chorus, my 
 
 lord. 
 Ham. Begin, murderer; — leave thy 
 
 horrible faces, and begin. Come; 
 
 The croaking raven 
 
 Doth bellow for revenge. 
 
 Liic. Thoughts black, hands apt, 
 drugs fit, and time agreeing; 
 Confederate season, else no creature see- 
 ing; 
 Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds 
 collected. 
 
 511 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PKINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 With Hecat's ban thrice blasted, thrice 
 
 infected. 
 Thy natural magic and dire property. 
 On wholesome life usurp immediately. 
 [Poic7's the Poiso)i into the Sleeper's Bars. 
 Ham. He poisons him i' the garden 
 for his estate. His name 's Grouzago: the 
 story is extant, and wi'itten in very choice 
 Italian: You shall see anon, how the 
 murderer gets the love of Gonzago's wife. 
 Oph. The king rises. 
 Ha7n. "What! frighted with false fire! 
 Queen. How fares my lord? 
 Pol. Give o'er the play. 
 King. Give me some light: — away! 
 Pol. Lights, lights, lights! 
 
 {^Exeunt all lut Hamlet and Horatio. 
 Ham. Why, let the strucken deer go 
 ■\veep. 
 The hart ungalled play: 
 For some must watch, while some must 
 sleep; 
 Thus runs the world away. — 
 Would not this, sir, and a forest of 
 feathers, (if the rest of my fortunes turn 
 Turk with me,) with two Provencial roses 
 on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in 
 a cry of players, sir? 
 Hor. Half a share. 
 Ham. A whole one, I. 
 For thou dost know, Damon dear. 
 
 This realm dismantled was 
 Of Jove himself; and now reigns here 
 
 A very, very — peacock. 
 Hor. You might have rhymed. 
 Ham. good Horatio, I'll take the 
 ghost's word for a thousand pound. Didst 
 perceive? 
 
 Hor. A^ery well, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Upon the talk of the poison- 
 
 ing. 
 
 Hor. I did very well note him. 
 Ham. Ah, ah! — Come, some music, 
 come, the recorders. — 
 
 For if the king like not the comedy, 
 Why then, belike, — he likes it not, 
 perdy. — 
 
 Enter Rosen'cra:ntz f«ic^ Guild enstern. 
 
 Come, some music. 
 
 Guil. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a 
 word with you. 
 
 Ham. Sir, a whole history. 
 
 Guil. The king, sir, 
 
 Ham. Ay, sir, what of him? 
 
 Guil. Is, in his retirement, marvel- 
 lous distempered. 
 
 Ham. With drink, sir? 
 
 Guil. No, my lord, with choler. 
 
 Ham. Your wisdom should show itself 
 more richer, to signify this to the doctor; 
 for, for me to put him to his purgation, 
 would, perhaps, plung him into more 
 choler. 
 
 Guil. Good my lord, put your dis- 
 course into some frame, and start not so 
 wildly from my affair. 
 
 Ham. I am tame, sir: — pronounce. 
 
 Guil. The queen, your mother, in 
 most great affliction of spirit, hath sent 
 me to you. 
 
 Ham. You are welcome. 
 
 Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy 
 is not of the right breed. If it shall please- 
 you to make me a wholesome answer, I 
 will do your mother's commandment: if 
 not, your pardon, and my return, shall be 
 the end of my business. 
 
 Ham. Sir, I cannot. 
 
 Gidl. What, my lord? 
 
 Ham. Make you a wholesome answer ; 
 my wit's diseased: But, sir, such answer 
 as I can make, you shall command: or, 
 rather, as you say, my mother : therefore 
 no more, but to the matter: My mother, 
 you say,- 
 
 Bos. Then thus she says; Your behav- 
 ior hath struck her into amazement and 
 admiration. 
 
 Ham. O wonderful soji, that can so 
 astonish a mother ! — But is there no 
 sequel at the heels of this mother's 
 admiration? impart. 
 
 Ros. She desires to speak with you iiL 
 her closet, ere you go to bed. 
 
 513 
 
Act hi. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Ham. "We shall obey, were she ten 
 times our mother. Have you any further 
 trade with us? 
 
 Ros. My lord, you once did love me. 
 
 Ham. And do still, by these pickers 
 and stealers. 
 
 Ros. Good my lord, what is your cause 
 of distemper? you do, surely, but bar the 
 door upon your own liberty, if you deny 
 your griefs to your friend. 
 
 Ham. Sir, I lack advancement. 
 
 Ros. How can that be, when you have 
 the voice of the king himself for your suc- 
 cession in Denmark? 
 
 Ham. Ay, sir, but Wliile tlm grass 
 ^?'0ws,— the proverb is something musty. 
 
 Enter the Players, with Recorders. 
 
 0, the recorders: — let me see one. — To 
 withdraw with you : — Why do you go about 
 to recover the wind of me, as if you would 
 drive me into a toil? 
 
 Ouil. 0, my lord, if my duty be too 
 bold, my love is too unmannerly. 
 
 Ham. I do not well understand that. 
 Will you play upon this pipe? 
 
 Guil. My lord, I cannot. 
 
 Ham. I pray you. 
 
 Guil. Believed me, I cannot. 
 
 Ham. I do beseech you. 
 
 Guil. I know no touch of it, my lord. 
 
 Ham. 'Tis as easy as lying: govern 
 these ventages with your fingers and 
 thumb, give it breath with your mouth, 
 and it will discourse most eloquent 
 music. Look you, these are the stops. 
 
 Guil. But these cannot I command to 
 any utterance of harmony; I have not the 
 skill. 
 
 Ham. Whj', look you now, how un- 
 worthy a thing you make of me? You 
 would play upon me; you would seem to 
 know my stops; j^ou would pluck out the 
 heart of my mystery; you would sound me 
 from my lowest note to the top of my 
 compass : and there is much music, 
 excellent voice, in this little organ; yet 
 
 cannot you make it speak. Do you think, 
 I am easier to be played on than a pipe? 
 Call me what instrument you will, though 
 you can fret me, you cannot play upon 
 me. 
 
 Enter Polonius. 
 
 Bless you, sir! 
 
 Pol. My lord, the queen would speak 
 with you, and presently. 
 
 Ham. Do you see yonder cloud, that's 
 almost in shape of a camel? 
 
 Pol. By the mass, and ^tis like a camel, 
 indeed. 
 
 Ham. Methiuks, it is like a weasel. 
 
 Pol. It is backed like a weasel. 
 
 Ham. Or, like a whale? 
 
 Pol. Very like a whale. 
 
 Ham. Then will I come to my mother 
 by and by. — They fool me to the top of 
 my bent. — I will come by and by. 
 
 Pol. I will say so. [Exit Polonius. 
 
 Ham. By and by is easily said. — Leave 
 me, friend. [Exeunt Ros., Guil., Hor., etc. 
 ^Tis now the very witching time of night; 
 Wlien churchyards yawn, and hell itself 
 
 breathes out 
 Contagion to this world: Now could I 
 
 drink hot blood. 
 And do such bitter business as the day 
 Would quake to look on. Soft; now to 
 
 my mother. — 
 0, heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever 
 The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom; 
 Let me be cruel, not unnatural: 
 I will speak daggers to her, but use none; 
 My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites: 
 How in my words soever she be shent. 
 To give them seals never, my soul, con- 
 sent! [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. A Room in the same. 
 Enter King Rosencrantz, and Guild- 
 
 ENSTERN. 
 
 King. I like him not; nor stands it 
 safe with us, * 
 
 CIS 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENxMARK. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 To let his madness range. Therefore, 
 
 prepare you ; 
 I your commission will forthwith despatch, 
 And he to England shall along with you: 
 The terms of our estate may not endure 
 Hazard so near us, as doth hourly grow 
 Out of his lunes. 
 
 Guil. We Avill ourselves provide: 
 
 Most holy and religious fear it is. 
 To keep those many many bodies safe, 
 That live, and feed, upon your majesty. 
 Ros. The singular and peculiar life is 
 
 bound. 
 With all the strength and armour of the 
 
 . mind, 
 To keep itself from 'noyance; but much 
 
 more 
 That spirit, upon whose weal depend and 
 
 rest 
 The lives of many. The cease of majesty 
 Dies not alone; but, like a gulf, doth 
 
 draw 
 What's near it, with it: it is a massy 
 
 wheel, 
 Fix'd on the summit of the highest 
 
 mount. 
 To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser 
 
 things 
 Are mortis'd and adjoin'd; which, when 
 
 it falls. 
 Each small annexment, petty conse- 
 quence. 
 Attends the boist'rous ruin. Never 
 
 alone 
 Did the king sigh, but with a general 
 
 groan. 
 Kiyig. Arm you, I pray you, to this 
 
 speedy voyage; 
 For we will fetters put upon this fear. 
 Which now goes too free-footed. 
 
 Ros. Guil. We will haste us. 
 
 [^Exeunt Rosencrantz and Ouildenstern. 
 
 Enter Polonius. 
 
 Pol. My lord, he's going to his moth- 
 er's closet: 
 Behind the arra'S I'll convey myself, 
 
 To hear the process; Pll warrant, she'll! 
 
 tax him home: 
 And, as you said, and wisely was it said, 
 'Tis meet that some more audience, than 
 
 a mother, 
 Since nature makes them partial, should 
 
 o'erhear 
 The speech, of vantage. Fare you well- 
 
 my liege ; 
 I'll call upon you ere you go to bed. 
 And tell you what I know. 
 
 King. Thanks, dear my lord.. 
 
 [Exit Polonius. 
 0, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven; 
 It hath the primal eldest curse upon't, 
 A brother's murder! — Pray can I not. 
 Though inclination be as sharp as will; 
 My stronger guilt defeats my strong in- 
 tent; 
 And, like a man to double business 
 
 bound, 
 I stand in pause where I shall first begin. 
 And both neglect. What if this cursed 
 
 hand 
 Were thicker than itself with brother's 
 
 blood? 
 Is there not rain enough in the sweet 
 
 heavens. 
 To wash it white as snow? Whereto 
 
 serves mercy. 
 But to confront the visage of offense? 
 And what's in prayer, but this two-fold 
 
 force, — 
 To be forestalled, ere we come to fall, 
 Or pardon'd, being down? Then I'll look 
 
 up; 
 My fault is past. But, 0, what form of 
 
 prayer 
 Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul 
 
 murder I — 
 That cannot be; since I am still possess'd 
 Of those effects for which I did the mur- 
 der, 
 My crown, my own ambition, and my 
 
 queen. 
 May one be pardon'd, and retain the 
 
 offense? 
 
 514 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 In the corrupted currents of this world, 
 
 OfEence^'s gilded hand may shove by jus- 
 tice ; 
 
 And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself 
 
 Buys out the law: But 'tis not so above : 
 
 There is no shuffling, there the action 
 lies 
 
 In his true nature ; and we ourselves com- 
 pell'd, 
 
 Even to the teeth and forehead of our 
 faults, 
 
 To give in evidence. "What then? what 
 rests? 
 
 Try what repentance can: What can it 
 not? 
 
 Yet what can it, when one cannot re- 
 pent? 
 
 wretched state! bosom, black as 
 death! 
 
 limed soul; that struggling to be free, 
 
 Art more engag'd! Help, angels, make 
 assay ? 
 
 Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart, with 
 strings of steel ; 
 
 Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe; 
 
 All may be well ! 
 
 [Retires and kneels. 
 
 Enter Hamlet. 
 
 Ham. Now might I do it, pat, now he 
 
 is praying ; 
 And now I'll do't ; — and so he goes to 
 
 heaven : 
 And so am I reveng'd? That would be 
 
 scann'd : 
 A villian kills my father ; and, for that, 
 I, his sole son, do this same villain send 
 To heaven. 
 
 Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge. 
 He took my father grossly, full of bread] 
 With all his crimes broad blown, as flush 
 
 as May; 
 And, how his audit stands, who knows, 
 
 save Heaven, 
 But in our circumstance and course of 
 
 thought. 
 
 'Tis heavy with him: And am I then 
 
 reveng'd, 
 To take him in the purging of his soul. 
 When he is fit and season'd for his passage? 
 No. 
 Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid 
 
 hent: 
 When he is drunk, asleep; or in his rage; 
 At gaming, swearing; — or about some 
 
 act 
 That has no relish of salvation in't. — 
 My mother stays : 
 
 This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 The King rises and advances. 
 
 King. My words fly up, my thoughts 
 remain below: 
 Words, without thoughts, never to heaven 
 go. [Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Queen and Polonius. 
 
 Pol. He will come straight. Look, 
 
 you lay home to him : 
 Tell him, his pranks have been too broad 
 
 to bear with; 
 And that your grace hath screen 'd and 
 
 stood between 
 Much heat and him. I'll silence me e'en 
 
 here. 
 Pray you, be round with him. 
 
 Queen. I'll warrant you ; 
 
 Fear me not: — withdraw, I hear him 
 
 coming. 
 
 [Polonius hides himself. 
 
 Enter Hamlet. 
 
 nam. Now, mother; what's the matter? 
 Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father 
 
 much offended. 
 Ham. Mother, you have my father 
 
 much offended. 
 Queen. Come, come, you answer with 
 
 an idle tongue. 
 Ham. Go, go, you question with a 
 
 wicked tongue. 
 
 515 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet? 
 Ham. What's the matter now? 
 
 Queen. Have yon forgot me? 
 ■Ham. No, by the rood, not so: 
 
 You are the queen, your husband's broth- 
 er's wife; 
 And, — would it were not so! — you are 
 my mother. 
 Queen. Nay, then Til set those to you 
 
 that can s^^eak. 
 Ham. Come, come, and sit you down; 
 you shall not budge; 
 You go not, till I sit you up a glass 
 Where you may see the inmost part of 
 you. 
 Queen. What wilt thou do? thou wilt 
 not murder me? 
 Help, help, ho! 
 
 Pol. [BeJiind.] What, ho! help! 
 Ham. How now! a rat? 
 
 [D7'a?vs. 
 Dead, for a ducat, dead. 
 [Hamlet makes a pass through the Arras. 
 Pol. [Behind.] 0, I am slain. 
 Pol. [Falls a?id dies. 
 
 Quee7i. me, what hast thou done? 
 Ham. Nay, I know not: 
 
 Is it the king? 
 
 [Lifts up the Arras and dratvs forth 
 PoLOisrius. 
 Queen. 0, what a rash and bloody 
 
 deed is this! 
 Jlaiu. A bloody deed ;--^ almost as bad, 
 good mother, jv/ ' ^ 
 
 _As kill a king, and marry-tiThis brother. 
 Qtceen. As kill a king! 
 Ham. Ay, lady, 'twas my word. — 
 
 'Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, 
 farewell! [To Polonius. 
 
 I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune: 
 'Thou find'st, to be too busy, is some 
 
 .danger. — 
 .Leave wringing of your hands: Peace; sit 
 
 you down, 
 -And let me wring your heart: for so I 
 
 shall, 
 If it be made of penetrable stuff; 
 
 If horrid custom have not braz'd it so. 
 That it be proof and bulwark against 
 sense. 
 Queen. What have I done, that thou 
 dar'st wag thy tongue 
 In noise so rude against me? 
 
 Ham. Such an act. 
 
 That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; 
 Calls virtue, hypocrite ; takes off the rose 
 From the fair forehead of an innocent 
 
 love, 
 And sets a blister there ; makes marriage 
 
 vows 
 As false as dicers' oaths: 0, such a deed 
 As from the body of contraction plucks 
 The very soul; and sweet religion makes 
 A rhapsody of words: Heaven's face doth 
 
 glow; 
 Yea, this solidity and compound mass, 
 With tristful visage, as against the doom. 
 Is thought-sick at the act. 
 
 Queen. Ah me, what act. 
 
 That roars so loud, and thunders in the 
 index? 
 Ham. Look here, upon this picture, 
 and on this ; 
 The counterfeit presentment of tw o broth- 
 ers. 
 See, what a grace was seated on this brow: 
 Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove him- 
 self ; 
 An eye like Mars, to threaten and com- 
 mand ; 
 A station like the herald Mercury, 
 New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; 
 A combination, and a form, indeed. 
 Where every god did seem to set Ms seal, 
 To give the world assurance of a man: 
 This was your husband. — Look you now, 
 
 what follows: 
 Here is your husband; like a niildew'dear, 
 Blasting his wholesome brother. Have 
 
 you eyes ? 
 Could you on this fair mountain leave to 
 
 feed. 
 And batten on this moor ? Ha ! have you 
 eyes ? 
 
 516 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 SCEJS'E 1\ 
 
 You cannot call it, love: for, at your age, 
 The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's 
 
 humble. 
 And waits upon the judgment; And what 
 
 judgment 
 Would step from this to this ? Sense, sure, 
 
 you have. 
 Else, could you not have motion: But, 
 
 ■ sure, that sense 
 Is apoplex'd: for madness would not err; 
 Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thrall'd. 
 But it reserv'd some quantity of choice. 
 To serve in such a difference. What 
 
 devil was't, 
 That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman- 
 
 blind? 
 Eyes without feeling, feeling without 
 
 sight. 
 Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans 
 
 all 
 Or but a sickly part of one true sense 
 Could not so mope. 
 shame! where is thy blush? 
 
 Queen. Hamlet, speak no more : 
 
 Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul ; 
 And there I see such black and grained 
 
 spots, 
 As will not leave their tinct. 
 
 Ham. Nay, but to live 
 
 In an incestuous bed, 
 
 Queen. 0, speak to me no more ; 
 
 These v/ords, like daggers, enter"in mine 
 
 ears : 
 No more, sweet Hamlet. 
 
 Ham. A murderer, and a villain : 
 
 A slave, that is not twentieth part the 
 
 tythe 
 Of your precedent lord: — a vice of kings : 
 A cutpurse of the empire and the rule ; 
 That from a shelf the precious diadem 
 
 stole. 
 And put it in his pocket ! 
 
 Qtteen. No more. 
 
 Enter Ohost. 
 
 Ham. 
 Of shreds and patches 
 
 A king 
 
 Save me, and hover o'er me with your 
 
 wings. 
 You heavenly guards! — What would your 
 gracious figure? 
 Qiieen. Alas, he's mad. 
 Ham. Do you not come your tardy son 
 to chide. 
 That, laps'd in time and passion, lets go 
 
 by 
 The important acting of your dread com- 
 
 ipand; 
 0, say! 
 
 Ghost. Do not forget: This visitation 
 Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose 
 But, look! amazement on thy mother sits . 
 step between her and her fighting soul : 
 Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works; 
 Speak to her Hamlet. 
 
 Ham. How is it with you, lady? 
 
 Queen. Alas, how is't with you? 
 That you do bend your eye on vacancy. 
 And with the incorporal air do hold dis- 
 course? 
 Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep; 
 And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm^ 
 Your bedded hair starts up. gentle son. 
 Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper 
 Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you 
 look ? 
 Hnm. On him! on him! — Look you, 
 how pale he glares! 
 His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching 
 
 to stones. 
 Would make them capable. — Do not look 
 
 upon me ; 
 
 Lest with this piteous action, you convert 
 
 My stern effects : then what I have to do 
 
 Will want true color ; tears, perchance, for 
 
 blood. 
 
 Queen. To whom do you speak this ? 
 
 Ham. Do you see nothing there? 
 
 * Queen. Nothing at all ; yet all, that is, 
 
 I see. 
 Ham. Nor did you nothing hear ? 
 Queen. No nothing but ourselves. 
 
 I Ham. Why, look yolx there ! look, how 
 I it steals away! 
 
 517 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 My father, in his habit as he liv'd ! 
 Look, where he goes, eveu now, out at 
 
 the portal ! 
 
 [Exit Ghost. 
 Queen. This is the very coinage of 
 
 your brain: 
 This bodiless creation ecstasy 
 Is very cunning in. 
 Hmn Ecstasy! 
 My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep 
 
 time. 
 And makes as healthful music : It is 
 
 not madness. 
 That I have utter'd: bring me to the test. 
 And I the matter will re-word ; which 
 
 madness 
 Would gambol from. Mother, for love of 
 
 grace. 
 Lay not that flattering unction to your 
 
 soul. 
 That not your trespass but my madness 
 
 speaks : 
 It will but skin and film the ulcerous 
 
 place ; 
 ■Whiles rank corruption, mining all within. 
 Infects unseen. Confess yourself to 
 
 heaven ; 
 Repent what's past: avoid what is to come; 
 And do not spread the compost on the 
 
 weeds. 
 To make them ranker. Forgive me this 
 
 my virtue : 
 For in the fatness of these pursy times. 
 Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg : 
 Yea, curb and woo, for leave to do him 
 
 good. . 
 Queen. Hamlet! thou hast cleft my 
 
 heart in twain. 
 Ham. O, throw away the worser part 
 
 of it. 
 And live the purer with the other half. 
 Good night: but go not to my uncle's bed; 
 Assume a virtue, if you have it not. 
 That monster, custom, who all sense doth 
 
 eat 
 Of habit's devil, is angel yet in this; 
 That to the use of actions fair and good 
 
 He likewise gives a frock, or livery. 
 That aptly is put on: Refrain to-night; 
 And that shall lend a kind of easiness 
 To the next abstinence: the next more 
 
 easy: 
 For use almost can change the stamp of 
 
 nature. 
 And either curb the devil, or throv/ him 
 
 out 
 With wondrous potency. Once more 
 
 good night ! 
 And when you are desirous to be bless'd, 
 I'll blessing beg of you. — For this same 
 
 lord, 
 
 [Pointing to. Polonius. 
 I do repent: But heaven hath pleas'd it 
 
 so, — 
 To punish me with this, and this with 
 
 me. 
 That I must be their scourge and minister. 
 I will bestow him, and will answer well 
 The death I gave him. So again good 
 
 night! — 
 I must be cruel, only to be kind: 
 Thus bad begins, and worse remains 
 
 behind. — 
 But one word more, good lady. 
 
 Queen. What shall I do? 
 
 Ham. Not this, by no means, that I 
 
 bid you do. 
 Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed ; 
 And let him for a pair of wanton kisses, 
 Make you to ravel all this matter out, 
 That I essentially am not in madness, 
 But mad in craft. 'Twere good, you let 
 
 him know: 
 For who, that's but a queen, fair, sober, 
 
 wise. 
 Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib. 
 Such dear concernings hide? who would 
 
 do so? 
 No, in despite of sense, and secrecy. 
 Unpeg the basket on the house's top. 
 Let the bird's fly: and, like the famous 
 
 ape. 
 To try conclusions, in the basket creep. 
 And break your own neck down. 
 
 518 
 
Act III. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Queen. Be thou assiir'd, if words be 
 made of breath. 
 And breath of life, I have no life to 
 
 • breathe 
 IVhat thou hast said to me. 
 
 Ham. I must to England; you know 
 
 that? 
 Queen. Alack, 
 
 I had forgot; 'tis so concluded on. 
 
 Ham. There's letters seal'd: and my 
 two school-fellows, — 
 IVhom I will trust, as I will adders 
 
 fang'd, — 
 They bear the mandate; they must sweep 
 
 my way. 
 And marshal me to knavery: Let it. work; 
 For 'tis the sport to have the engineer 
 Hoist with his own petar: and it shall go 
 hard. 
 
 But I will delve one yard below their 
 mines. 
 
 And blow them at the moon: 0, 'tis most 
 sweet, 
 
 When in one line two crafts dii-ectly 
 mt'et. — 
 
 This man shall set me packing. 
 
 I'll lug the body to the neighbor room: — 
 
 Mother, good night. — Indeed, this coun- 
 sellor 
 
 Is now most still, most secret, and most 
 grave. 
 
 Who was in life a foolish, prating knave. 
 
 Come, sir, to draw toward an end with 
 you:— 
 
 Mother, good night. 
 
 [Exeunt severally; Hamlet dragging 
 in PoLONius. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. A Room in the Castle. 
 
 jEiiter King, Queen, Rosenckantz, aiid 
 Guildenstekn. 
 
 King. There's matter in these sighs ; 
 these profound heaves ; 
 You must translate: 'tis fit we understand 
 
 them: 
 W^here is your son ? 
 
 Queen. Bestow this place on us a little 
 • Avhile. — 
 
 {To RosENCRANTZ and Guilden- 
 
 STERN, lollO go out. 
 
 Ah, my good loi'd, what have I seen to- 
 night ! 
 King. What, Gertrude ? How does 
 
 Hamlet ? 
 Queen. Mad as the sea, and wind, 
 when both contend 
 Which is the mightier': In his lawless fit, 
 Behind the arras hearing something stir, 
 Whips out his rapier, cries, A rat! a rat ! 
 And, in this brainish apprehension, kills 
 The unseen good old man. 
 
 heavy deed ! 
 us, had we been 
 
 King. 
 It had been so with 
 
 there : 
 His liberty is full of threats to all ; 
 To you yourself, to us, to every one. 
 Alas! how shall this bloody deed be an- 
 
 swer'd ? 
 It will be laid to us, whose providence 
 Should have kept short, restrain'd, and 
 
 out of haunt, 
 This mad young man: but, so much -was 
 
 our love, 
 We would not understand what was most 
 
 fit; 
 
 But, like the owner of a foul disease, 
 To keep it from divulging, let it feed 
 Even on the pith of life. Where is he 
 
 gone ? 
 Queen. To draw apart the body he 
 
 hath kill'd ; 
 O'er whom his very madness, like some 
 
 ore. 
 Among a mineral of metals base, 
 Sliows itself pure ; he weeps for what is 
 
 done. 
 
 519 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK, 
 
 Scene IL 
 
 King. 0, Gertrude, come away! 
 The sun no sooner shall the mountains 
 
 touch. 
 But we shall ship him hence: and this vile 
 
 deed 
 We must, with all our majesty and skill. 
 Both countenance and excuse. — HoIGuild- 
 
 enstern ! 
 
 Enter Rosencraktz and Guildensterk. 
 Friends both, go join you with some 
 
 further aid : 
 Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain. 
 And from his mother's closet hath he 
 
 dragged him : 
 Go seek him out: speak fair, and bring 
 
 the body 
 Into the chapel. I pray you haste in 
 
 this. 
 
 [^Exeunt Bos. and Guil. 
 Come, Gertrude, we'll call up our wisest 
 
 friends : 
 And let them know both what we mean 
 
 to do. 
 And what's lantimely done : so, haply, 
 
 slander, — 
 Whose whisper o'er the world's diameter. 
 As level as the cannon to his blank. 
 Transports his poison'd shot, — may miss 
 
 our name. 
 And hit the woundless air. — come 
 
 away 
 
 My soul is full of discord, and dismay. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Hamlet. 
 -Safely stowed, - 
 
 witliin. Hamlet ! lord Hamlet ! 
 
 [Ros., etc.. 
 But soft ! 
 
 — what noise? who calls on Hamlet? 0, 
 here they come. 
 Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
 
 Ros. What have you done, my lord, 
 
 with the dead body? 
 Ham. Compounded it Avith dust, 
 
 whereto 'tis kin. 
 
 520 
 
 Ros. Tell us where 'tis ; that we may 
 take it thence. 
 And bear it to the chapel. 
 
 Ham. Do not believe it. , 
 
 Ros. Believe what? 
 
 Ham. That I can keep your counsel, 
 and not mine own. Besides, to be de- 
 manded of a sponge — what replication 
 should be made by the son of a king? 
 
 Ros. Take you me for a sponge, my- 
 lord? 
 
 Ham. Ay, sir ; that soaks up the 
 king's countenance, his rewards, his 
 authorities. But such officers do the 
 king best service in the end: He keeps 
 them, iike an ape, in the corner of his 
 jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: 
 When he needs what you have gleaned, it 
 is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you 
 shall be dry again. 
 
 Ros. I understand you not, my lord. 
 
 Ham. I am glad of it: a knavish 
 speech sleeps in a foolish ear. 
 
 Ros. My lord, you must tell us where 
 the body is, and go with us to the king. 
 
 Ham. The body is with the king, but 
 the king is not with the body. The king 
 is a thing 
 
 Guil. A thing, my lord? 
 
 Ham. Of nothing: bring me to him. 
 Hide fox, and all after. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. Another Room in the same. 
 Enter King, attended. 
 
 King. I have sent to seek him, and to 
 
 find the body. 
 How dangerous is it, that this man goes 
 
 loose? 
 Yet must not we put the strong law on 
 
 him: 
 He's lov'd of the distracted multitude, 
 AVho like not in their judgment, but their 
 
 eyes ; 
 And, where 'tis so, the offender's scourge 
 
 is weigh'd. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 But never the ofEense. To bear all smooth 
 
 and even. 
 This sudden sending him away must seem 
 Deliberate pause : Diseases, desperate 
 
 grown. 
 By desperate appliance are reliev'd, 
 
 Enter Rosencrantz. 
 
 Or not at all. — How now? what hath 
 
 befallen? 
 Ros. Where the dead body is bestow'd, 
 
 my lord. 
 We cannot get from him. 
 
 King. But where is he? 
 
 Ros. Without, my lord; guarded, to 
 
 know your pleasure. 
 King. Bring him before tis. 
 Ros. Ho, Guildenstern? bring in my 
 
 lord. 
 
 Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern. 
 
 King. Now, Hamlet, where's Polo- 
 nius? 
 
 Ham. At supper. 
 
 King. At supper ? Where ? 
 
 Ham. Not where he eats, but where 
 he is eaten : a certain convocation of pol- 
 itic worms are e'en at him. Your worm 
 is your only emperor for diet: we fat all 
 creatures else, to fat us : and we fat our- 
 selves for maggots : Your fat king, and 
 your lean beggar, is but variable service; 
 two dishes, but to one table; that's the 
 end. 
 
 King. Alas, alas! 
 
 Ham. A man may fish with the worm 
 that hath eat of a king; and eat of the 
 fish that hath fed of that worm. 
 
 King. What dost thou mean by this? 
 
 Ham. Nothing, but to show you how 
 a king may go a progress through the 
 body of a beggar. 
 
 King. Where is Polonius ? 
 
 Ham. In heaven; send thither to see: 
 if your messenger find him not there, 
 seek him i' the other jilace yourself. But 
 indeed, if you find him not within this 
 
 month, you shall nose him as you go up 
 ths stairs into the lobby. 
 King. Go seek him there. 
 
 \^To some Attendants. 
 Ham. He will stay till you come. 
 
 [Exeunt Attendants. 
 King. Hamlet, this deed, for thine 
 especial safety, — 
 Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve 
 For that which thou hast done, — must 
 
 send thee hence 
 With fiery quickness ; Therefore, prepare 
 
 thyself; 
 The bark is ready, and the wind at help. 
 The associates tend, and every thing is. 
 
 bent 
 For England. 
 
 Ham. For England? 
 
 King. Ay, Hamlet. 
 
 ■Ham. Good, 
 
 King. So is it, if thou knew'st our 
 
 purposes. 
 Ham. I see a cherub, that sees them. 
 — But, come, for England ! — Farewell, 
 dear mother. - 
 
 King. Thy loving father, Hamlet. 
 Ham. My mother: Father and mother 
 is man and wife; man and wife is one 
 flesh; and so, my mother.' Come, for 
 England!— [Exit. 
 
 King. Follow him at foot: tempt hinv 
 with speed aboard ; 
 Delay it not, I'll have him hence to-night r 
 Away; for everything is sealed and done 
 That else leans on the affair: Pray you 
 make haste. 
 
 [Exextnt Ros. and Quil. 
 And, England, if my love thou hold'st at 
 
 aught, 
 (As my great power thereof may give. 
 
 thee sense; 
 Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red 
 After the Danish sword, and thy free awe 
 Pays homage to us,) thou may'st not 
 
 coldly set 
 Our sovereign process; which imports at 
 full. 
 
 521 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 By letters conjuring to that effect. 
 
 The present death -of Hamlet. Do it, 
 
 England; 
 For like the hectic in my blood he rages, 
 And thou miist cure me: Till I know 'tis 
 
 done, 
 Howe'er my haps, my joys will ne'er 
 
 begin. [Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. A Plain in Denmark. 
 
 Enter Foetinbkas, and Forces, 
 
 marching. 
 For. Go, captain, from me greet the 
 Danish king; 
 Tell him, that, by his license, Fortinbras 
 Craves the conveyance of a promised 
 
 march 
 Over his kingdom. You know the ren- 
 dezvous. 
 If that his majesty would aught with us, 
 "We shall express our duty in his eye. 
 And let him know so. 
 
 Cap. I will do't, my lord. 
 
 For. Go softly on. 
 
 [Exetint Fortinbras and Forces. 
 
 Fnter Haulet, Rosenckantz, Guilden- 
 STERN, etc. 
 
 Nor will it yield to Norway, or the Pole, 
 A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee. 
 Ham. Why, then the Polack never will 
 
 defend it. 
 Cap./ Yes, 'tis already garrison'd. 
 Ha4n. Two thousand souls, and twenty 
 
 thousand ducats, 
 ill not debate the question of this 
 straw: 
 This is the imposthume of much wealth 
 
 and peace ; 
 That inward breaks, and shows no cause 
 
 without 
 Why the man dies. — I humbly thank you, 
 sir. 
 Cap. God be wi' you, sir. 
 
 [Exit Captain. 
 Bos. Will't please you go, my lord ? 
 Ha7n. I will be with you straight. 
 Go a little before. 
 
 [Exev7it Has. and Guil. 
 How all occasions do inform against me. 
 And spur my dull revenge! What is a 
 
 man, 
 If his chief good, and market of his 
 
 time, 
 Be but to sleep, and feed ? a beast, no 
 i more. 
 
 Ham. Good sir, whose powers are ' Sure, He, that made us with such large 
 
 these? j discourse. 
 
 Cap. They ars of Norway, sir. j Looking before, and after, gave us not 
 
 Ham. How purpos'd, sir, j That capability and godlike reason 
 
 I pray you? 
 
 Cap. Against some part of Poland. 
 
 Ham. Who 
 
 Commands them, sir? 
 
 Cap. The nephew to old Norway, 
 
 Fortinbras. 
 Ham. Goes it against the main of Po- 
 land, sir. 
 Or for some frontier? 
 
 Cap. Truly to speak, sir, and with no 
 addition. 
 We go to gain a little patch of ground. 
 That hath in it no profit but the name, 
 To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm 
 'it; 
 
 To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it 
 be 
 
 Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 
 
 Of thinking too precisely on the event, — 
 
 A thought, which quarter'd, hath but one 
 part wisdom. 
 
 And, ever, three parts coward, — I do not 
 know 
 
 Why yet I live to say, Tliis thing's to do; 
 
 Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, 
 and means. 
 
 To do't. Examples, gross as earth, ex- 
 hort me: 
 
 Witness, this army of such mass, and 
 charge. 
 
 522 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 Scene \^. 
 
 Led by a delicate and tender prince: 
 Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd, 
 Makes mouths at the invisible event; 
 Exposing what is mortal, and unsure. 
 To all that fortune, death, and danger, 
 
 dare. 
 Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be 
 
 great. 
 Is not to stir without great argument; 
 But greatly to find quarrel in a straw, 
 When honor's at the stake. How stand I 
 
 then. 
 That have a father kill'd, a mother 
 
 stain'd. 
 Excitements of my reason, and my blood, 
 And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I 
 
 see 
 The imminent death of twenty thousand 
 
 men. 
 That, for a fantasy, and trick of fame. 
 Go to their graves like beds: fight for a 
 
 plot 
 Whereon the numbers cannot try the 
 
 cause. 
 Which is not tomb enough, and continent 
 To hide the slain? — 0, from this time 
 
 forth 
 My thoughts be bloody, or nothing worth! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene V. Elsinore. A room in the 
 Castle. 
 
 Enter Queen and Horatio. 
 
 Queen. 1 will not speak with her. 
 
 Hor. She is im^iortunate; indeed, dis- 
 tract; 
 Her mood will needs be pitied. 
 
 Queen. What would she have? 
 
 Hor. She speaks much of her father; 
 says, she hears. 
 There's tricks i' the world; and hems, 
 
 and beats her heart; 
 Spurns enviously at straws: speaks things 
 
 in doubt. 
 That carry but half sense: her speech is 
 
 nothing, 
 Yet the unslmped use of it doth move 
 
 The hearers to collection: they aim at it. 
 
 And botch the words up fit to their own 
 thoughts; 
 
 Which, as her winks, and nods, and gest- 
 ures yield them. 
 
 Indeed would make one think, there 
 might be thought, 
 
 Though nothing sure, yet much unhap- 
 
 piiy- 
 
 Queen. 'Twere good she were spoken 
 
 with; for she may strew 
 Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding 
 
 minds: 
 Let her come in. \_Exit Horatio. 
 
 To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is. 
 Each toy seems prologue to some great 
 
 amiss: 
 So full of artless jealousy is guilt. 
 It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. 
 
 Re-enter Horatio ivith Ophelia. 
 
 Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty 
 
 of Denmark? 
 Queen. How now, Ophelia? 
 Oph. How should I ijour true love 
 know 
 From another one? 
 By his cockle hat and staff, 
 And his sandleshoon. 
 
 [Singing. 
 Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports 
 
 this song? 
 Oph. Say you? nay, pray you, mark. 
 He is dead and gone, lady, [Sings. 
 
 He is dead and gone : 
 At his head a grass-green turf, 
 At his heels a stone. 
 0, ho! 
 
 Queen. Nay, but Ophelia, 
 
 Oph. Pray you, mark. 
 
 White his shroud as the mountain 
 snow, [Sings. 
 
 Enter King. 
 Queen. Alas, look here, my lord. 
 Oph. Larded all with sweet floioers; 
 Which beioepf to the grave did go. 
 With true-love sJiowcrs. 
 
 523 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DE^v^MARK. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 King. How do you, pretty lady? 
 Oph. "Weill they say the owl was a 
 baker's daughter. We know what we are, 
 but know not what we may be. 
 King. Conceit upon her father. 
 Oph. Pray, let us have no words of 
 this ; but when they ask you, what it 
 means, say you this: 
 
 Good morrov), 'tis Saint Valentine's 
 day, 
 All in the morning hetime, 
 And I a maid at your window. 
 To be your Valentine. 
 King. How long hath she been thus? 
 Oph. I hope, all will be well. "We 
 must be patient: but I cannot choose but 
 weep, to think, they should lay him i" the 
 cold ground: My brother shall know or 
 it, and so I thank you for your good counsel. 
 Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; 
 goodnight, sweet ladies: good night, good 
 night. \Exit. 
 
 King. Follow her close; give her good 
 watch, I pray you. \Exit Horatio. 
 0, this is the poison of deep grief; it 
 
 springs. 
 All from her father's death: And now be 
 
 hold, 
 Gertrude, Gertrude, 
 "When sorrows come, they come not single 
 
 spies 
 But in battalions! First, her father slain; 
 Next, your son gone; and he most violent 
 
 author 
 Of his own Just remove :• The people mud- 
 died. 
 Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts 
 
 and whispers, 
 For good Polonius' death; and we have 
 
 done but greenl}^. 
 In hugger-mugger to inter him: Poor 
 
 Ophelia 
 Divided from herself, and her fair judg- 
 ment; 
 "Without the which we are pictures, or mere 
 beasts. 
 
 Last, and as much containing as all 
 
 these. 
 Her brother is in secret come from France: 
 Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in 
 
 clouds. 
 And wants not buzzers to infect his ear 
 "With pestilent speeches of his father's 
 
 death; 
 Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd. 
 Will nothing stick our person to arraign 
 In ear and ear. my dear Gertrude, tliis. 
 Like to a murdering piece in many places 
 Give me superfluous death! 
 
 \^A noise within. 
 Queen. Alack! what news is this? 
 
 Enter a Gentleman. 
 
 King. Attend, 
 Where are my Switzers! Let them guard 
 
 the door: 
 What is the matter? 
 
 Gent. Save yourself, my lord; 
 
 The ocean, overpowering of his list. 
 Eats not the flats with more impetuous 
 
 haste. 
 Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, 
 O'erbears your officers! The rabble call 
 
 him lord; 
 And, as the world were now but to begin,. 
 Antiquity forgot, custom not known. 
 The ratiflers and props of every word. 
 They cry, Choose we; Laertes shall he 
 
 Tcing! 
 Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to 
 
 the clouds, 
 Laertes shall he king, Laertes king! 
 
 Queen. How cheerfully on the false 
 trial they cry! 
 0, this is counter, you false Danish dogs. 
 King. The doors are broke. 
 
 l^Noise within. 
 
 [Enter Laertes, armed; Danes/ollowing. 
 
 Laer. Where is this king? — Sirs, stand 
 
 you all without. 
 Dan. No, let's come in. 
 Laer. I pray you give me leave. 
 
 521 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 Scene V, 
 
 Ban. We will, we will. 
 
 [They retire ivitliout the door. 
 Laer. I thank yon: — keep the door. 
 thou vile king, 
 Give me my father. 
 
 Queen. Camly, good Laertes. 
 
 Laer. That drop of blood, that's calm, 
 
 proclaims me bastard. 
 King. What is the cause, Laertes, 
 
 That thy rebellion looks so giant-like? — 
 Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our 
 
 person ; 
 There^s such divinity doth hedge a king. 
 That treason can but peep to what it 
 
 would. 
 Acts little of his will. — Tell me, Laertes, 
 Why thou art thus incens'd; — Let him go, 
 
 Gertrude; — 
 Speak, man. 
 
 Laer. Where is my father? 
 King. Dead. 
 
 Queen. But not by him. 
 
 King! Let him demand his fill. 
 Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be 
 juggled with: 
 To hell, allegiance! To this point I stand. 
 That both the worlds I give to negligence. 
 Let come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd 
 Most thoroughly for my father. 
 
 King. Who shall stay you ? 
 
 Laer. My will; not all the world's: 
 And, for my means, I'll husband them so 
 
 well, 
 'They shall go far with little. 
 
 King. Good Laertes, 
 
 If you. desire to know the certainty 
 Of your dear father's death, is't writ in 
 
 your revenge. 
 That, sweepstake, you will draw both 
 
 friend and foe. 
 Winner and loser? 
 
 Laer. None but his enemies. 
 King. Will you know them then? 
 
 Laer. To his good friends thus wide 
 I'll ope my arms; 
 And, like the life rend'ring pelican,. 
 Kepast them Avitli my blood. 
 
 King. Why, now you speak 
 
 Like a good child and a true gentleman. 
 That I am guiltless of your fathei-'s death. 
 And am most sensibly in grief for it. 
 It shall as level to your judgment 'pear, 
 As day does to your eye. 
 
 Danes. [Withi7i.'\ Let her come in. 
 
 Laer. How now! what noise is that? 
 
 Enter Ovweiax, fantastically dressed ivith 
 Sfratvs and Flowers. 
 
 heat, dry up my brains! tears seven 
 
 times salt, 
 Burn out the sense and virtue of mine 
 
 eyes! — 
 By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with 
 
 weight. 
 Till our scale turns the beam. rose of 
 
 May! 
 Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! 
 heavens! is't possible, a young maid's 
 
 wits 
 Should be as mortal as an old man's life? 
 Nature is fine in love: and where 'tis fine, 
 It sends some precious instance of itself 
 After the thing it loves. 
 
 Oph. They bore him harefac'd en the 
 bier: 
 Hey no nonny, nonny hey nanny: 
 And in his grave rain'd many a tear; 
 Fare you well, my dove! 
 
 Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst 
 persuade revenge. 
 If could not move thus. 
 
 Oph. You must sing, Down-a-down, 
 
 an you call him a-down-a. 0, how 
 
 the wheel becomes it! It is the false 
 
 steward, that stole his master's daughter. 
 
 Laer. This nothing's more than 
 
 matter. 
 02}h. There's rosemary, that's for 
 remembrance; pray you, love, remember; 
 and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. 
 
 Laer. A document in madness; 
 thoughts and remembrance fitted. 
 
 Oph. There's fennel for you, and col- 
 umbines: — there's rue for you; and here's 
 
 525 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DENMAKE:. 
 
 Scene Y. 
 
 some for me: — we may call it, herb of 
 grace o' Sundays: — you may wear your 
 rue with a difference. — There's a daisy: — 
 I would give you some violets; but they 
 withered all, when my father died: — They 
 
 say, he made a good end, 
 
 For honny sweet Robin is all my 
 joy,— [Sings. 
 
 Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, 
 hell itself. 
 She turns to favor, and to prettiness. 
 Oph. AjicI icillhe not come again? 
 
 [Sings. 
 And will lie ?iot come again? 
 No, no, he is dead, 
 Go to thy death-ied, 
 He never zoill come again. 
 
 His beard was as white as snow, 
 All flaxen was his poll: 
 He is gone, lie is gone. 
 And we cast away moa?i; 
 Oramercy on his soul! 
 And of all Christian souls! Adieu. 
 
 [Hxit Ophelia. 
 Laer. .Do you see this, God? 
 King. Laertes, I must commune with 
 your grief. 
 Or you deny me right. Go but apart. 
 Make choice of whom your wisest friends 
 
 you will. 
 And they shall hear and judge 'twist you 
 
 and me: 
 If by direct or by collateral hand 
 They find us touch'd, we will our kingdom 
 
 give, 
 Our crown, our life, and all that we call 
 
 ours, 
 To you in satisfaction; but, if not. 
 Be you content to lend your patience to 
 
 us, 
 And we shall jointly labor with your soul 
 To give it due content. 
 
 Laer. Let this be so; 
 
 His means of death, his obscure funeral, — 
 No trophy, sword, nor hatchment, o'er his 
 
 bones. 
 No noble rite, nor formal ostentation, — 
 
 Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to 
 
 earth. 
 That I must call't in question. 
 
 King. So you shall. 
 
 And where the offence is, let the axe fall. 
 I pray you, go with me. \_Exeunt. 
 
 ScEXE VI. Another room in the same. 
 Enter Horatio, and a Servant. 
 
 Hor. What are they, that would speak 
 
 with me? 
 Serv. Sailors, sir; 
 
 They say, they have letters for you. 
 Hor. Let them come in: — 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 I do not know from what part of the 
 
 world 
 I should be greeted, if not from lord 
 Hamlet. 
 
 Enter Sailors. 
 
 1 Sail. God bless you, sir. 
 
 Hor. Let him bless thee too. . 
 
 1 Sail. He shall, sir, au't please him. 
 There's a letter for you, sir; it comes 
 from the ambassador that was bound for 
 England; if your name be Horatio, as I 
 am let to know it is. 
 
 Hor. [Reads.'] Horatio, when thou 
 slialt have overlooked this, give these, fel- 
 lows some means to the Tcing; they have 
 letters for him. Ere we were two days 
 old at sea, a pirate of very warlilce ap- 
 pointment gave us chase: finding ourselves 
 too slow of sail, we put on compelled 
 valor ; and in the grapple, I hoarded; 
 them : on the instant they got clear of our- 
 ship; so I alone became their prisoner. 
 Tliey have dealt with me like thieves of- 
 mercy; but they knew lohat they did; I 
 am to do a good turn for them. Let the., 
 king have the letters I have sent ; and re-, 
 pair thou to me with asnnich haste as thou 
 wouldst fly death. I have words to speak 
 in thine ear will make thee dumb ; yet are 
 they much too light for the bore of the. 
 
 526 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OP DENMAEK. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 matter. Tliese good fellotvs will bring 
 thee loliere I am. Rosencrantz and Guil- 
 denstern hold their course for England; 
 of them I have much to tell thee. Fare- 
 well. He that thorihnoivest thine. Hamlet. 
 Come, I will give you way for these your 
 
 letters; 
 And do't the speedier, that you may di- 
 rect me 
 To him from whom you brought them. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VIL Another Eoom in the 
 same. 
 
 E7iter King and Laertes. 
 King. Now must your conscience my 
 
 acquaintance seal. 
 And you must put me in your heart for 
 
 friend; 
 Sith you have heard, and with a know- 
 ing ear. 
 That he, what hath your noble father 
 
 slain, 
 Pursu'd my life. 
 
 Laer. It well appears : — But tell me. 
 Why you proceeded not against these 
 
 feats, 
 So crimeful and so capital in nature. 
 As by your safety, greatness, wisdom, all 
 
 things else. 
 You mainly were stirr'd up. 
 
 King. 0, for two special reasons: 
 
 Which may to you, perhaps, seem much 
 
 unsinew'd, 
 But yet to me they are strong. The 
 
 queen his mother. 
 Lives almost by his looks ; and for my- 
 self, 
 (My virtue, or my plague, be it either 
 
 Avhich,) 
 She is 30 conjunctive to my life and 
 
 soul, 
 That, as the star moves not but in his 
 
 sphere, 
 I could not but buy her. The other 
 
 motive, 
 Why to a public count I might not go 
 
 Is, the great love the general gender bear 
 
 him; 
 Who, dipping all his faults in their 
 
 affection. 
 Work like the spring that turnelh wood 
 
 to stone. 
 Convert his gyves to graces ; so that my 
 
 arrows. 
 Too slightly timber'd for so loud a wind, 
 Would have reverted to my bow again. 
 And not v/here I had aimed them. 
 
 Laer. And so have I a noble father 
 
 lost; 
 A sister driven into desperate terms; 
 Whose worth, if praises may go back 
 
 again. 
 Stood challenger on mount of all the 
 
 age 
 For her perfections : — But my revenge 
 
 will come. 
 King. Break not your sleeps for that: 
 
 you must not think. 
 That we are made of stuff so flat and 
 
 dull, 
 That we can let our beard be shook with 
 
 danger, 
 And think it pastime. You shortly shall 
 
 hear more: 
 I loved your father, and we love ourself ; 
 And that, I hope, will teach you to im- 
 agine, — 
 How now? what news? 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Mess. Letters, my lord, from Hamlet: 
 
 This to your majesty; this to the queen. 
 
 King. From Hamlet? who brought 
 
 them? 
 Mess. Sailors, my lord, they say: I 
 saw them not; 
 They were given me by Claudio, he re- 
 ceived them 
 Of him that brought them. 
 
 King. Laertes, you shall hear them: — 
 
 Leave us. \Exil Messenger. 
 
 [Reade.] High and mighty, yon shall 
 
 knoio, I am set naked on yotir kingdom. 
 
 537 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 To-morroiv, shall I teg leave to see your 
 Jiingly eyes; when I shall, first asking 
 yoiLr pardon thereunto, recount the occa- 
 sion of my sudden and more strange re- 
 turn. Hamlet. 
 What should this mean! are all the rest 
 
 come back? 
 Or is it some abuse, and no such thing? 
 Laer. Know you the hand? 
 King. 'T'ls Hamlet^s character, — 
 Naked, — 
 And, in a postcript here, he says, alone: 
 Can jou advise me? 
 
 Laer. I am lost in it, my lord. But 
 let him come; 
 It warms the very sickness in my heart. 
 That I shall live and tell him to his teeth. 
 Thus diddest thou. 
 
 King. If it be so, Laertes, 
 
 As how should it be so? how otherwise? — 
 Will you be ruled by me? 
 
 Laer. Ay, my lord; 
 
 So you will not o'er-rule me to a peace. 
 King. To thine own peace. If he be 
 now returned, — 
 As checking at his voyage, and that he 
 
 means 
 No more to undertake it, — I will -work 
 
 him 
 To an exploit, now ripe in my device. 
 Under the which he shall not choose but 
 
 fall: 
 And for his death no wind of blame shall 
 
 breathe; 
 But even his mother shall uncharge the 
 
 practice. 
 And call it, accident. 
 
 Laer. My lord, I will be rul'd; 
 
 The rather, if you could advise it so, 
 That I might be the organ. 
 
 King. It falls right. 
 
 You have been talk'd of since your travel 
 
 much. 
 And that in Hamlet's hearing, for a 
 
 quality 
 Wherein, they say, you shine: your sum 
 of parts 
 
 Did not together pluck such envy from 
 
 him. 
 As did that one; and that, in my regard. 
 Of the unworthiest siege. 
 
 Laer. What part is that, my lord? 
 
 King. A very riband in the cap of 
 youth. 
 Yet needful too; for youth no less be- 
 comes 
 The light and careless livery that it wears, 
 Than settled age his sables, and his weeds, 
 Importing health and graveness. — Two 
 
 months since. 
 Here was a gentleman of Normandy, — 
 I have seen myself, and served against, the 
 
 French, 
 And they can well on horseback: but this 
 
 gallant 
 Had witchcraft in't; he grew unto his 
 
 seat; • 
 And to such wondrous doing brought his 
 
 horse. 
 As he had been incorps'd and demi- 
 
 natur'd 
 With the brave beast: so far he top'd my 
 
 thought. 
 That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks. 
 Come short of what he did. 
 
 Laer. A Norman, was't? 
 
 King. A Norman. 
 Laer. U|)on my life, Lamord. 
 King. The very same. 
 
 Lner. I know him well: he is the 
 brooch indeed. 
 And gem of all the nation. 
 
 King. He made confession of you; 
 And gave you such a masterly report. 
 For art and exercise in your defense, 
 And for your rapier most especial. 
 That he cried out, 'twould be a sight 
 
 indeed. 
 If one could match you: the scrimers of 
 
 their nation. 
 He swore, had neither motion, guard nor 
 
 eye. 
 If you oppos'd them: Sir, this report of 
 his 
 
 528 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy. 
 That he could nothing do, but wish and 
 
 beg 
 Your sudden coming o'er, to play with 
 
 you. 
 
 Now, out of this, 
 
 Laer. What out of this, my lord? 
 
 King. Laertes, was your father dear to 
 you? 
 Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, 
 A face without a heart? 
 
 Laer. Why ask you this? 
 
 King. Not that I think, you did not 
 love your father; 
 Bat that I know, love is begun by time; 
 And that I see, in passages of proof. 
 Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. 
 There lives Avithin the very flame of love 
 A kind of wick, or snuff, that will abate 
 
 it; 
 And nothing is at a like goodness still; 
 For goodness, growing to a pleurisy. 
 Dies in his own too-much : That we would 
 
 do. 
 We should do when we would; for this 
 
 would changes. 
 And hath abatements and delays as many, 
 As there are tongues, are hands, are ac- 
 cidents; 
 And then this should is like a spendthrift 
 
 sigh. 
 That hurts by easing. But, to the quick 
 
 o'the ulcer: 
 Hamlet comes back; What would you 
 
 undertake, 
 To show yourself in deed your father's 
 
 son 
 More than in words? 
 
 Laer. To cut his throat i'the church. 
 King. No place, indeed, should murder 
 sanctuarize; 
 Revenge should have no bounds. But, 
 
 good Laertes, 
 Will you do this, keep close within your 
 
 chamber? 
 Hamlet, return'd, shall know you are 
 
 come home: 
 
 We'll put on those shall praise your ex- 
 cellence. 
 
 And set a double varnish on the fame 
 
 The Frenchman gave you; bring you, in 
 fine, together, 
 
 And wager o'er your heads: he, being 
 remiss. 
 
 Most generous, and free from all con- 
 triving, 
 
 Will not peruse the foils; so that, with 
 ease. 
 
 Or with a little shuffling, you may choose 
 
 A sword unbated, and, in a pass of prac- 
 tice. 
 
 Requite him for your father. 
 
 Laer. I will do't: 
 
 And, for the purpose, I'll anoint my 
 sword. 
 
 I bought an unction of a mountebank. 
 
 So mortal, that but dip a knife in it. 
 
 Where it draws blood no cataplasm so 
 rare. 
 
 Collected from all samples that have 
 virtue 
 
 Under the moon, can save the thing from 
 death. 
 
 That is but scratch'd withal: I'll touch 
 my point 
 
 With this contagion; that, if I gall him 
 slightly. 
 
 It may be death. 
 
 King. Let's further think of this; 
 
 Weigh, what convenience, both of time 
 and means. 
 
 May fit us to our shape : if this should 
 fail, and that our drift look through 
 our bad performance, 
 
 'Twere better not essajM: therefore this 
 project 
 
 Should liave a back, or second, that might 
 hold, 
 
 If this should blast in proof. Soft; — let 
 me see: 
 
 We'll make a solemn wager on your cun- 
 nings,— 
 
 I ha't: 
 
 When in your motion you are hot and dry. 
 
 529 
 
Act IV. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DEN"MARK. 
 
 SCEKE VII. 
 
 (As make your bouts more violent to that 
 end). 
 
 And that he calls for drink, I'll have pre- 
 ferr'd^ him 
 
 A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sip- 
 ping, 
 
 If he by chance escape your venom'd 
 stuck. 
 
 Our purpose may hold there. But stay, 
 what noise ? 
 
 Enter QuEEif. 
 
 How now, sweet queen ? 
 
 Qtieen, One woe doth tread upon an- 
 other's heel, 
 So fast they follow: — Your sister's 
 
 drown'd, Laertes. 
 Laer. Drown'd ! 0, where ? 
 Queen. There is a willow grows as- 
 
 caunt the brook. 
 That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy 
 
 stream; 
 There with fantastic garlands did she 
 
 make 
 Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long 
 
 purples, 
 And on the pendent boughs her coronet 
 
 weeds 
 Clambering to hang, an envious sliver 
 
 broke; 
 When down her weedy trophies and 
 
 herself. 
 
 Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes 
 
 spead wide; 
 And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her 
 
 up: 
 Which time she chanted snatches of old 
 
 tunes; 
 As one incapable of her own distress. 
 Or like a creature native and indu'd 
 Unto that element: but long it could not 
 
 be. 
 Till that her garments, heavy with their 
 
 drink, 
 Pull'd the poor wretch from her melo- 
 
 dious lay 
 To muddy death, 
 
 Laer. Alas, then, she is drown'd ? 
 
 Queen. Drown'd, drown'd. 
 
 Laer. Too much of water hast thou, 
 
 poor Ophelia, 
 And therefore I forbid my tears: But yet 
 It is our trick; nature her custom holds 
 Let shame say what it will: when these 
 
 are gone, 
 The woman will be out. — Adieu, my 
 
 lord ! 
 I have a speech of fire that fain would 
 
 blaze. 
 But that this folly drowns it. {Exit. 
 
 King. Let's follow, Gertrude : 
 
 How much I had to do to calm his 
 
 rage ! 
 Now fear I, this M'ill give it start again; 
 Therefore, let's follow. . {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ScEXE I. A Church Yard. 
 Enter ttuo Clowns, zoith Spades, etc. 
 
 1 Clo. Is she to be buried in Christian 
 "burial, that wilfully seeks her own salva- 
 tion? 
 
 2 Clo. I tell thee, she is; therefore 
 make her grave straight: the crowner hath 
 set on her, and finds it Christian burial. 
 
 1 Clo. How can that be, unless she 
 drowned herself in her own defense? 
 
 2 Clo. Why, 'tis found so. 
 
 1 Clo. It must be se offendendo ; it 
 cannot be else. For here lies the point: 
 If I drown myself wittingly, it argues an 
 act: and an act hath three branches; it is, 
 to act, to do, and to perform: Argal, she 
 drowned herself wittingly. 
 
 2 Clo. Nay, but hear you, goodmau 
 
 delver. 
 1 Clo. Give me leave. Here lies the 
 v/ater; good: here stands the man; good-c 
 
 530 
 
Act V 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 If the man go to this water, and drown 
 himself, it is, Avill he, uill he, he goes; 
 mark you that: but if the water come to 
 him, and drown him, he drowns not him- 
 self: Argal, he, that is not guilty of his 
 own death, shortens not his own life. 
 2 Clo. But is this law? 
 
 1 Clo. Ay, marry is't; crowner's quest 
 
 law. 
 
 2 Clo. Will you ha' the truth on't? 
 If this had not been a gentlewoman, she 
 should have been buried out of Christian 
 burial. 
 
 1 Clo. Why, there thou say'st: And 
 the more pity; that great folks shall have 
 countenance in this world to drown or 
 hang themselves, more than their even 
 Christian. Come, my spade. There is 
 no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, 
 ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up 
 Adam's profession. 
 
 3 Clo. Was he a gentleman ? 
 
 1 Clo. He was the first that ever bore 
 
 arms. 
 
 2 Clo. Why, he had none. 
 
 1 Clo. What, art a heathen? How 
 dost thou understand the Scripture? Tlie 
 Scripture says, Adam digged: Could he 
 dig without arms? I'll put another ques- 
 tio7i to thee: if thou answerest me not to 
 the purpose, confess thyself 
 
 2 Clo. Go to. 
 
 1 Clo. What is he, that builds stronger 
 than either the mason, the shipwright, or 
 the carpenter? 
 
 2 Clo. The gallows-maker; for that 
 frame outlives a thousand tenants. 
 
 1 Clo. I like thy wit well, in good 
 faith; the gallows does well: but how does 
 it well? it does well to those that do ill: 
 now thou dost ill, to say, the gallows is 
 built stronger than the church; argal, the 
 gallows may do well to thee. To't again; 
 come. 
 
 2 Clo. Who builds stronger than a 
 mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter? 
 
 1 Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke. 
 
 2 Clo. Marry, now I can tell. 
 
 1 Clo. To't. 
 
 2 Clo. Mass, I cannot tell. 
 
 Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a dis- 
 tance. 
 
 1 Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more 
 about it; for 3'our dull ass will not mend 
 his pace with beating: and, when you are 
 asked this question next, say, a grave- 
 maker; the houses that he makes, last till 
 doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan and 
 fetch me a stoup of liquor. 
 
 [Exit 2 Clown. 
 
 1 Clown digs, and sings. 
 In youth, when I did love, did love, 
 
 Methotight, it was very siueet, 
 To contract, 0, the time, for, ah, my 
 
 lehove 
 0, methonght, there 2vas nothing meet. 
 
 Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his 
 business? he sings at grave-making. 
 
 Hot. Custom hath made it in him a 
 property of easiness. 
 
 Ham. 'Tis e'en so: the hand of little 
 employment hath the daintier sense. 
 
 1 Clo. But age, with his stealing steps, 
 
 Hath clazv'd me in his clutch, 
 
 And hath shipped me into the 
 
 land, 
 As if I had never been such. 
 
 [Throws up a Skull. 
 
 Hatn. That skull had a tongue in it, 
 and could sing once: How the knave 
 jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's 
 jaw-bone, that did the first murder! This 
 might be the pate of a politician, which 
 this ass now o'er-reaches; one that would 
 circumvent any body, might it not? 
 
 Hor. It might, my lord. 
 
 Hatn. Or of a courtier; which could 
 say, Good morroiu, siveet lord! How dost 
 thou, good lord ? This might be my lord 
 Such-a-one, that praised my lord Such-a- 
 one's horse, when he meant to beg it: 
 might it not? 
 
 531 
 
Act Y 
 
 HAMLET, PEIXCE OF DEXMARK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Jlor. Ay, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Why, e'en so: and now my lady 
 Worm's; chapless, and knocked about the 
 mazzard with a sexton's sjoade: Here's 
 
 fine revolution, and we had the trick to 
 see't. Did these bones cost no more the 
 breeding, but to play at loggats with 
 them? mine ache to think on't. [Sings. 
 
 1 Clo. A pick-axe, and a $pade, a spade, 
 For — and a shrouding sheet: 
 0, a pit of clay for to he made 
 For sucli a guest is meet. 
 
 [Tlirows up a Skull. 
 
 Ham. There's another: Why may not 
 that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be 
 his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, 
 his tenures, and his tricks? why does he 
 suffer this rude knave to knock him about 
 
 533 
 
Act V 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 SCEIv-E I. 
 
 the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not 
 tell him of his action of battery ? Humph ! 
 This fellow might be in's time a great 
 buyer of land, M-ith his statutes, his re- 
 cognizances, his fines, his double vouch- 
 ers, his recoveries: Is this the fine of his 
 fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, 
 to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? will 
 his vouchers vouch him no more of his 
 purchases, and double ones too, than the 
 length and breadth of a pair of indentures? 
 The very conveyances of his lands will 
 hardly lie in this box; and must the in- 
 heritor himself have no more? ha? 
 
 Ho7'. Not a jot more, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep- 
 skins? 
 
 Hor. Ay, my lord, and of calves' skins 
 too. 
 
 Ham. They are sheep, and calves, 
 which seek out assurance in that. I will 
 speak to this fellow: — Whose grave's this, 
 sirrah ? 
 
 1 Clo. Mine, sir. — [Sings. 
 
 0, a pit of clay for io be made 
 For such a guest is meet. 
 
 Ham. I think it be thine, indeed ; for 
 thou liest in't. 
 
 1 Clo. You lie out on't, sir, and there- 
 fore it is not yours: for my part, I do not 
 lie in't, yet it is mine. 
 
 Ha7n. Thou dost lie in't, to be in't, 
 and say it is thine: 'tis for the dead, not 
 for the quick; therefore thou liest. 
 
 1 Clo. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away 
 again from me to you. 
 
 Ham. What man dost thou dig it for? 
 
 1 Clo. For no man, sir. 
 
 Ham. What woman then? 
 
 1 Clo. For none neither. 
 
 Ham. Who is to be buried in't? 
 
 1 Clo. One, that was a woman, sir; but, 
 rest her soul, she's dead. 
 
 Ham. How absolute the knave is! we 
 must si:)eak by the card, or equivocation 
 will undo us. By the lord, Horatio, these 
 
 three years I have taken note of it; the 
 age is grown so picked, that the toe of the 
 peasant comes so near the heel of the 
 courtier, he galls his kibe. — How long 
 hast thou been a grave-maker? 
 
 1 Clo. Of all the days i' the year, I 
 came to't that day thatour last king Ham- 
 let overcame Fortinbras. 
 
 Ha77i. How long's that since? 
 
 1 Clo. Cannot you tell that? every fool 
 can tell that: It was that very day that 
 young Hamlet was born: he that is mad, 
 and sent into England. 
 
 Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent 
 into England? 
 
 1 Clo. Why, because he was mad: he 
 shall recover his wits there, or, if he do 
 not, 'tis no great matter there. 
 
 Ham. Why? 
 
 1 Clo. 'Twill not be seen in him there; 
 there the men areas mad as he. 
 
 Ham. How came he mad? 
 
 1 Clo. Very strangely, they say. 
 
 Ham. How strangely? 
 
 1 Clo. 'Faith, e'en with losing his wits. 
 
 Ham. Upon what ground? 
 
 1 Clo. Why, here in Denmark; I have 
 been sexton here, mar, and boy, thirty 
 years. 
 
 Ham. How long will a man lie i' the 
 earth ere he rot? 
 
 1 Clo. If he be not rotten before he 
 die, (as we have many now-a-days, that 
 will scarce hold the laying in,) he will last 
 you some eight year or nine year: a tan- 
 ner will last you nine year. 
 
 Ha7n. Why he more than another? 
 
 1 Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tanned 
 with his trade, that he will keep out 
 water a great while; and water is a sore 
 decayer of your dead body. Here's a skull 
 now hath lain you i' the earth three-and- 
 twenty years. 
 
 Ham. Whose was it? 
 
 1 Clo. A mad fellow's it was; Whose 
 do you think it was? 
 
 Ha77i. Nay, I know not. 
 
 553 
 
Act V. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DEX.AEARK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 1 Clo. A pestilence on liim for a mad 
 rogue! he poured a flagon of Ehenisli on 
 my head once. This same skull, sir, was 
 Yorick's skull, the king's jester. 
 
 Ham. This? [Tales the sJcull. 
 
 1 Clo. E'en that. 
 
 Ham. Alas! poor Yorick!— I knew 
 him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of 
 most excellent fancj^: he hath borne me 
 on his back a thousand times; and now 
 how abhorred in my imagination it is! my 
 gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips, 
 that I have kissed I know not how oft. 
 "Where be your gibes now? your gambols? 
 your songs? your flashes of merriment, 
 that were wont to set the table on a roar? 
 not one now, to mock your own grinning? 
 quite chap-fallen? Xow get you to my 
 lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint 
 an inch thick, to this favor she must 
 come: make her laugh at that. — Pr'ythee, 
 Horatio, tell me one thing. 
 
 Hor. What's that, my lord? 
 
 Ham. Dost thou think, Alexander 
 looked o' this fashion i' the earth? 
 
 Ho7\ E'en so. 
 
 Ham. And smelt so? pah! 
 
 [TJiro2cs down the Skull. 
 
 Hor. E'en so, my lord. 
 
 Ham. To what base uses we may re- 
 turn, Horatio! Why may not imagina- 
 tion trace the noble dust of Alexander, 
 till he finds it stopping a bunghole ? 
 
 Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, 
 to consider so. 
 
 Ham. No, faith, not a jot: but to fol- 
 low him thither with modesty enough, 
 and likelihood to lead it: As thus; Alex- 
 ander died, Alexander was buried, Alex- 
 ander returneth to dust; the dust is earth; 
 of earth we make loam: And why of that 
 loam, whereto he was converted, might 
 they not stop a beer-barrel? 
 
 Imperious Csesar, dead, and turn'd tc 
 clay. 
 
 Might stop a hole to keep the wind 
 away: 
 
 0, that the earth, which kept the world 
 
 in awe. 
 Should patch a wall to expel the win- 
 ter's flaw ! 
 But soft! but soft! aside: — Here comes the 
 king. 
 
 Enter Priests, etc., in Procession; the 
 Corpse of Ophelia; Laertes and 
 Mourners foUoiving ; KixG, Queen, 
 their trains, etc. 
 
 The queen, the courtiers: Who is this 
 
 they follow? 
 And with such maimed rites! This doth 
 
 betoken, 
 The corse, they follow, did with desperate 
 
 hand 
 Fordo its own life. 'Twas of some estate: 
 Couch we a while, and mark. 
 
 [Retiring tvith Horatio. 
 Laer. What ceremony else? 
 Ham. That is Laertes, 
 
 A very noble youth: Mark. 
 Laer. What ceremony else? 
 1 Priest. Her obsequies have been as 
 
 far enlarg'd 
 As we have warranty: Her death was 
 
 doubtful; 
 And, but that great command o'ersways 
 
 the order. 
 She should in ground unsanctified have 
 
 lodg'd 
 Till the last trumpet; for charitable 
 
 prayers. 
 Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be 
 
 thrown on her. 
 Yet here she is allow'd her virgin crants. 
 Her maiden strewments, and her bringing 
 
 home 
 Of bell and burial. 
 
 Laer. Must there no more be done? 
 1 Priest. No more be done! 
 
 We should profane the service of the 
 
 dead, 
 To sing a requiem, and such rest to her 
 As to peace-parted souls. 
 
 534 
 
Act V. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Laer. Lay her i' the earth; — 
 
 And from her fair and unpolluted flesh, 
 May violets spring! — I tell thee, churlish 
 
 priest, 
 A minist'ring angel shall my sister be, 
 When thou liest howling. 
 
 Hmn. What, the fair Ophelia! 
 
 Queen. Sweets to the sweet: Farewell! 
 
 [Scattering Flotvers. 
 
 I hop'd, thou shouldst have been my 
 
 Hamlet's wife ; 
 I thought, thy bride-bed to have decked, 
 
 sweet maid, 
 And not have strew'd thy grave. 
 
 Laer. treble woe 
 
 Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, 
 Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious 
 
 sense 
 Depriv'd thee of ! — Hold off the earth a 
 
 while. 
 Till I have caught her once more in mine 
 
 arms: 
 
 [Leaps into the Grave. 
 Now pile your dust upon the quick and 
 
 dead; 
 Till of this flat a mountain you have made 
 To o'ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head 
 Of blue Olympus. 
 
 Ham. [Advancing. } What is he, whose 
 
 grief 
 Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of 
 
 sorrow 
 Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes 
 
 them stand 
 Like wonder-Avounded hearers? this is I, 
 
 Hamlet the Dane. 
 
 [Lea2:)s into the Grave. 
 
 Laer. The devil take thy soul ! 
 
 [Grappling tvith him. 
 
 Ham. Thou pray'st not well. 
 
 I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my 
 
 throat; 
 For, though I am not splenetive and 
 
 rash, 
 Yet have I in me something dangerous, 
 Which let thy wisdom fear : hold off thy 
 hand. 
 
 fling. Pluck them asunder. 
 
 Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet ! 
 
 All. Gentlemen, 
 
 Hor. Good my lord, be quiet. 
 
 [27^6 Attendants part them, and they 
 come out of the Grave. 
 Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon 
 this theme. 
 Until my eyelids will no longer wag. 
 Queen. my son ! what theme? 
 Ham. I lov'd Ophelia : forty thousand 
 brothers 
 Could not, with all their quantity of love. 
 Make up my sum. — What wilt thou do 
 for her? 
 Iiing. 0, he is mad, Laertes. 
 Queen. For love of God, forbear him. 
 Ham. Show me what thou'lt do : 
 Woul't weep? woul't fight? woul't fast? 
 
 woul't tear thyself? 
 Woul't drink up Esil? eat a crocodile? 
 I'll do't. — Dost thou come here to whine? 
 To outface me with leaping in her grave? 
 Be buried quick with her, and so will I: 
 And, if thou prate of mountains, let them 
 
 throw 
 Millions of acres on us; till our ground, 
 Singeing his pate against the burning 
 
 zone. 
 Make Ossa like a wart ! Nay, an tliou'lt 
 
 mouth, 
 I'll rant as well as thou. 
 
 Queen. This is mere madness; 
 
 And thus a while the fit will w^ork on 
 
 him; 
 Anon, as patient as the female dove, 
 When that her golden couplets are dis- 
 
 clos'd. 
 His silence will sit drooping. 
 
 Ham. Hear you, sir. 
 
 What is the reason that you use me thus? 
 I loved you ever: But it is no matter; 
 Let Hercules himself do what he may. 
 The cat will mew, and dog will have his 
 day. [Exit. 
 
 IZing. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait 
 upon him. — [E.x,it Horatio. 
 
 535 
 
Act Y. 
 
 HAMLET, PEIXCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene IL 
 
 Strengthen yoiir patience in our last 
 night's speech; [To Laektes. 
 
 We'll put the matter to the present 
 push, — 
 
 Good Gertrude, set some watch over your 
 son. — 
 
 This grave shall have a living monument: 
 
 An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; 
 
 Till then, in patience our proceedings be. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ScEKE II. A Hall in the Castle. 
 Unter Hamlet and Horatio. 
 
 Ha77i. So much for this, sir: now, 
 shall you see the other; — 
 
 You do remember all the circumstance? 
 JIo?-. Remember it, my lord! 
 Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a 
 kind of fighting, 
 
 That would not let me sleep: methought, 
 Hay 
 
 Worse than the munites in the bilboes. 
 Rashly, 
 
 And prais'd be rashness for it, — Let us 
 know. 
 
 Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well. 
 
 When our deep plots do pall; and that 
 should teach ns. 
 
 There's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
 
 Rough-hew them how we will. 
 
 Ilor. That is most certain. 
 
 Ham. Up from my cabin, 
 
 My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the 
 dark 
 
 Grop'd I to find out them : had my de- 
 sire; 
 
 Einger'd their pocket: and, in fine, with- 
 drew 
 
 To mine own room again : making so 
 bold. 
 
 My fears forgetting manners, to unseal 
 
 Their grand commission; where I found, 
 Horatio 
 
 A royal knavery; an exact command, — 
 
 Larded with many several sorts of reasons. 
 
 Importing Denmark's health, and Eng- 
 land's too. 
 With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my 
 
 life. 
 That, on the supervise, no leisure bated. 
 No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, 
 My head should be struck off. 
 Hor. Is't possible? 
 
 ITain. Here's the commission; read 
 
 it at more leisure. 
 But wilt thou hear now how I did pro- 
 ceed? 
 Hor. Ay, 'beseech you. 
 Ham. Being thus benetted round 
 
 with villanies. 
 Or I could make a prologue to my brains. 
 They had begun the play; — I sat me 
 
 down; 
 Devis'd a new commission; wrote it fair: 
 I once did hold it, as our statists do, 
 A baseness to write fair, and labor'd 
 
 much 
 How to forget that learning ; but, sir, 
 
 now 
 It did me yeoman's service: Wilt thou 
 
 know 
 The effect of what I wrote? 
 
 Hor. Ay, good my lord. 
 
 Ham. An earnest conjuration from 
 
 the king, — 
 As England was his faithful tributary; 
 As love between them like the palm 
 
 might flourish; 
 As peace should still her wheaten garland 
 
 wear. 
 And stand a comma 'tween their amities; 
 And many suchlike as's of great charge, — 
 That, on the view and knowing of these 
 
 contents. 
 Without debatement further, more, or 
 
 less. 
 He should the bearers put to sudden 
 
 death. 
 Not shriving time allowed. 
 
 Hor. How Avas this seal 'd? 
 
 Ha7n. Why, even in that was heaven 
 
 ordinant; 
 
 536 
 
Act V. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 I had my father's signet in my purse. 
 Which was the model of that Danish seal: 
 Folded the writ up in form of the other; 
 Subscrih'd it ; gave't the impression ; 
 
 plac'd it safely, 
 The changeling never known : Now the 
 
 next day 
 Was our sea-fight; and what to this was 
 
 sequent 
 Thou know'st already. 
 
 Ho7'. So Guildenstern and Rosen- 
 
 crantz go to't. 
 Ham. Why man, they did make love 
 
 to this employment; 
 They are not near my conscience; their 
 
 defeat 
 Does by they own insinuation grow: 
 'Tis dangerous, when the baser nature 
 
 comes 
 Between the pass and fell incensed points 
 Of mighty opposites. 
 Hor. Why, what a king is this! 
 
 Ham. Does it not, think thee, stand 
 
 me now upon? 
 He that hath kill'd my king, seduc'd my 
 
 mother; 
 Popp'd in between the election and my 
 
 hopes; 
 Thrown out his angle for my proper life, 
 And with such cozenage; is't not perfect 
 
 conscience, 
 To quit him with this arm? and not to 
 
 let 
 This canker of our very nature come 
 In further evil? 
 
 Hor. It must be sliortly known to him 
 
 from England, 
 What is the issue of the business there. 
 Ham. It will be short: the interim is 
 
 mine; 
 And a man's life no more tlian to 
 
 one. 
 But I am very sorry, good Horatio, 
 That to Laertes I forgot myself; 
 For by the image of my cause, I see 
 'The portraiture of his: I'll couwt 
 
 favors: 
 
 say, 
 
 his 
 
 53T 
 
 But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put 
 
 me 
 Into a towering passion. 
 
 Hot. Peace; who comes here? 
 
 Enter OsRic. 
 
 Osr. Your lordship is right welcome 
 back to Denmark. 
 
 Ham. I humbly thank you, sir. — Dost 
 know this waterliy? 
 
 Hor. No, my good lord. 
 
 Ham. Thy state is the more gracious; 
 for 'tis a vice to know him : He hath much 
 land, and fertile: let a beast be lord of 
 beasts, and his crib shall stand at the 
 king's mess: 'Tis a chough; but, as I say, 
 spacious in the possession of dirt. 
 
 Osr. Sweet lord, if your lordship were 
 at leisure, I should impart a thing to you 
 from his majesty. 
 
 Ham. I will receive it, with all dili- 
 gence of spirit: Your bonnet to his right 
 use; 'tis for the head. 
 
 Osr. I think your lordship, 'tis very 
 hot. 
 
 Ham. No, believe me, 'tis very cold; 
 the wind is northerly. 
 
 Osr. It is indifferent cold; my lord, 
 indeed. 
 
 Ham. But yet, methinks it is very 
 sultry and hot ; or my complexion 
 
 Osr. Exceedingly, my lord: it is very 
 sultry — as 'twere, — I cannot tell how. — 
 My lord, his majesty bade me signify to 
 you, that he has laid a great wager on 
 your head: Sir, this is the matter, — 
 
 Ham. I beseech, you remember — 
 
 [Hamlet moves him to put on 
 It is Hat. 
 
 Osr. Nay, good my lord; for my case, 
 in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to 
 court, Laertes: believe me, an absolute 
 gentleman, full of most excellent differ- 
 ences, of very soft society, and great 
 showing: Indeed, to speak feelingly of 
 him, he is the card or calendar of gentry. 
 
Act V. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 for you shall find in him the continent of 
 what part a gentleman would see. 
 
 Ham. Sir, his definement suffers no 
 perdition in you; — though, I know, to 
 divide him inventorially, would dizzy the 
 arithmetic of memory ; and yet but raw 
 neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, 
 in the verity of extolment, I take him to 
 be a soul of great article; and his infusion 
 of such dearth and rareness, as, to make 
 true diction of him, his semblable is his 
 mirror; and, who else would trace-him, 
 his umbrage, nothing more. 
 
 Osr. Your lordship speaks most infal- 
 libly of him. 
 
 Ham. The concernancy, sir? why do 
 we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer 
 breath? 
 
 Osr. Sir? 
 
 Is't not possible to understand in 
 tongue? You will do't, sir. 
 
 Hor. 
 another 
 really. 
 
 Ham, 
 
 What imports the nomination 
 • of this gentleman? 
 
 Osr. Of Laertes? 
 
 Hor. His purse is empty already; all 
 his golden words are spent. 
 
 Ham. Of him, sir. 
 
 Osr. Ilvuow, you are not ignorant 
 
 Ham. I would, you did, sir; yet, in 
 faith, if you did, it would not much ap- 
 prove me; — Well, sir. 
 
 Osr. You are not ignorant of what ex- 
 cellence Laertes is 
 
 Ham. I dare not confess that, lest I 
 should compare with him in excellence; 
 but, to know a man well, were to know 
 himself. 
 
 Osr. I mean, sir, for his weapon; but 
 in the imputation laid on him by them, 
 in his meed he's unfellowed. 
 
 Ram. What's his weapon? 
 
 Osr. Rapier and dagger. 
 
 Ham. That's tv/o of his weapons : but, 
 well. 
 
 Osr. The king, sir, hath wagered with 
 him six Barbary horses: against the which 
 
 he has impawned, as I take it, six French 
 rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, 
 as girdle, hangers, and so; Three of the 
 carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, 
 very responsive to the hilts, most deli- 
 cate carriages, and of very liberal con- 
 ceit. 
 
 Ham. What call you the carriages ? 
 
 Ham. I knew you must be edified by 
 the margent, ere you had done. 
 
 Osr. The carriages, sir, are the han- 
 gers. 
 
 Ham. The phrase would be more ger- 
 man to the matter, if we could carry a 
 cannon by our sides; I would, it might be 
 hangers till theia. But, on : Six Barbary 
 horses against six French swords, their 
 assigns, and three liberal conceited car- 
 riages; that's the French bet against the 
 Danish : Why, is this impawned, as you 
 call it? 
 
 Osr. The king, sir, hath laid, that in 
 a dozen passes between yourself and him, 
 he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath, 
 laid, on twelve for nine; and it would 
 come to immediate trial, if your lordship 
 would vouchsafe the answer. 
 
 Ham. How, if I answer, no? 
 
 Osr. I mean, my lord, the opposition? 
 of your person in trial. 
 
 Ham. Sir, I will walk here in the hall: 
 If it please his majesty, it is the breathing 
 time of day with me: let the foils be 
 brought, the gentleman willing, and the- 
 king hold his purpose, I will win for him, 
 if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but 
 my shame, and the odd hits. 
 
 Osr. Shall I deliver you so? 
 
 Ham. To this effect, sir; after what 
 flourish your nature will. 
 
 Osr. I command my duty to 3'our 
 lordship. \^Exit. 
 
 Ham. Yours, yours. — He does well 
 to commend it himself ; there are no 
 tongues else for 's turn. 
 
 Hor. This lapwing runs away with the 
 shell on his head. 
 
 53S 
 
Act V. 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 SCEXE 11. 
 
 Ham. He did comply with his dug, 
 before he sucked it. Thus has he (and 
 many more of the same breed, that, I 
 know, the drossy age dotes on,) only got 
 the tune of the time, and outward habit 
 of encounter; a kind of yesty collection, 
 which carries them through and through 
 the most fond and winnowed opinions; 
 and do but blow them to their trial, the 
 bubbles are out. 
 
 Enter a Lord. 
 
 Lord. My lord, his majesty com- 
 mended him to you by young Osric, who 
 brings back to him, that you attend him 
 in the hall: He sends to know, if your 
 pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that 
 yqu will take longer time. 
 
 Ham. I am constant to my purposes, 
 they follow the king's jileasure: if his fit- 
 ness speaks, mine is ready; now, or when- 
 soever, provided I be so able as now. 
 
 Lord. The king, and queen, and all 
 are coming down. 
 
 Ham. In happy time. 
 
 Lord. The queen desires you, to use 
 some gentle entertainment to Laertes, be- 
 fore you fall to play. 
 
 Ham. She well instructs me. 
 
 {Exit Lord. 
 
 Hor. You will lose this wager, my 
 lord. 
 
 Ham. I do not think so; since he went 
 into France, I have been in continual 
 practice; I shall win at the odds. But 
 thou wouldst not think, how ill all's here 
 about my heart; but it is no matter. 
 
 Hor. Nay, good my lord, 
 
 Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such 
 a kind of gain-giving, as would, perhaps, 
 trouble a woman. 
 
 Hor If your mind dislike anything, 
 obey it: I will f orstal their repair hither, 
 and say, you are not fit. 
 
 Ham. Not a whit, we defy augury; 
 there is a special providence in the fall of 
 a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; 
 if it be not to come, it will be now; if it 
 
 be not now, yet it will come: the readiness 
 is all: Since no man, of aught he leaves, 
 knows, what is't to leave betimes? Let 
 be. 
 
 Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Lords, 
 
 Osric, and Attendants, witli 
 
 Foils, etc. 
 
 King. Come, Hamlet, come, and take 
 this hand from me. 
 [7%e King puts the hand of Laer- 
 tes into that of Hamlet. 
 Ham. Give me your pardon, sir : I 
 have done you wrong ; 
 
 But pardon it, as you are a gentleman. 
 
 This presence knows, and you must needs 
 have heard. 
 
 How I am punished with a sore distrac- 
 tion. 
 
 What I have done, 
 
 That might your nature, honor, and ex- 
 ception. 
 
 Roughly awake, I here proclaim was mad- 
 ness. 
 
 Was't Hamlet wronged Laertes ? Never, 
 Hamlet : 
 
 If Hamlet from himself, be ta'en away. 
 
 And, when he's not himself, does wrong 
 Laertes, 
 
 Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies 
 it. 
 
 "Who does it then ? His madness : If 't 
 be so, 
 
 Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd ; 
 
 His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy. 
 
 Sir, in this audience. 
 
 Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil 
 
 Free me so far in your most generous 
 thoughts. 
 
 That I have shot my arrow o'er the 
 house. 
 
 And hurt my brother. 
 
 Laer. I am satisfied in nature. 
 
 Whose motive, in this case, should stir 
 me most 
 
 To my revenge : but in my terms of 
 honor, 
 
 539 
 
Act Y 
 
 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 I stand aloof ; and will no reconcilement, 
 Till by some elder masters of known 
 
 honor, 
 I have a voice and precedent of peace, 
 To keep my name ungor'd ; but till that 
 
 time, 
 I do receive your offer'd love like love. 
 And will not wrong it. 
 
 Ham. I embrace it freely; 
 
 And will this brother's wager frankly 
 
 play.— 
 Give us the foils ; come on. 
 
 Laer. Come, one for me. 
 
 Ham. ril be your foil, Laertes ; in 
 mine ignorance 
 Your skill shall, like a star i' the darkest 
 
 night. 
 Stick fiery off indeed. 
 
 Laer. You mock me, sir. 
 
 Ham. No, by this hand. 
 King. Give them the foils, young 
 Osric. — Cousin Hamlet, 
 You know the wager ? 
 
 Ham. Very well, my lord ; 
 
 Your grace hath laid the odds o' the 
 weaker side. 
 King. I do not fear it : — I have seen 
 you both : — 
 But since he's better'd, we have therefore 
 odds. 
 Laer. This is too heavy, let me see 
 
 another. 
 Ham. This likes me well : These foils 
 have all a length ? 
 
 \_Theij prepare to j^lay- 
 Osr. Ay, my good lord. 
 King. Set me the stoups of wine upon 
 that table : — 
 If Hamlet give the first or second hit, 
 Or quit in answer of the third exchange. 
 Let all the battlements their ordnance 
 
 fire. 
 The king shall drink to Hamlet's better 
 
 breath ; 
 And in the cup an union shall he throw. 
 Richer than that which four successive 
 kings 
 
 In Denmark's crown have worn ; Give 
 
 me the cups ; 
 And let the kettle to the trumpet speak. 
 The trumpet to the cannoneer without. 
 The cannons to the heavens, the heaven 
 
 to earth, 
 Noii' the King drinks to Hamlet. — Come, 
 
 begin; — 
 And you, the judges, bear a wary eye. 
 Ham. Come on, sir. 
 Lear. Come, my lord. \They play. 
 Ham. One. 
 
 Laer. No. 
 
 Ham. Judgment. 
 
 Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit. 
 Laer. "Well, — again. 
 
 King. Stay, give me drink : Hamlet, 
 this pearl is thine ; 
 Here's to thy health. — Give him the cup. 
 ITrtimpets sound ; and Cannon shot 
 off within. 
 Ham. I'll play this bout first, set it by 
 a while. 
 Come. — Another hit ; AVhat say you ? 
 
 [They play. 
 
 Laer. A touch, a touch, I do confess. 
 
 King. Our son shall win. 
 
 Queen. He's fat, and scant of breath. — 
 
 Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy 
 
 brows : 
 The queen carouses to thy fortune, Ham- 
 let. 
 
 Ham. Good madam, 
 
 King. Gertrude, do not drink. 
 
 Queen. I will, my lord ; — I i^ray you, 
 
 pardon me. 
 King. It is the poison'd cup ; it is too 
 late. [Aside. 
 
 Ham. I dare not drink yet, madam ; 
 
 by and by. 
 Queen. Come, let me wipe thy face. 
 Laer. My lord, I'll hit him now. 
 King. I do not think it. 
 
 Laer. And yet it is almost against my 
 conscience. [Aside. 
 
 Ham. Come, for the third, Laertes : 
 You do but dally ; 
 
 540 
 
Act V. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 I pray you, pass with your best violence ; 
 I am afeard, you make a wanton of me. 
 
 Laer. Say you so ? come on. 
 
 yniey play. 
 
 Osr. Nothing neither way. 
 
 Laer. Have at you now. 
 
 Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in 
 scufiing, they change Rapiers, 
 and Hamlet luounds Laertes. 
 
 King. Part them, they are incens'd. 
 Ham. Nay, come again. 
 
 [The Queen falls. 
 Osr. Look to the queen there, ho ! 
 
 Hor. They bleed on both sides: — 
 
 How is it, my lord ? 
 Osr. How is it, Laertes ? 
 Laer. Why, as a woodcock to my own 
 springe, Osric ; 
 I am justly killed with mine own treach- 
 ery. 
 Ha7fi. How does the queen ? 
 King. She swoons to see them bleed. 
 Queen. No, no, the drink, the drink, 
 — my dear Hamlet ! 
 The drink, the drink ; — I am poison'd ! 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 Ham. villainy ! — Ho ! let the door 
 
 be lock'd : 
 
 Treachery ! seek it out. [Laertes falls. 
 
 Laer. It is here, Hamlet : Hamlet, 
 
 thou art slain ; 
 
 No medicine in the world can do thee 
 
 good, 
 In thee there is not half an hour's life ; • 
 The treacherous instrument is in thy 
 
 hand, 
 Unbated, and envenom'd : the foul prac- 
 tice 
 Hath turned itself on me ; lo, here I lie. 
 Never to rise again : Thy mother's poi- 
 son'd ; 
 I can no more ; the king, the king's to 
 blame. 
 Ham. The point. 
 Envenom'd too! — Then, venom, to thy 
 work. \_Stahs the King. 
 
 Osr. & Lords. Treason! treason! 
 King. 0, yet defend me, friends, I 
 
 am but hurt. 
 Ham. Here thou incestuous, mur- 
 d'rous, damned Dane, 
 Drink off this potion: — Is thy union 
 
 here? 
 Follow my mother. [King dies. 
 
 Laer. He is justl}^ serv'd; 
 
 It is a poison temper'd by himself. — 
 Exchange forgiveness with me, noble 
 
 Hamlet: 
 Mine and my father's death come not 
 
 upon thee; 
 Nor thine on me! [Dies. 
 
 Ham. Heaven make thee free of it! I 
 follow thee. 
 lam dead, Horatio: — Wretched queen, 
 
 adieu! — 
 You that look pale or tremble at this 
 
 chance. 
 That are but mutes or audience to this 
 
 act. 
 Had I but time, (as this fell sergeant, 
 
 death. 
 Is strict in his arrest,) 0, I could tell 
 
 you, — 
 But let it be : — Horatio, I am dead; 
 Thou liv'st; report me and my cause 
 
 aright 
 To the unsatisfied. 
 
 Hor. Never believe it; 
 
 I am morean antique Roman than a Dane, 
 Here's yet some liquor left. 
 
 Ham. As thou'rt a man, — 
 
 Give me the cup; let go; by heaven I'll 
 
 have it. — 
 good Horatio, what a wounded name. 
 Things standing thus imknown, shall live 
 
 behind me? 
 If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart. 
 Absent thee from felicity awhile. 
 And in this harsh M'orld draw thy breath 
 
 in pain, 
 To tell my story. — 
 
 [March afar off, and shot within. 
 What warlike noise is this? 
 
 541 
 
Act V. 
 
 HAMLET, PEINCE OF DENMAEK. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Osr. Young Fortinbras, with conquest 
 come from Poland, 
 To the ambassadors of England gives 
 This warlike volley. 
 
 Ham. 0, I die, Horatio; 
 
 The potent poison quite o'er-crows my 
 
 spirit; 
 I cannot live to hear the news from Eng- 
 land: 
 But I do prophesy the election lights 
 On Fortinbras; he has my dying voice, 
 So tell him, with the occurrents, more or 
 
 less, 
 "Which have solicited, — the "rest is silence. 
 
 \_Dies. 
 Hor. Now cracks a noble heart; — 
 Good night, sweet prince; 
 And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! 
 Why does the drum come hither? 
 
 March toitlmi. 
 
 Enter Fortinbras, the English Amiassa- 
 dors, and others. 
 Fort. Where is this sight? 
 Ham. What is it you would see? 
 
 If aught of woe, or wonder, cease your 
 search. 
 Fort. This quarry cries on havock! — 
 proud death! 
 What feast is toward in thine eternal cell. 
 That thou so many princes, at a shot. 
 So bloodily hast struck? 
 
 1 Amb. The sight is dismal; 
 
 And our afiairs from England come too 
 
 late: 
 
 The ears are senseless, that should give 
 us hearing. 
 
 To tell him, his commandment is ful- 
 fill'd. 
 
 That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are 
 dead: 
 
 Where should we have our thanks ? 
 
 Hor. Not from his mouth, 
 
 Had it the ability of life to thank you ; 
 
 He iiever gave commandment for their 
 death. 
 
 Eut since, so jump upon this bloody ques- 
 tion. 
 
 You from, the Polack wars, and you from 
 
 England, 
 Are here arriv'd; give order, that these 
 
 bodies 
 High on a stage be placed to the view; 
 And let me speak, to the yet unknowing 
 
 world. 
 How these things come about : So shall 
 
 you hear 
 Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts; 
 Of accidental Judgments, casual slaught- 
 ers; 
 Of deaths put on by cunning, and forced 
 
 cause; 
 And in this upshot, purposes mistook 
 Fall'n on the inventors' heads : all this can I 
 Truly deliver. 
 
 Fort. Let us haste to hear it. 
 
 And call the noblest to the audience. 
 For me, with sorrow I embrace my for- 
 tune; 
 I have some rights of memory in this 
 
 kingdom, 
 Which now to claim my vantage doth 
 
 invite me. 
 Hor. Of that I shall have also cause 
 
 to speak. 
 And from his mouth whose voice will 
 
 draw on more: 
 But let this same be presently performed. 
 Even while men's minds are wild; lest 
 
 more mischance, 
 On plots and errors, happen. 
 
 Fort. Let four captains 
 
 .Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage; 
 For he was likely, had he been put on. 
 To have prov'd most royally : and, for his 
 
 passage. 
 The soldier's music, and the rites of war, 
 Speak loudly for him. — 
 Take up the bodies: — Such a sight as this 
 Becomes the field, but here shows much 
 
 amiss. 
 Go, bid the soldiers shoot. 
 
 [A dead March. 
 {Exeunt, bearing off dead bodies; after 
 which, a Peal of Ordnance is shot off. 
 
 543 
 
The Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 THERE was great iudignation against one Sir John FalstafE among the men oi 
 Windsor; his conduct was so bad and bold, he transgressed every law and 
 troubled the general peace so sorely, that a certain justice in those parts, named 
 Shallow, determined to get him punished. A Welsh parson, by name Sir Hugh 
 ^vans, advocated peace, and tried to arrange some compromise between these two. 
 He proposed now that Shallow and his cousin Slender should come with him to the 
 house of Master Page, to talk over what should be done for the best. 
 
 "I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master 
 Shallow,'' said Page, receiving his visitors with courtesy. " I am glad to see you too, 
 Master Slender." 
 
 "Is Sir John Falstaff here?" asked Shallow. 
 
 " Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you," was the 
 reply. 
 
 The knight appeared with three of his usual followers, and Shallow instantly 
 taxed him with having beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken open his lodge. 
 
 "I have done all this," said Falstaff, in nowise abashed; and then he inquired if 
 Slender also had anything against him. 
 
 " Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you," said Slender, " and against 
 your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym and Pistol. They carried me to the 
 tavern, made me drunk, and afterward picked my pocket." 
 
 "Pistol, did you pick Master Slender's purse?" asked his master; but the man 
 would not own to it, and said that Slender had been drinking too hard to be in his 
 right mind. 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mistress Page and her 
 daughter Anne, who bore wine and glasses. 
 
 " Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome," said Page — " Come, we have a hot veni- 
 son pasty to dinner; come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down^ll unkindness." 
 
 Slender being disposed for merriment, regretted that he had not with him his 
 book of riddles, and when his servant Simple appeared, asked if he had it about him. 
 
 " Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you," said Shallow, who cared not for such 
 trifling when there were other things to treat of; and at the present moment he wished 
 to persuade Slender into a marriage with Anne Page. 
 
 " I will marry her upon any reasonable demands," said this pliable young man. 
 
 This was not quite the way in which Shallow wished his plan to be received. 
 "Can you love the maid?" he asked. 
 
 " I will marry her, sir, at your request," said Slender; " but if there be no great 
 love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we 
 are married and have more occasion to know one another; I hope, upon familiarity 
 will grow more contempt; but if you say, ' Marry her,' I will marry her; that I am 
 freely dissolved, and dissolutely." 
 
 543 
 
THE MEERY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 " His meaning is good/"' suggested the parson. But just then Anne Page 
 appeared to summon the guests to dinner. 
 
 Slender did not follow his friends to table. " I am not a-hungry, I thank you," 
 he said. 
 
 "I may not go in without your worship: they will not sit till you come/' said 
 Anne, still lingering. 
 
 
 "I'll eat nothing," replied Slender once more; "I thank you as much as though 
 I did." 
 
 But now Page himself came out. " Come, gentle Master Slender," he said- 
 Nor would he take any excuse; so Slender was compelled to join the rest. 
 
 Sir Hugh Evans presently dispatched the man-servant Simple to the house of 
 Doctor Caius with a letter, which was to be given to " one Mistress Quickly, which is 
 in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer,^ 
 and his Avringer." It appeared that this same letter contained a request that she, 
 being well acquainted with Anne Page, should speak to the young maiden favorably 
 
 544 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 of Slender; which Mistress Quickly promised to do. She went on to describe her 
 numerous occupations in the house of Doctor Gains, saying, " I wash, wring, brew, 
 bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself." 
 
 " 'Tis a great charge to come under one body's hand," said Simple. 
 
 "Are you avised o' that? you shall find it a great charge," returned the woman: 
 " and to be up early and down late" — she paused a moment, and then returning to the 
 matter which had brought Simj^le to the house, told him, as a great secret, that the 
 doctor was himself in love with Anne Page. 
 
 Gains perhaps overheard this whisper, for he grew angry, and uttered all kinds of 
 threats against Sir Hugh Evans for his meddlesomeness, and ordered the man to be 
 gone; then, turning to Mistress Quickly, he said, " I will myself have Anne Page." 
 
 To quiet him she told him that all would be well; but no sooner had he left the 
 room than she said to herself, " No, I know Anne's mind for that: never a woman in 
 Windsor knows more of Anne's mind than I do; nor can do more than I do with her, 
 I thank heaven." 
 
 While she was thus soliloquizing, a second visitor sought admittance; it was Fen- 
 ton, another gentleman of AVindsor, who also had set his affections on Page's fair 
 daughter, and had come to talk to Mistress Quickly concerning her. " What news? 
 how does pretty Mistress Anne," he said. 
 
 "In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your 
 friend, I can tell you that by the way." 
 
 They talked together a little more, and then Fenton took his leave, upon which 
 Mistress Quickly reflected, " Truly, an honest gentleman: but Anne loves him not." 
 
 We must now go to the home of Page, where his wife was perusing a letter just 
 received, and which caused her both displeasure and surj^rise. It was signed "John 
 Falstaff," and ran thus: — 
 
 "Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason for his physician, 
 he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I; go to, then, 
 there's sympathy: you are merry, so am I; ha, ha! then there's more sympathy: you 
 love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress 
 Page, — at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice, — that I love thee. I will not 
 say, pity me, 'tis not a soldier-like phrase, but I say, love me. By me. 
 
 Thine own true knight, 
 By flay or night, 
 Or any kind of light, 
 With all his might 
 For thee to fight." 
 
 " How dares he in this manner assay me? " cried the indignant woman. " Why, 
 
 lie hath not been thrice in my company! How shall I be revenged on 
 
 him? for revenged I will be." 
 
 Just then a friend of hers called. Mistress Ford came in, " Oh, Mistress Page, 
 give me some counsel ! "' she cried, and forthwith showed a letter just received from 
 Falstaff, which was exactly the same as the one addressed to Mistress Page. Then 
 they consulted together how the impertinent knight could be most fitly punished. 
 and perceiving Mistress Quickly approaching the house, they decided to employ her 
 AS messenger to him. 
 
 545 
 
THE MEREY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 One of FalstaS's servants had told both Ford and Page of the way in which that 
 gentleman had written to their wives, and Ford determined to be revenged at the 
 earliest opportunity, so he bargained with the host of the Garter Inn, at which Fal- 
 staii lodged, to let him into the knight^s presence under the assumed name of Brook, 
 and well disguised. His pretense was that he had a goodly sum of money which he 
 wished to intrust to Falstaff's keeping, and then he proceeded to disclose the service 
 he wanted to secure in return. Speaking of his own wife, as if he were indeed the 
 so-called Brook, he described his love for her, but that it was quite unsuccessful, and 
 he asked the knight to try to gain her affection, and then speak a good word for him. 
 
 Falstaff agreed, never suspecting that a trick was being played him, and he 
 named an hour when he would be sure to visit Mistress Ford. This was just what the 
 disguised husband desired, that so he might be ready, and he left the inn, well satis- 
 fied with what he had accomplished. 
 
 Previous to this interview. Mistress Quickly had visited Falstafi, bringing word 
 from Mistress Ford that she felt flattered by his letter, and would grant him permis- 
 sion to visit her. 
 
 "■Woman, commend me to her ; I will not fail," the knight had said. 
 
 But now must the messenger pretend that Mistress Page was also as much 
 delighted by his protestation of affection, and that she begged him to lend her his 
 little serving-boy to go and come with messages between them; and to this Falstaff 
 readily consented, and " Robin" went off in Mistress Quickly's company. 
 
 Justice Shallow had not been idle all this while in his scheme for uniting his 
 cousin Slender to Anne Page. Doctor Caius was equally eager to marry her himself, 
 and Fenton loved her dearly. It only remained to see which of these three suitors 
 the lady would choose; and they were all to dine at her father's house on the day 
 when Mistress Page and Mistress Ford had planned to put Sir John Falstaff to con- 
 fusion. 
 
 A great basket had been conveyed to Ford's house, and two stalwart men were 
 bidden to keep themselves within call, then take the basket down to Datchet-mead, 
 and em23ty it in the muddy ditch close by the river. This being arranged. Mistress 
 Page concealed herself, while Mistress Ford received the knight, feigning j^leasure at 
 his civil speeches. Little Robin had been instructed in the part he should play, and 
 presently interrujoted the interview by crying that Mistress PagCM^ould not be refused 
 admittance, having business of importance to speak of. Falstaff immediately con- 
 cealed himself, and Mistress Page, being let in, proceeded to tell her friend that Ford 
 and all the officers in Windsor were coming to search the house, because it had been 
 reported that a gentleman was there. Mistress Ford affected great terror as she con- 
 fessed the suspicion true; and Mistress Page suggested that if he were of reasonable 
 size he might get into the large basket, and be hidden with clothing, as if it were 
 going to the wash. 
 
 ''He's too big to go in there," answered Mistress Ford. " What shall I do?" 
 
 But Falstaff now came out of hiding, terribly frightened at what he had over- 
 heard. " I'll in," he cried. — " Follow your friend's counsel. — I'll in." 
 
 "What, Sir JohnI" exclaimed Mistress Page, as if scarcely able to believe the 
 evidence of her eyes. 
 
 " I love thee, and none but thee," said Falstaff,forgetting everything in the fear of 
 discovery. " Helji me away; let me creep in here;" and so the women pushed him 
 
 546 
 
THE MEREY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 into the basket, with 3'oiiug Robin's assistance, and, covering liim with soiled linen, 
 called loudly for the waiting men-servants, and bade them carry it to the laundress at 
 Datchet-mead, and speedily, too. 
 
 Scarcely had they left the house than Ford, Page, and several others hurried in, 
 declaring some man was hiding there, and at once beginning their search. 
 
 While this was going on, the two women talked together, and resolved to have 
 still more tricks with Falstaff for his punishment; so Mistress Quickly was sent to 
 hinder him being thrown into the ditch, and to pretend to arrange another interview, 
 daring which they meant to betray him once more. 
 
 Of course, no one was found in hiding, and Master Ford felt somewhat vexed; 
 but ]\Iaster Page suggested that another opportunity of detecting Falstaff would come. 
 Then, to change the subject, he invited his friend, with Sir Hugh Evans and Doctor 
 Caius, to a "birding" on the following morning, for he had a fine hawk for the bush. 
 
 Anne Page had been entertaining two of her suitors and Shallow, who began to 
 do Slendei''s part for him until she cried, " Good Master Shallow, let him woo for him- 
 self." 
 
 AVhile they were still talking, her parents entered, and seeing Fenton there, told 
 him he Avas no match for their child. Master Page even refused to hear him jilead 
 his cause, and called the other gentlemen to follow him from the room; whereupon 
 Fenton tried to turn the mother's heart to favor his union with her daughter. 
 
 At last Mistress Page promised to find out Anne's feelings in his regard, and so to 
 determine her own; but meanwhile she bade him retire, lest her husband should be 
 angry. 
 
 Now weot Dame Quickly in search of Falstaff, whom she found at his inn, call- 
 ing for a quart of sack with which to comfort himself after his ducking. She had 
 loitered on her way, and had not been in time to prevent the men emptying the con- 
 tents of their basket into the wet ditch, as they were directed. 
 
 The woman jjretended that Mistress Ford would be much distressed at such a 
 mistake being made, and proceeded to deliver a message, by which the knight was 
 entreated to visit her again at nine in the morning, when her husband should be out 
 hawking. 
 
 "Well, I will visit her: tell her so," said Falstaff; and Quickly departed to let the 
 merry wives know his reply. 
 
 But now was ushered in Ford himself, disguised again, and bearing the name 
 of Brook, to whom Sir John confided the whole of his misadventure — how he had 
 been half-suffocated in the basket beneath the clothes, and then thrown into the 
 water. 
 
 " In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffered all this. My 
 suit then is desperate; you'll undertake her no more ?" said Ford, still assuming the 
 character of Brook, who might be anxious as to the success he desired Falstaff to 
 obtain for him. 
 
 Falstaff then told that a second visit had been arranged, and Mistress Ford 
 expected him at nine o'clock iu the morning, when her husband would surely be 
 away. With the promise, " You shall have her. Master Brook," the interview 
 terminated. 
 
 x\.t the appointed hour the knight went to the Fords' house, and truly found its 
 master absent, and its mistress ready to make him welcome. Once more they were 
 
 54" 
 
THE MEERY WIVES OF WINDSOE. 
 
 iuterrupted by Mistress Page, who brought word that Master Ford was returning, and 
 even then had reached the corner, of the street. 
 
 ""What shall I do?" cried Falstaff. " I'll creep up into the chimney." 
 
 "There they always discharge their birding-pieces," said Mistress Ford. "Creep 
 into the kiln-hole." 
 
 "' Where is it?" said the frightened knight. But Mistress Ford now declared it 
 an unsafe place; in fact, she said there was no corner in which her husband might not 
 search . 
 
 "I'll go out then," said Falstaff; and here Mistress Page put in a word, and 
 said in that case he would be killed, unless, indeed, he assumed some disguise. 
 
 " My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above," remarked 
 Mistress Ford; and so they hurried Falstaff up stairs, to dress him after this fashion, 
 first placing the men-servants at the door, ready to shoulder the big basket, which now 
 held only clothes, and with orders to set it down the instant Master Ford bade them. 
 
 They did so, and, of course, no man was within; Avhereupon a search through the 
 house was again instituted. 
 
 Mistress Ford now called from below — " What, ho. Mistress Page ! come you and 
 the old woman down; my husband will come into the chamber." 
 
 "Old woman! what old woman's that?" shouted Ford. 
 
 "My maid's aunt of Brentford," replied his wife; whereupon he declared she was 
 a witch, whom he had forbidden the house, and cudgeling the disguised Falstaff 
 soundly, turned him forth into the street. 
 
 Escaping to the Garter Inn, the knight had scarcely removed his clothingthan Sim- 
 ple arrived from his master Slender, who said he had seen a fat old woman run through 
 the streets, and finally enter Falstaft''s rooms, and believing her to be the wise woman 
 of Brentford, wished to ask her to divine for him who had robbed him of his chain. 
 Sir John said she had been there, but was now gone, not, however, without speaking 
 of the matter to him. "She says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slen- 
 der of his chain cozened him of it." 
 
 " I would I could have spoken with the woman herself," said Simple ; " I had 
 other things to have s]ooken with her too from him;" and when Falstaff forced him 
 to reveal these other matters, he said he desired to know if his master would have 
 Anne Page or not. 
 
 The knight said yes, such would be his fortune ; whereupon Simple left him to 
 make Slender glad with the tidings. 
 
 Now came in Mistress Quickly, bringing a fresh message from the merry wives, 
 who had not yet got sufficient sport out of Falstaff; but she found him in sorry tem- 
 per, because for their sakes, as he said, he had been beaten all the colors of the rain- 
 bow — nay, had barely escaped the hands of the constable, who would have set him in 
 the stocks as a witch. However, with some ado, she persuaded him to be in the park 
 at midnight, close by a certain tree called "Heme's oak." 
 
 An old legendary story told that a hunter named Heme, once a keeper of Wind- 
 sor Forest, was in the habit since his death of coming there with horns on his head 
 and rattling a long chain, and Falstaff was to assume this disguise, in order to meet 
 Mistress Page and Mistress Ford with perfect safety. 
 
 They, meanwhile, had arranged that Anne Page and a few more young people, 
 attired as elves and fairies, should suddenly rush forth and form a circle round the 
 
 548 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 knight, burning him with their tapers^ pinching and otherwise frightening him as 
 they demanded how he durst come there to interrupt their revels. In the confusion, 
 wliich Avas sure to ensue, his disguise was to be torn from him, and one and all should 
 chase him back to his inn, for the people of the town to see and mock at him. 
 
 " My Nau shall be the queen of all the fairies. 
 Finely attired in a robe of white," 
 
 had Mistress Page said when this last prank was arranged. 
 
 While Mistress Quickly obtained Sir John's promise to assume the semblance of 
 Heme, the hunter, and come to the oak at the hour of midnight. Master Fenton was 
 in another room of the Garter Inn, divulging a scheme of his own to the host : — 
 
 "To-night at Heme's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one. 
 Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen; 
 The purpose why, is here: in which disguise, 
 While other jests are something rank on foot. 
 Her father hath commanded her to slip 
 Away with Slender, and with him at Eton 
 Immediately to marry: she hath consented: 
 Now, sir. 
 
 Her mother, even strong against that match 
 And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed 
 That lie shall likewise shuffle her away. 
 While other sports are tasking of their minds. 
 And at tlie deanery, where a priest attends. 
 Straight marry her: to this her mother's plot 
 She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath 
 Made promise to the doctor. — Now, thus it rests : 
 Her fatlier means she shall be all in white. 
 And in that habit, when Slender sees his time 
 To take her by the hand and bid her go, 
 She shall go with him: her mother hath intended. 
 The better to denote her to the doctor, 
 For they must all be masked and vizarded. 
 That quaint in green she shall be loose enrobed. 
 With ribands pendent, flaring 'bout her head ; 
 And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe. 
 To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token. 
 The maid hath given consent to go with him." 
 
 The host inquired whether the maiden intended then to deceive her father or her 
 mother. Said Fenton : 
 
 " Both, my good host, to go along with me : 
 And here it rests, that you'll procure the vicar 
 To stay for me at church 'twixt twelve and one. 
 And, in tlie lawful name of marrying. 
 To give our hearts united ceremony." 
 
 And he was made happy l^y the assurance that all should be managed as he wished. 
 
 The night proved dark, which was in favor ot the game about to be played. 
 Master Page gave directions to Slender as to escaping with Anne ; Mistress Page did 
 the same by Dr. Cains; and meanwhile Sir Hugh Evans led the band of fairies to 
 the place of concealment, wherein they should await the arrival of FalstafE. 
 
 519 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF "WINDSOR. 
 
 Presently lie reached the oak with his buck's head on, and Mistress Page and 
 Mistress Ford quickly joined him, but instantly declared they heard a noise, and ran 
 away. Before the stout knight could follow their example, he was surrounded by the 
 pretended elves, who flashed their tapers in his face, and uttered such shrill cries that 
 he sank down on the ground, murmuring, — 
 
 " They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die." 
 
 Then Mistress Quickly, in the character of queen, sang out her orders to her 
 attendant sprites; to execute which, they should presently disperse: — 
 
 " But till 'tis one o'clock, 
 Our dance of custom round about the oak 
 Of Heme, the hunter, let us not forget." 
 
 Already were they locked hand in hand, when one (it was Evans) cried that he 
 could "smell a man of middle-earth," and the queen bade them touch the end of his 
 
 finger with what she termed "trial-fire," which would give him no pain if he were 
 pure and good, whereas, if he started, it would prove he was corrupt at heart. Help- 
 less and terrified, Sir John crouched down beneath the oak at this utterance;* but 
 when they singed him slightly with their tapers, he groaned with pain, and they called 
 out that he was corrupt, and, dancing round him, sang a scornfitl song, denouncing 
 his bad character, which ended in a sort of chorus, thus: — 
 
 "Pinch him, fairies, mutually; 
 Pinch him for his villany; 
 Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about, 
 Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out." 
 550 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 While this was going on, Doctor Caius came near and stole off with a fairy in green; 
 Slender ajipeared from another direction, and made esca2)e with a fairy in M'hite; 
 while Fenton got the hand of his dear Anne Page, and hurried off to where the vicar 
 awaited him. All the other fairies disappeared; and Falstaff ^lulled off his buck's 
 head and rose from the ground. But Master Ford, with his wife and Mistress Page, 
 laid hold of him, and, disclosed the whole trick concocted for his discovery and 
 shame. ; 
 
 He had not a word to say in excuse, and he saw he was in their power; but they, 
 thinking his punishment already sufficient to teach him better conduct, let him 
 loose — nay, even Page invited him to come home and eat a posset in honor of Anne's 
 marriage with Master Slender. Mistress Page laughed at this, knowing, as she 
 thought, that their daughter was the wife of Doctor Caius by now. But both of 
 them were soon undeceived; for Slender appeared, crying out that he had taken 
 Anne, as he believed, from the fairy ring, and it proved to be the post boy; and the 
 doctor followed him with a similar tale. Master Fenton's appearance with the bride 
 cleared iip the mystery; and as the marriage was over, and could not be undone, both 
 Master and Mistress Page made the best of it, and Avished the young folk happiness 
 and long life. Then they invited every one in to make merry by their fireside — even 
 Sir John Falstaff, who, we will hope, was a wiser man after he had been dealt with 
 by the merry wives of Windsor. 
 
 551 
 
King Lear. 
 
 Leae, King of Britain. 
 
 King of Feance. 
 
 Duke of Bukguxdy. 
 
 Duke of Coexwall. 
 
 Duke of Albany. 
 
 Earl of Kent. 
 
 Earl of Glostee. 
 
 Edgar, Son to Gloster. 
 
 Edmund, Bastard Son to Gloster. 
 
 CuEAN, a Courtier. 
 
 Old 31an, Tenant to Gloster. 
 
 Physician. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON jE. 
 
 Fool. 
 
 OsTYALD, Steioart to Goneril. 
 
 An Officer emjAoyed hy Edmund. 
 
 Gentleman, Attendant on Cordelia. 
 
 A Herald. 
 
 Servants to Cornioall. 
 
 GONEEIL, 
 
 Began, 
 coedelia, 
 
 Dauglitcrs to Lear, 
 
 Knights attending on the King, Officers, 
 Messengers, Soldiers, and Attoidants. 
 
 SCENE— Beitain. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. A Room of State in King Lear's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Kent, Glostee, a^rZ Edmund. 
 
 Kent. I thought, the King had more 
 affected the duke of Albany, than Corn- 
 wall. 
 
 Glo. It did alwa3^s seem so to us: but 
 now, in the division of the kingdom, it 
 appears not which of the dukes he values 
 most; for equalities are so weigh'd that 
 curiosity in neither can make choice of 
 either's moiety. 
 
 Keyit. Is this your son, my lord? 
 
 Glo. His breeding, sir, hath been at 
 my charge: I have so often blush'd to 
 acknowledge him, that now I am brazed to 
 it. Do you smell a fault? 
 
 Kent. I cannot wish the fault undone, 
 the issue of it being so proper. 
 
 Glo. But I have, sir, a son, by order 
 of law, some year elder than this, who 
 
 yet is no dearer in my account: — Do j-ou 
 know this noble gentleman, Edmund? 
 
 Edm. No, my lord. 
 
 Glo. My lord of Kent: remember him 
 hereafter as my honorable friend. 
 
 Edm. My services to your lordship. 
 
 Kent. I must love you, and sue to know 
 you better. 
 
 Edm. Sir, I shall stiidy deserving. 
 
 Glo. He hath been out nine years, and 
 
 away he shall again: — The king is coming. 
 
 YTrumpets sound within. 
 
 Enter Lear, Coenwall, Albany, Gon- 
 eril, Regan, Cordelia, and Attend- 
 ants. 
 
 Lear. Attend the lords of France and 
 Burgundy, Gloster. 
 
 Glo. I shall, my liege. 
 
 \Exeunt Gloster and Edmund. 
 I^ear. Meantime we shall express our 
 darker purpose. 
 
 552 
 
Act I. 
 
 KIXG LEAR. 
 
 SCEKE I. 
 
 Grive me the map there. — Know, that we 
 
 have divided, 
 In three, our kingdom: and 'tis our fast 
 
 intent 
 To shake all cares and business from our 
 
 age: 
 Conferring them on younger strengths, 
 
 while we 
 Unburden'd crawl toward death. — Our son 
 
 of Cornwall, 
 And you, our no less loving sou of Albanj-, 
 We have this hour a constant v;ill to pub- 
 lish 
 Our daughters' several dowers, that future 
 
 strife 
 May be prevented now. The jirinces, 
 
 France and Burgundy, 
 Great rivals in our j'oungest daughter's 
 
 love. 
 Long in our court have made tlieir amor- 
 ous sojurn. 
 And here are to be answer'd. — Tell me, 
 
 my daughters, 
 (Since now M'e will divest us, both of rule. 
 Interest of territory, cares of state,) 
 Which of you, shall we say, doth love us 
 
 most? 
 That we our largest bounty may extend 
 Where merit doth most challenge it. — 
 
 Goneril, 
 Our eldest-born, speak iirst. 
 
 Gon. Sir, I 
 
 Do love you more than words can wield 
 
 the matter. 
 Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty; 
 Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; 
 No less than life, with grace, health, 
 
 beauty, honor: 
 As much as child e'er lov'd, or father 
 
 found. 
 A love that makes breath poor, and 
 
 speech unable; 
 Beyond all manner of so mucli I love you . 
 Cor. AVhat shall Cornelia do? love and 
 
 be silent. \^Asicle. 
 
 Lear, Of all these bounds, even from 
 
 this line to this, 
 
 With shadowy forests and with champains 
 rich'd, 
 
 With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted 
 meads. 
 
 We make thee lady: To thine and Al- 
 bany's issue 
 
 Be this perpetual. — What says our second 
 daughter. 
 
 Our dearest Eegan, wife to Cornwall? 
 Speak. 
 licfj. I am made of that self metal as 
 my sister. 
 
 And prize meat her worth. In ni}' true 
 heart 
 
 I find, she names my very deed of love; 
 
 Only she comes too short, — that I profess 
 
 Myself an enemy to all other joys, 
 
 Which the most precious square of sense 
 possesses; 
 
 And find, I am alone felicitate 
 
 In your dear highness' love. 
 
 Cor. Then poor Cordelia! [Aside. 
 
 And 3'et not so; since, I am sure, mj 
 love's 
 
 More richer than my tongue. 
 
 Lear. To thee, and thine hereditar}^ 
 ever. 
 
 Remain this ample third of our fair king- 
 dom: 
 
 Xo less in space, validity, and pleasure. 
 
 Than that confirm'd on Goneril. — Now,, 
 our joy. 
 
 Although the last, not least; to whose 
 young love 
 
 The vines of France, and milk of Bur- 
 gundy, 
 
 Strive to be interess'd: Avhat can you say 
 to draw 
 
 A third more opulent than your sisters? 
 Speak. 
 Cor. Nothing, my lord. 
 Lear. Nothing? 
 Cor, Nothing. 
 Lear. Nothing can come of nothing: 
 
 speak again. 
 Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot 
 heave 
 
Act 1. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 My heart into my month: I love your 
 
 majesty 
 According to my bond; nor more nor less 
 Lear. How, how, Cordelia? mend 
 
 your sj^eech a little. 
 Lest it may mar your fortunes. 
 
 Cor. Good, my lord, 
 
 You have begot me, bred me, lov'd me: I 
 Eeturn those duties back as are right fit, 
 Obey you, love 3'ou, and most honor you. 
 Why have my sistershusbands,if they say. 
 They love you, all? Haply, when I shall 
 
 wed. 
 That lord, whose hand must take my 
 
 plight, shall carry 
 Half my love with him, half my care, and 
 
 duty: 
 Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters. 
 To love my father all. 
 
 Lear. But goes this with thy heart? 
 Cor, Ay, good my lord. 
 
 Lear. So young, and so untender? 
 Cor. So young, my lord, and true. 
 Lear. Let it be so, — Thy truth then 
 
 be thy dower: 
 For, by the sacred radiance of the sun; 
 The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; 
 By all the o^aerations of the orbs. 
 From whom we do exist, and cease to be; I 
 Here I disclaim all my paternal care, j 
 
 Propinquity, and property of blood, | 
 
 And as a stranger to my heart and me 
 Hold thee, from this for ever. The bar- | 
 
 barous Scythian, I 
 
 Or he that makes his generation messes 
 To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom 
 Be as well neighbor'd, pitied, and re- 
 
 liev'd. 
 As thou my sometime daughter, 
 
 Kent. Good my liege, — 
 
 Lear. Peace, Kent. 
 Come not between the dragon and his 
 
 wratli : 
 I lov'd her most, and thought to set my 
 
 rest 
 On her kind nursery. — Hence, and avoid 
 
 my sight I — [To Cordelia, 
 
 So be m}' grave my peace, as here I give 
 Her father's heart from her I — Call 
 
 France; — who stirs? 
 Call Burgundy, — Cornwall, and Albany, 
 With my two daughters' dowers digest 
 
 this third: 
 Let pride, which she calls plainness, 
 
 marry her. 
 I do invest you jointly with my power, 
 Pre-eminence, and all the large effects 
 That troop with majesty. — Ourself, by 
 
 monthly course, 
 With reservation of an hundred knights. 
 By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode 
 Make with you by due turns. Only we 
 
 still retain 
 The name, and all the additions to a 
 
 king; 
 The sway. 
 
 Revenue, execution of the rest. 
 Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm, 
 This coronet part between you, 
 
 [Givi7i(/ the CroiL'H. 
 Kent. Roj^al Lear, 
 
 Whom I have ever honor'd as my king, 
 Lov'd as my father, as my master follow'd. 
 As my great patron thought on in my 
 
 prayers, — 
 Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, 
 
 make from the shaft. 
 Kent. Let it fall rather, though the 
 
 fork invade 
 The region of my heart: be Kent un- 
 mannerly; 
 When Lear is mad, Wiiat Avouldst thou 
 
 do, old man? 
 Thiuk'st thou, that duty shall have dread 
 
 to sjoeak. 
 When power to flattery bows? To jilain- 
 
 ness honor's bound. 
 When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse 
 
 thy doom; 
 And, in thy best consideration, check 
 This hidious rashness: answer my life my 
 
 judgment. 
 The youngest daughter does not love thee 
 
 least; 
 
 554 
 
Act I. 
 
 KING LEAK. 
 
 SCEKE I. 
 
 Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low 
 
 I\^eni. Fare thee well, king: since thus 
 
 sound 
 
 thou wilt appear. 
 
 Eeverbs no hollowness. 
 
 Freedom lives hence, and banishment is 
 
 Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. 
 
 here. — 
 
 Kent. My life I never held but as a 
 
 The gods to their dear shelter take thee. 
 
 pawn 
 
 maid, [To Cordelia. 
 
 To wage against thine enemies; nor fear 
 
 That justly think'st, and hast most riglitly 
 
 to lose it, 
 
 said! — 
 
 Thy safety being the motive. 
 
 And your large speeches may your deeds 
 
 Lear. Out of my sight! 
 
 approve, 
 
 li^ent. See better, Lear; and let me 
 
 [To Eegan and Goneril. 
 
 still remain 
 
 That good effects may spring from words 
 
 The true blank of thine eye. 
 
 of love. — 
 
 Lear. Now, by Apollo, — 
 
 Thus Kent, princess, bids you all 
 
 Is^ent. Now, by Apollo, king, 
 
 adieu; 
 
 Thou swear'st thy gods in vain. 
 
 He'll shape his old course in a countiy 
 
 Lear. 0, vassal, miscreant! 
 
 new. [Exit. 
 
 \Luying Ins hand on his sword. 
 
 
 Alb. Corn. ' Dear sir, forbear. 
 
 Ilc-enter Gloster; witli France, Bur- 
 
 I{ent. Do; 
 
 gundy, and Attendants. 
 
 Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow 
 
 
 Upon the foul disease. Kevoke thy gift; 
 
 Glo. Here's France and Burgund\% 
 
 Or whilst I can vent clamor from my 
 
 my noble lord, 
 
 throat. 
 
 Lear. My lord of Burgundy, 
 
 I'll tell thee, thou dost evil. 
 
 We first address toward you, who with 
 
 Zrar. Hear me, recreant! 
 
 this king 
 
 On thine allegiance hear me! — 
 
 Hath rivall'd for our daughter; "What, in 
 
 Since thou hast sought to make us break 
 
 the least. 
 
 our vow, 
 
 Will you require in present dower with 
 
 (Wliich we durst never yet,) and, with 
 
 her, 
 
 strain'd pride. 
 
 Or cease your quest of love? 
 
 To come betwixt our sentence and our 
 
 Bur. Most royal majest}-. 
 
 power; 
 
 I crave no more than hath your highness 
 
 (AYhich nor our nature nor our place can 
 
 offer'd. 
 
 bear,) 
 
 Nor will you tender less. 
 
 Our potency make good, .take thy re- 
 
 Lear. Right noble Burgundy, 
 
 ward. 
 
 When she was dear to us, we did hold lier 
 
 Five days we do allot thee, for provision 
 
 so; 
 
 To shield thee from diseases of the world: 
 
 But now her price is fall'n: Sir. there 
 
 And, on the six, to turn thy hated back 
 
 she stands; 
 
 Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day 
 
 If aught within that little, seeming sub- 
 
 following, 
 
 stance. 
 
 Thy banished trunk be found in our 
 
 Or, all of it, with our displeasure piec'd. 
 
 dominions, 
 
 And nothing more, may fitly like your 
 
 The moment is thy death: Away! By 
 
 grace. 
 
 Jupiter, 
 
 She's there, aiul she is yours. 
 
 This shall not be rcvok'd. 
 
 Bur. I know no answer. 
 
Act. I. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene. 1. 
 
 Lear, Sir, 
 
 Will 3^ou, with those infirmities she owes, 
 
 Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate, 
 
 Dower'd with our curse, and stranger'd 
 with our oath, 
 
 Take her, or leave her? 
 
 Bur. Pardon me, royal sir; 
 
 Election makes not up on such condi- 
 tions. 
 Lear. Then leave her, sir; for, hy the 
 power that made me, 
 
 I tell you all her wealth. — For you, great 
 king, 
 
 \_To France. 
 
 I would not from your love make such a 
 stray, 
 
 To match you where I hate; therefore be- 
 seech you 
 
 To avert your liking a more worthier way. 
 
 Than on a wretch whom nature is 
 asham'd 
 
 Almost to acknowledge hers. 
 
 France. This is most strange! 
 
 That she, that even but now was your 
 best object, 
 
 The argument of your praise, balm of 
 your age, 
 
 Most best, most dearest, should in this 
 trice of time 
 
 Commit a thing so monstrous, to dis- 
 mantle 
 
 So many folds of favor! Sure, her offense 
 
 Must be of such unnatural degree, 
 
 That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd 
 affection 
 
 Fall into taint: which to believe of her, 
 
 Must be a faith, that reason without 
 miracle 
 
 Could never plant in me. 
 
 Cw. I yet beseech your majesty, 
 
 (If for I want that glib and oily art. 
 
 To speak and purpose not; since what I 
 well intend^ 
 
 I'll do't before I speak,) that you make 
 known 
 
 It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness. 
 
 No unchaste action or dishonor'd step. 
 
 That hath depriv'd me of your grace and 
 
 favor : 
 But even for want of that, for which I 
 
 am richer; 
 A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue 
 That I am glad I have not, though not to 
 
 have it. 
 Hath lost me in your liking. 
 
 Lear. Better thou 
 
 Hadst not been born, than not to have 
 
 pleas'd me better. 
 France. Is it but this? a tardiness in 
 
 nature. 
 Which often leaves the history unspoke. 
 That it intends to do? — My lord of Bur- 
 gundy, 
 What say you to the lady? Love is not love, 
 When it is mingled with respects, that 
 
 stand 
 Aloof from the entire jioint. Will you 
 
 have her? 
 She is herself a dowry. 
 
 Bur. Royal Lear, 
 
 Give but that portion -which yourself pro- 
 
 pos'd. 
 And here I take Cordelia liy the hand, 
 Duchess of Burgundy. 
 
 Lear Nothing: I have sworn; I am 
 
 firm. 
 Bur. I am sorry then, you have so 
 
 lost a father. 
 That you must lose a husband. 
 
 Cor. Peace bewitli Burgundy! 
 
 Since that respect of fortune are his love, 
 I shall not be his wife. 
 
 France. Fairest Cordelia, thou art 
 
 most rich, being poor; 
 Most choice, forsaken: and most Icv'd, 
 
 despis'd! 
 Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon : 
 Be it lawful, I take up what's cast away. 
 Gods, gods! 'tis strange, that from their 
 
 cold'st neglect 
 My love should • kindle to infiam'd 
 
 respect, — 
 Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to 
 
 my chance. 
 
 556 
 
Act. I. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair 
 
 France: 
 Not all the dukes of wat'rish Burgundy 
 Siiali buy this unpriz'd jn-ecious maid of 
 
 me. — 
 Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though 
 
 unkind: 
 Thou losest here, a better where to find. 
 Lear. Thou hast her, France: let her 
 
 be thine; for we 
 Have no such daughter, nor shall ever 
 
 see 
 That face of hers again: — Therefore be 
 
 grt-.e, 
 Without our grace, our love, our beni- 
 
 zon. — 
 Come, noble Burgundy. 
 
 \^Flurish. Eveunt Lear, Bur(jundij, 
 
 Cormoall, Albany, Gloster ' and 
 
 Attendants. 
 France. Bid farewell to your sisters. 
 Cor. The jewels of our father, with 
 
 wash'd eyes 
 Cordelia leaves you; I know you what 
 
 you are; 
 And, like a sister, am most loath to call 
 Your faults, as they are nam'd. Use 
 
 Avell our father: 
 To your professed bosoms I commit him: 
 But yet, alas! stood I within his grace, 
 I would prefer him to abetter place. 
 So farewell to you both. 
 
 Oon. Prescribe not us our duties. 
 I\c(j. Let your study 
 
 Be, to content your lord; who hath 
 
 receiv'd you 
 At fortune's alms. You have obedience 
 
 scanted. 
 And well are worth the want that you 
 
 have wanted. 
 Cor. Time shall iinfold what plaited 
 
 cunning hides; 
 Who cover faults, at last shame them 
 
 derides 
 Well may you prosper! 
 
 France. Come, my fair Cordelia. 
 
 [Fxennt France and Cordelia. 
 
 Gon. Sister, it is not a little I have to 
 say, of what most nearly appertains to us 
 both. I think, our father will hence to- 
 night. 
 
 Beg. That's most certain, and with 
 you; next month with us. 
 
 Gon. You see how full of changes his 
 age is: the obseravtion we have made of it 
 hath not been little: he always lov'd our 
 sister most; and with what poor judg- 
 ment he hath now cast her off appears too 
 grossly. 
 
 Beg. 'Tis the infirmity of his age: ye 
 he hath ever but slenderly known bin: 
 self. 
 
 Gon. The best and soundest of his 
 time hath been but rash; then must we 
 look to receive from his age, not alone the 
 imperfections of long-engrafted condition, 
 but therewithal, the unruly waywardness 
 that infirm and choleric years bring with 
 them. 
 
 Beg. Such i;nconstant starts are we 
 like to have from him, as this of Kent's 
 banishment. 
 
 Gon. There is further compliment of 
 leaving-taking between France and him. 
 Pray you, let us hit together: If our 
 father carry authority wilh such disposi- 
 tions as he bears, this last surrender of his 
 will but offend us. 
 
 Beg. We shall further think of it. 
 
 Gon. We must do something, and i' 
 the heat. \^Exetint. 
 
 ScBUTE II. A Hall in the Earl of Glos- 
 ter's Castle. 
 
 Enter Edmund, with a Letter. 
 
 Edm. Thou, nature, art my goddess; 
 
 to thy law 
 My services are bound- Wherefore should I. 
 Stand in the plague of custom; and 
 
 permit 
 The curiosity of nations to deprive me. 
 For that I am some twelve or fourteen 
 
 moon-shines 
 
Act. I. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Lag of a brother? Why bastard? where- 
 fore base? 
 
 When my dimensions are as well com- 
 pact. 
 
 My mind as generous, and my shape as 
 true, 
 
 As honest madam's issue? Why brand 
 they us 
 
 With base? with baseness? bastardy? 
 Well then. 
 
 Legitimate Edgar, I must have your 
 land : 
 
 Our father's love is to the bastard Ed- 
 mund, 
 
 As to the legitimate: Fine word, — legiti- 
 mate ! 
 
 Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed. 
 
 And my invention thrive, Edmund the 
 base 
 
 Shall top the legitimate. I grow; I 
 prosper: — 
 
 Xow, gods, stand up for bastards! 
 
 Enter Gloster. 
 
 Glo. Kent banish'd thus! And France 
 in choler parted! 
 And the king gone to-night! subscrib'd 
 
 his power! 
 Confin'd to exhibition! All this done 
 
 L^ponthegad! Edmund! How now? 
 
 what news? 
 Edm. So please your lordship, none. 
 [Putting up the Letter. 
 Glo. Why so earnestly seek you to ^mt 
 
 up that letter? 
 Edm. I know no news, my lord. 
 Glo. What paper were you reading ? 
 Edm. Xothing, my lord. 
 Glo. Xo ? What needed then that ter- 
 rible despatch of it into your pocket ? the 
 quality of nothing hath not such need to 
 hide itself. Let's see: Come, if it be 
 nothing I shall not need spectacles. 
 
 Edm. I beseech you, sir, pardon me: 
 it is a letter from my brother, that I have 
 not all o'er read; for so much as I have 
 
 perused, I find it not fit for your over- 
 looking. 
 
 Glo. Give me the letter, sir. 
 
 Edm. I shall offend, either to detain 
 or give it. The contents, as in part I 
 understand them, are to blame. 
 
 Glo. Let's see, let's see. 
 
 Edm. I hope, for my brother's justifi- 
 cation, he wrote this but as an essay or 
 taste of my virtue. 
 
 Glo. [Heads.] Tliis i^olicy, and rever- 
 ence of age, makes the world bitter to tite 
 hestof our times; Jceeps our fortunes from 
 us, till our oldness cannot relish them. I 
 begin to fiiid an idle and fond bondage in 
 the 02)2)ression of aged tyranny; who 
 sivays, not as it hath power, bnt as it is 
 suffered. Come to me, that of this I may 
 speak more. If our father would sleep 
 ill I wciked him, yo%t, should enjoy half 
 his revenue for ever, and live the beloved 
 of yoiir brother, Edgar. — Humph — Con- 
 spiracy! — Sleep till I loaTced him — you 
 should enjoy half his revemie. — My son 
 Edgar! Had he a hand to write this ? a 
 heart and brain to breed it in? — When 
 came this to you? Who brought it? 
 
 Edm. It was not brought me ; my 
 lord, there's the cunning of it; I found it 
 thrown in at the casement of my closet. 
 
 Glo. You know the character to be 
 your brother's ? 
 
 Edm. If the matter were good, my 
 lord, I durst swear it were his; but in re- 
 spect of that, I would fain think it were 
 not. 
 
 Glo. It is his. 
 
 Edm. It is his hand, my lord; but, I 
 hope, his heart is not in the contents. 
 
 Glo. Hath he never heretofore sounded 
 you in this business? 
 
 Edm. Xever, my lord; but I have 
 often heard him maintain it to be fit, 
 that, sons at perfect age, and fathers de- 
 clining, the father should be as ward to 
 the son, and the son manage his reve- 
 nue. 
 
 ocS 
 
Act. I. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 SCEKE II. 
 
 Glo. villain, villain ! — His very 
 opinion in the letter! — Abhored villain I 
 Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! 
 worse than brutish! — Go, sirrah, seek 
 him; I'll apprehend him: — Abominable 
 villain ! — Where is he ? 
 
 Edm. I do not well know, my lord. 
 If it shall please you to suspend your in- 
 dignation against my brother, till you can 
 derive from him better testimony of his 
 intent, you shall run a certain course; 
 where, if you violently proceed against 
 him, mistaking his purpose, it would 
 make a great gaj:) in your own honor, 
 and shake in pieces the heart of his obe- 
 dience. I dare pawn down m}^ life for 
 him, that he hath writ this to feel my 
 affection to your honor, and to no other 
 pretence of danger. 
 
 Glo. Think you so ? 
 
 Edm. If your honor judge it meet, I 
 will place you where you shall hear us 
 confer of this, and by an auricular assur- 
 ance have your satisfaction; and that 
 without any further delay than this very 
 evening. 
 
 GJo. He cannot be such a monster. 
 
 Edm. Nor is not, sui-e. 
 
 Glo. To his father, that so tenderly 
 and entirely loves him. — Heaven and 
 earth! — Edmund, seek him out; wind 
 me into him, I pray you: frame the busi- 
 ness after your own wisdom: I would un- 
 state myself, to be in a due resolution. 
 
 Edm. I will seek him, sir, jiresently; 
 convey the business as I shall find means, 
 and acquaint you withal. 
 
 Glo. These late eclipses in the sun 
 and moon portend no good to us: Though 
 the wisdom of nature can reason it thus 
 and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged 
 by the sequent effects: love cools, friend- 
 ship falls off, brothers divide: in cities, 
 mutinies; in countries, discord; in pal- 
 aces, treason; and the bond cracked be- 
 tween son and father. This villain of 
 mine comes under the prediction ; there's 
 
 son against father: the king falls from 
 bias of nature; there's father against 
 child. We have seen the best of our 
 time: Machinations, hollowness, treach- 
 ery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us 
 disquietly to our graves! — Find out this 
 villain, Edmund, it shall lose thee noth- 
 ing; do it carefully: — And the noble 
 and true-hearted Kent banished ! his 
 offense, honesty! Strange! strange ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 Edm. This is the excellent foppery of 
 the world ! that when we are sick in for- 
 tune (often the surfeit of our own behav- 
 ior), we make guilty of our disasters, the 
 sun, the moon, and the stars : as if we were 
 villains by necessity; fools, by heavenly 
 compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treach- 
 ers, by spherical predominance ; drunk- 
 ards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced 
 obedience of planetary influence ; and all 
 that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting 
 on: An admirable evasion of man, to lay 
 his ill disposition to the charge of a star I 
 Edgar — 
 
 Enter Edgar. 
 
 and pat he comes, like the catastrophe 
 of the old comedy: My cue is villainous 
 melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o 
 Bedlam. — 0, these eclipses do portend 
 these divisions ! fa, sol, la, mi. 
 
 Edg. How now, brother Edmund? 
 What serious contemplation are you in? 
 
 Edm. I am thinking, brother, of a 
 prediction I read this other day, what 
 should follow these eclipses. 
 
 Edg. Do you busy yourself with that? 
 
 Edm. I promise you, the effects he 
 writes of, succeed unhappily ; as of 
 unnaturalness between the child and the 
 parent ; death, dearth, dissolutions of an- 
 cient amities; divisions in state, menaces 
 and maledictions against king and nobles; 
 needless diffidences, banishment of friends, 
 dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, 
 and I know not what. 
 
 550 
 
Act. 1. 
 
 KIXG LEAE. 
 
 SCEXE III. 
 
 Edg. How long have you been a sec- 
 tary astronomical ? 
 
 Eclm. Come, come: when saw you my 
 father last ? 
 
 Edg. Why, the night gone by. 
 
 Edm. Spake you with him ? 
 
 Edg. Ay, two hours together. 
 
 Edm. Parted you in good terms ? 
 Found you no displeasure in him, by 
 word or countenance? 
 
 Edg. ISTone ar all. 
 
 Edm. Bethink yourself, wherein you 
 may have offended him: and at my en- 
 treaty, f 01 bear his presence, till some lit- 
 tle time hath qualified the heat of his 
 displeasure; which at this instant so 
 rageth in him, that with the mischief of 
 your person it would scarcely allay. 
 
 Edg. Some villain hath done me wrong. 
 
 Edm. That's my fear. I pray you, 
 liave a continent forbearance, till the 
 speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I 
 say, retire with me to my lodging, from 
 whence I will fitly bring you to hear my 
 lord speak: Pray you, go; there's my 
 key: — If you do stir abroad, go armed. 
 
 Edg. Armed, brother? 
 
 Edm. Brother, I advise you to the 
 best, go armed; I am no honest man, if 
 there be any good meaning towards you: I 
 have told you what I have seen and heard, 
 bnt faintly; nothing like the image and 
 horror of it: Pray you, away. 
 
 Edg. Shall I hear from you anon? 
 
 Edm. I do serve you in this busi- 
 ness. — 
 
 \_Exit Edgnr. 
 A credulous father, and a brother noble. 
 Whose nature is so far from doing harms, 
 That he suspects none; on whose foolish 
 
 honesty 
 My practices ride easy! — I see the busi- 
 ness. — 
 Let me, if not by birth, have lands by 
 
 wit: 
 All with me's meet, that I can fashion 
 fit. [Exit. 
 
 ScEifE III. A Room in the Duke of 
 Albany's Palace. 
 
 Enter Goxeril and Stewart. 
 
 Gon. Did my father strike my gentle- 
 man for chiding of his fool? 
 Stew. Ay, madam. 
 Gon. By day and night I he wrongs 
 
 me; every hour 
 He flashes into one gross crime or other. 
 That sets us all at odds: I'll not endure 
 
 it: 
 His knights grow riotous, and himself ujd- 
 
 braid us 
 On every trifle: — When he returns from 
 
 hunting, 
 I will not speak with him: say, I am 
 
 sick: — 
 If you come slack of former services. 
 You shall do well; the fault of it I'll 
 
 answer. 
 Steiv. He's coming, madam; I hear 
 
 him, [Horns within. 
 
 Gon. Put on what wear}* negligence 
 
 you please. 
 You and your fellows; I'd have it come to 
 
 question: 
 If he dislike it, let him to my sister. 
 Whose mind and mine, I know, in that 
 
 are one, 
 Xot to be over-rul'd. Idle old man. 
 That still would manage those authorities. 
 That he hath given away! — Xow, by my 
 
 life. 
 Old fools are babes again; and must be us'd 
 With checks, as flatterers — when they are 
 
 seen abus'd. 
 Remember what I have said. 
 
 Stev\ Very well, madam. 
 
 Gon. And let his knights have colder 
 
 looks among you; 
 What grows of it, no matter; advise your 
 
 fellows so: 
 I would breed from hence occasions, and 
 
 I shall. 
 That I may speak. — I'll write straight to 
 
 my sister. 
 
 C6!D 
 
Act I. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 SCEXE IV^ 
 
 To hold ni}^ very course: — Prepare for 
 
 dinner. 
 
 \^Excunt. 
 
 ScEifE IV. A Hall in the same. 
 Enter Kent disguised. 
 
 Kent. If but as well I other accents 
 
 borrow. 
 That can my speech diffuse, my good 
 
 intent 
 May carry through itself to that full issue 
 Por which I raz'd my likeness. — Xow, 
 
 banish'd Kent, 
 If thou canst serve where thou dost stand 
 
 condemn'd, 
 (So may it come!) thy master, whom thou 
 
 lov'st, 
 Shall find thee full of labors. 
 
 Horns ivith'in. Enter Lear, Knights and 
 Attendants. 
 
 , Lear. Let me not stay a jot for din- 
 ner: go, get it ready. \Exit an Attend- 
 ant. "X How now, what art thou? 
 
 Ktni. A man, sir. 
 
 Lear. What dost thou profess? "What 
 Avouldst thou with us? 
 
 Kent. I do profess to be no less than 
 I seem; to serve him truly, that will put 
 me in trust; to love him that is honest; to 
 converse with him that is wise, and says 
 little; to fear judgment; to fight, when I 
 cannot choose; and to eat no fish. 
 
 J^ear. What art thou? 
 
 I{^ent. A very honest-hearted fellow, 
 and as poor as the king. 
 
 Lear. If thou be as poor for a subject, 
 as he is for a king, thou art poor enough. 
 Wliat would'st thou? 
 
 Kent. Service. 
 
 Lear. Who wouldst thou serve? 
 
 Kent. You. 
 
 I^ear. Dost thou know me, fellow? 
 
 Kent. No, sir; but you have that in 
 your countenance, which I would fain call 
 jnaster. 
 
 Lear. What's that? 
 
 Kent. Authority. 
 
 Lear. What service canst thou do? 
 
 Kent. I can keej) honest counsel, ride, 
 run, mar a curious tale in telling it, and 
 deliver a plain message bluntly: that 
 which ordinary men are fit for, I am 
 qualified in; and the best of me is dili- 
 gence. 
 
 Lear. How old art thou ? 
 
 Ivent. Not so young, sir, to love a 
 woman for singing; nor so old, to dote on 
 her for any thing: I have years on my 
 back fort}--eight. 
 
 Lear. Follow me; thoit shalt serve me: 
 if I like thee no worse after dinner, I will 
 not part from thee yet. — Dinner, ho, din- 
 ner! — Where's my knave? my fool? Go 
 you, and call my fool liither: 
 
 Enter Steward. 
 
 You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter? 
 
 Steio. So please you, — \Exit. 
 
 Lear. What says the fellow there? Call 
 the clotpoll back. — Where's my fool, ho? 
 — I think the world's asleep. — How now, 
 where's that mongrel? 
 
 Ivniglit. He says, my lord, your daugh- 
 ter is not well. 
 
 J^ear. Why came not the slave back to 
 me, when I call'd him? 
 
 K^night. Sir, he answered me in the 
 roundest manner, he would not. 
 
 I^ear. He would not! 
 
 Ivniglit. My lord, I know not what the 
 matter is; but, to my judgment, your 
 highness is not entertain'd with that cere- 
 menious affection as you were wont; there's 
 a great abatement of kindness appears, as 
 well in the general dependants, as in the 
 duke himself also, and your daughter. 
 
 Lear. Ha! say'st thou so? 
 
 ICnigld. I beseech you, pardon me, my 
 lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty vaw- 
 not be silent, when I think your highness 
 is wrong'd. 
 
 561 
 
Act I. 
 
 KIXG LEAR. 
 
 SCEJfE IV. 
 
 Lear. Thou bat rememher^st me of 
 mine own conception; I have perceived 
 a most faint neglect of late; which I have 
 rather blamed as mine own jealous curi- 
 osity, than as a very pretense and purpose 
 of un kindness: I will look further into't. 
 — But where's my fool? I have not seen 
 him this two days. 
 
 Kniglit. Since my young lady's gone 
 into France, sir, the fool hath much pin^d 
 away. 
 
 Lear. No more of that; I have noted 
 it well. — Go, 3"ou, and tell my daughter I 
 would speak with her. — Go you, call 
 hither my fool. — 
 
 Re-enter Steward. 
 
 0, you sir, you sir, come you hither: Who 
 am I, sir? 
 
 Steio. My lady's father. 
 
 Lear. My lady's father! my lord's 
 knave: you slave! you cur! 
 
 Steiu. I am none of this, my lord; I 
 beseech you, pardon me. 
 
 Lear. Do you bandy looks with me, 
 you rascal? [Striking him. 
 
 Steiv. I'll not be struck, my lord. 
 
 Kent. Nor tripped neither; you base 
 foot-ball player. [Trijjping uj) his Heels. 
 
 Lear. I thank thee, fellow, thou serv- 
 est me, and I'll love thee. 
 
 ICent. Come, sir, rise, away; I'll teach 
 
 you differences; away, away: If you will 
 
 measure your lubber's length again, tarry: 
 
 but away; go to: Have you wisdom? so. 
 
 \^Pushes the Steward out. 
 
 Lear. Now, my friendly knave, I 
 
 thank thee: there's earnest of thy service. 
 
 [Giving Kent Money. 
 
 Enter Fool. 
 
 Fool Let me hire him too; — Here's 
 my coxcomb. [Giving Kent Ms Cap. 
 
 Lear. How now, my pretty knave? 
 how dost thou? 
 
 Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my 
 coxcomb. 
 
 Kent. Why, fool? 
 
 Fool. Why, for taking one's part that 
 is out of favor: Nay, an thou canst not 
 smile as the wind sits, thou'lt catch cold 
 shortly: There, take my coxcomb: Why, 
 this fellow has banish'd two of his daugh- 
 ters, a did the third a blessing against his 
 will; if thou follow him, thou must needs 
 wear my coxcomb. — How now, nuncle? 
 'Would I had two coxcombs, and two 
 daughters! 
 
 Lear. Why, my boy? 
 
 Fool. If I gave them all my living, I'd 
 keep my coxcombs myself: There's mine: 
 beg another of thy daughters. 
 
 Lear. Take heed, sirrah; the whip. 
 
 Fool. Truth's a dog that must to ken- 
 nel; he must be whipp'd out, when lady, 
 the brach, may stand by the fire. 
 
 Lear. A pestilent gall to me I 
 
 Fool. Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech. 
 
 Lear. Do. 
 
 Fool. Mark it, nuncle: — 
 
 Have more titan thou shoivest, 
 Speak less than thou knowest, 
 Lend less than thou owest, 
 Ride more than thoxv goest. 
 Learn more than thou troxoest, 
 Set less than thou thr owest; 
 And thou shalt have more 
 Than two tens to a score. 
 
 Lear. This is nothing, fool. 
 
 Fool. Then 'tis like the breath of an 
 unfee'd lawyer; you gave me nothing for't: 
 Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle? 
 
 Lear. Why, no, boy; nothing can be 
 made out of nothing. 
 
 Fool. Pr'ythee, tell him, so much the 
 rent of his land comes to; he will not 
 believe a fool. [To Kent. 
 
 Lear. A bitter fool! 
 
 Fool. Dost thou know the difference, 
 my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet 
 fool? 
 
 Lear. No, lad; teach me. 
 
 562 
 
Act I. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 SCEXE IV. 
 
 Fool. That lord, tliat couiiyeU'd thee, 
 
 To give aivay thy land, 
 Come place Mm here by me, — 
 
 Or do thou for Mm stand: 
 The sweet and bitter fool 
 
 Will presently ajypear; 
 Tlie one in motley here, 
 
 The other found o^it thre^. 
 
 Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy? 
 
 Fool. AH thy other titles thou hast 
 given away; that thou wast born with. 
 
 Kent. This is not altogether fool, my 
 lord. 
 
 Fool. No, 'faith, lords and great men 
 will not let me; if I had a monopoly out, 
 they would have part on't: and ladies too, 
 they will not let me have all fool to my- 
 self; they'll be snatching. — Give me an 
 egg, nuncle, and I'll give thee two 
 crowns. 
 
 Lear "What two crowns shall they be? 
 
 Fool. Why, after I have cut the egg i' 
 the middle, and eat up the meat, the two 
 crowns of the egg. "When thou clovest 
 thy crown i' the middle and gavest away 
 both parts, thou borest thine ass on thy 
 back over the dirt: Thou hadst little wit 
 in thy bald crown, when thou gavest thy 
 golden one away. If I speak like myself 
 in this, let him be whipp'd that first finds 
 it so. 
 
 [Singing. 
 
 Fools had ne'er less grace m a year; 
 
 For wise men are groion foppish; 
 And Icnotv not Itoio their wits to wear. 
 
 Their manners are so apish. 
 
 Lear. When were you wont to be so 
 full of songs, sirrah? 
 
 Fool. I have used it, nuncle, ever since 
 thou madest thy daughters thy motlier. 
 
 [Singing. 
 
 Tlien they for sudden joy did weep; 
 
 And 1 for sorrow suiig. 
 That such a king should play bo-pesp. 
 
 And go the fools among. 
 Pr'ythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster 
 
 that can teach thy fool to lie; I would fain 
 learn to lie. 
 
 Lear. If you lie, sirrah, we'll have 
 you whipp'd. 
 
 Fool. I marvel, what kin thou and thy 
 daughters are: they'll have me whipp'd 
 for speaking true, thou'lt have me whipp'd 
 for lying; and, sometimes, I am whipp'd 
 for holding my peace. I had rather be 
 any kind of thing, than a fool: and yet I 
 would not be thee, nuncle; thou hast 
 pared thy wit o'both sides, and left noth- 
 ing in the middle; Here comes one o' the 
 parings. 
 
 Fnter Goxeril. 
 
 Lear. How now, daughter ! what 
 makes that frontlet on? Methinks, you 
 are too much of late i' the frown. 
 
 Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow, when 
 thou hadst no need to care for her frown- 
 ing; now thou artan without a figure: I 
 am better than thou art now; I am a fool, 
 thou art nothing. — Yes, forsooth, I will 
 hold my tongue; so your face [ToGoN.] 
 bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, 
 mum. 
 
 He that keeps nor crust norcrum 
 Weary of all, shall want some. — 
 That's a shefi!l'd peascod. 
 
 ^Pointing to Le.\r. 
 Gon. Not only, sir, tliis your all- 
 
 licens'd fool. 
 But other of your insolent retinue. 
 Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking 
 
 forth 
 In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, 
 I had tliought, by making this well known 
 
 unto yoa, 
 To have found a safe redress; but now 
 
 grow fearful, 
 By what yourself too late have spoke and 
 
 done. 
 That you protect this course, and put it 
 
 on 
 By your allowance; which if you should, 
 
 the fault 
 
 563 
 
Act I. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 SCEXE IV. 
 
 Would not 'scape censure, nor the redress 
 sleep; 
 
 TThich, in tlie tender of a wholesome weal. 
 
 Might in their working do you that of- 
 fense, 
 
 Which else were sliame, that then neces- 
 sity 
 
 Will call discreet proceeding. 
 Fool. For you trow, nuncle. 
 
 The hedge-sparroio fed the cuckoo so long, 
 That it had its Jiead hit off ly its young. 
 
 So, out went the candle, and we were left 
 darkling. 
 
 Lear. Are you our daughter? 
 
 Gon. Come, sir, I would, you would 
 make use of that good wisdom whereof I 
 know you are fraught; and put away these 
 dispositions, which of late transform you 
 from what you rightly are. 
 
 Fool. May not an ass know when the 
 cart draws the horse? 
 
 Lear. Does any here know me? — Why 
 this is not Lear: does Lear walk thus? 
 speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either 
 his notion weakens, or his discernings are 
 lethargied. — Sleeping or waking? — Ha! 
 sure 'tis not so. — Who is it that can tell me 
 who I am? — Lear's shadow? I would learn 
 that; for by the marks of sovereignty, 
 knowledge, and reason, I should be false 
 persuaded I had daughters. 
 
 Fool. Which they will make an obedi- 
 ent father. 
 
 Lear. Your name, fair gentlewoman? 
 
 Gon. Come, sir; 
 This admiration is much o' the favor 
 Of other your new pranks. I do beseech 
 
 you 
 To understand my j^urj^oses aright: 
 As 3-ou are old and reverend, you should 
 
 be wise; 
 Here do you keep a hundred knights and 
 
 squires: 
 Men so disorder'd, so debauch'd, and bold, 
 That this our court, infected with their 
 manners. 
 
 Shows like a riotous inn. The shame 
 doth speak 
 
 For instant remedy: Be then desir'd 
 
 By her, that else will take the thing she 
 begs, 
 
 A little to disquantity j'our train; 
 
 And the remainder, that shall still de- 
 pend. 
 
 To be such men as may besort 3-our age. 
 
 And know themselves and you. 
 
 Lear. Darkness and devilsl — 
 
 Saddle my horses; call my train togeth- 
 er — 
 
 Degenerate bastard I 111 not trouble thee; 
 
 Yet have I left a daughter. 
 
 Gon. You strike my people; and your 
 diforder'd rabble 
 
 Make servants of their betters. 
 
 Enter Albany. 
 
 Lear. Woe, that too late repents, — 
 0, sir, are j'ou come? 
 Is it your will? \To Alb.] Speak, sir. — 
 
 Prepare my horses? 
 Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend. 
 More hideous, wlien thou show'st thee in 
 
 a child. 
 Than the sea-monster! 
 
 Alb. Fray, sir, be patient. 
 
 Lear. Detested kite! thou liest: 
 
 \To GOXERIL. 
 
 My train are men of choice and rarest 
 
 parts. 
 That all particulars of duty know; 
 And in the most exact regard support 
 The worships of their name. — most 
 
 small fault. 
 How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! 
 Which, like an engine, wrench'd my 
 
 frame of nature 
 From the fix'd place; drew from my 
 
 heart all love. 
 And added to the gall. Lear, Lear, 
 
 Lear! 
 Beat at this gate that let thy folly in, 
 
 \_Striking his head. 
 
 5Sl 
 
Act I. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 SCEKE IV. 
 
 And thy dear judgment out! — Go, go, 
 
 That these hot tears, which break from 
 
 my i^eople. 
 
 me jierforce. 
 
 AJb. My lord, I aui guiltless, as I am 
 
 Should make thee worth them. — Blas^t 
 
 ignorant 
 
 and fogs upon thee! 
 
 Of what hath mov'd you. 
 
 The untented woundings of a father's 
 
 Lear. It may be so, my lord. — Hear, 
 
 curse 
 
 nature, hear; 
 
 Pierce every sense about thee! — Old fond 
 
 Dear goddess, hear! Susjiend thy purjiose. 
 
 eyes. 
 
 if 
 
 Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck you 
 
 Thou didst intend to make this creature 
 
 out; 
 
 fruitful ! 
 
 vVnd cast you, with the waters that you 
 
 Into her womb convey sterility! 
 
 lose. 
 
 Dry up in her the organs of increase; 
 
 To temper clay. — Ha! is it come to this? 
 
 And from her derogate body never spring 
 
 Let it be so: — Yet have I left a daughter. 
 
 A babe to honor her! If she must teem. 
 
 Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable; 
 
 Create her child of spleen; that it may 
 
 When she shall hear this of thee, with 
 
 live, 
 
 her nails 
 
 And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to 
 
 She'll flay thy wolfish visage. Thou shalt 
 
 her! 
 
 find. 
 
 Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of 
 
 That ril resume the shape Avhich thou 
 
 youth; 
 
 dost think 
 
 With cadent tears fret channels in her 
 
 I have cast off forever; thou shalt, I Mar- 
 
 cheeks; 
 
 rant thee. 
 
 Turn all her mother's jiains, and benefits. 
 
 [Exeunt Lear, I^ent, and Attendants. 
 
 To laughter and contempt; that she may 
 
 Gon. Do you mark that, my lord? 
 
 feel 
 
 Alh. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, 
 
 IIow sharper than a serpent's tooth it is 
 
 To the great love I bear you, — 
 
 To have a thankless child! — Away, away! 
 
 '■Gon. Pray you, content. — What, 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Oswald, ho! 
 
 Aid. Now, gods, that we adore, where- 
 
 You, sir, more knave tiian fool, after your 
 
 of comes this? 
 
 master. 
 
 CrO)i. Never afflict yourself to know 
 
 [To tlic Yool. 
 
 the cause; 
 
 Fool. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry, 
 
 But let his disposition have that scojie 
 
 and take the fool with thee. 
 
 That dotage gives it. 
 
 A fox, lulien one lias caught Iter, 
 
 
 And such a daughter. 
 
 Ite-cntcr Lear. 
 
 Should sure to tJie slaughter, 
 
 
 Lfvi!/ caj) ivovld hug a halter; 
 
 Lear. What, fifty of my followers, at 
 
 Sothefoolfolloivs after. 
 
 a clap ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Within a fortnight? 
 
 Gon. This man hath had good coun- 
 
 All). What's the matter, sir? 
 
 sel: — A hundred knights! 
 
 Lear. I'll tell thee; — Life and death! 
 
 'Tis politic, and safe, to let him keep 
 
 I am asham'd 
 
 At point, a hundred knights. Yes, that 
 
 That thou hast power to shake my man- 
 
 on every dream. 
 
 hood thus: 
 
 Each buz, each fancy, each complaint. 
 
 \To GOXEKIL. 
 
 dislike. 
 
 oei 
 
Act 1. 
 
 KING LEAK. 
 
 SCEXE Y. 
 
 He may engnard his dotage with their 
 
 powers, 
 And hold our lives in mercy. — Oswald, 
 
 I say ! — 
 All. Well, yon may fear too far, 
 Gon. Safer than trust: 
 
 Let me still take away the arms of fear. 
 Not fear still to be taken. I know his 
 
 heart: 
 What he hath utter'd, I have writ my 
 
 sister; 
 If she sustains him and his hundred 
 
 knights, 
 When I have show'd the unfitness, — 
 
 How now, Oswald? 
 
 Enter Steward. 
 
 What, have you writ that letter to my 
 sister? 
 Steiu. Ay, madam. 
 Gon. Take you some company, and 
 away to horse : 
 Inform her full of my particular fear; 
 And thereto add such reasons of your 
 
 own. 
 As may compact it more. Get you gone; 
 And hasten your return. \_Exit Steiu.'] 
 
 No, no, my lord. 
 This milky gentleness, and course of 
 
 yours. 
 Though I condemn it not, yet, under par- 
 don. 
 You are much more attask'd for want of 
 
 wisdom. 
 Than jirais'd for harmful mildness. 
 
 Alb. How far your eyes may pierce, I 
 cannot tell; 
 Striving to better, oft we mar what's well. 
 Gon. Nay, then — 
 All. Well, well; the event. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene Y. Court before tlie same. 
 Enter Leak, Kext, and Fool. 
 
 Lear. Go you before to Gloster with 
 these letters: acquaint my daughter no 
 
 further with anything you know, than 
 comes from her demand out of the letter: 
 If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be 
 there before you. 
 
 Kent. I will not sleep, my lord, till I 
 have delivered your letter. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Fool. If a man's brains were in his 
 heels, were't not in danger of kibes? 
 
 Lear Ay, boy. 
 
 Fool. Then, I pr'ythee, be merry; thy 
 wit shall not go slip-shod. 
 
 Lear. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Fool. Shalt see, thy other daughter 
 will use thee kindly: for though she's as 
 like this as a crab is like an apple, yet I 
 can tell what I can tell. 
 
 Lear. Why, what canst thou tell, my 
 boy? 
 
 Fool. She will taste as like this, as a 
 crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell, 
 why one's nose stands i' the middle of his 
 face? 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 Fool. Why, to keep his eyes on either 
 side his nose; that what a man cannot 
 smell out, he may spy into. 
 
 Lear. I did her wrong: — 
 
 Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes 
 his shell? 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 Fool. Nor I neither; but I can tell 
 why a snail has a house. 
 
 Lear. Why? 
 
 Fool. Why, to jmt his head in; not to 
 give it away to his daughters, and leave 
 his horns without a case. 
 
 Lear. I will forget my nature. — So 
 kind a father! — Be my horses ready? 
 
 Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. 
 The reason why the seven stars are no 
 more than seven, is a pretty reason. 
 
 Lear. Because they are not eight? 
 
 Fool. Yes, indeed : thou wouldest 
 make a good fool. 
 
 Lear. To take it again perforce! — 
 Monster ingratitude! 
 
 566 
 
Act. I. KING 
 
 LEAR. Scene V. 
 
 Fool, If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd 
 have thee beaten for being old before thy 
 time. 
 
 Lear. How's that? 
 
 Fool. Thou shouldst not have been 
 old, before thou hadst been wise. 
 
 Lear. let me not be mad, not mad. 
 
 sweet heaven! Keep me iu temper; I 
 would not be mad I — 
 
 Filter Gentleman. 
 
 How now! Are the horses ready? 
 Gent. Ready, my lord. 
 Lear. Come, boy. ^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. A Court within the Castle of 
 the Earl of Gloster. 
 
 Filter Edmund and Curan, meeting. 
 
 Film. Save thee, Curan. 
 
 Uur. And you, sir. I have been with 
 your father; and given him notice, that 
 the duke of Cornwall, and Regan his 
 duchess, will be here with him to-night. 
 
 Fdm. How comes that ? 
 
 Cur. Nay, I know not: You have 
 heard of the news abroad; I mean the 
 whispered ones, for they are yet but ear- 
 kissing arguments? 
 
 Ed in. Xot I; 'Pray you, what are 
 they? 
 
 Cur. Have you heard of no likely wars 
 toward, 'twixt the dukes of Cornwall and 
 Albany? 
 
 Edni. Not a word. 
 
 Cur. You may then, in time. Fare 
 you well, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Fdm. The duke be here to-night? The 
 better! Best! 
 This weaves itself j^erf orce into my busi- 
 ness! 
 My father has set guard to take my 
 
 brother; 
 And I have one thing, of a queazy ques- 
 tion. 
 Which I must act: — Briefness, and for- 
 tune, work ! — 
 Brother, a word ; descend : — Brother, I 
 
 say; 
 
 Enter Edgar. 
 
 My father watches : — sir, fly this 
 
 jilace; 
 
 Intelligence is given where you are hid; 
 You have now the good advantage of the 
 
 night: — 
 Have you not spoken 'gainst the duke of 
 
 Cornwall ? 
 He's coming hither; now, i' the night, i' 
 
 the haste. 
 And Regan with him; Have you nothing 
 
 said 
 Upon his party 'gainst the duke of Albany? 
 Advise yourself. 
 
 Edg. lam sure on't, not a word. 
 
 Fdm. I hear my father coming, — 
 Pardon me: — 
 111 cunning, I must draw my sword upon 
 
 you : — 
 Draw: Seem to defend yourself: Now 
 
 quit you well. 
 Yield: — come before my father; — Light, 
 
 ho here! — 
 Fly, brother; — Torches ! torches ! — So 
 
 farewell. — [Exit 'Edgar. 
 
 Some blood drawn on me would beget 
 
 opinion [ Wounds his Arvi. 
 
 Of my more fierce endeavor; I have seen 
 
 drunkards 
 Do more than this in sport. — Father! 
 
 father ! 
 Stop, stop! Xo help? 
 
 Enter (tLOSTER, and Servants v:ifh 
 Torches. 
 
 Glo. Now, Edmund, where's tlie vil- 
 lain? 
 
 Edin. Here stood he in the dark, his 
 sharp sword cut, 
 
 567 
 
Act II. 
 
 KIXG LEAE. 
 
 SCEXE. I. 
 
 Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring 
 
 the moon 
 To stand his auspicious mistress: — 
 
 Glo. But, where is he? 
 
 Edm. Look, sir, I bleed. 
 Glo. Where is the villain, Edmund ? 
 Echn. Fled this way, sir. When by 
 
 no means he could — 
 Qlo. Pursue him, ho! — Go after. — 
 By no m§ans, — what? 
 \Exit Serv. 
 Edm. Persuade me to the murder of 
 your lordship; 
 But that I told him, the revenging gods 
 'Gainst parricides did all their thunders 
 
 bend; 
 Spoke, with how manifold and strong a 
 
 bond 
 The child was bound to the father; — 
 
 Sir, ill fine, 
 Seeing how loathly opposite I stood 
 To his unnatural jrarpose, in fell motion. 
 
 home 
 
 My unprovided body, lanc'd mine arm: 
 
 But Avhen he saw my best alarum'd spirits. 
 
 Bold in the quarrel's right, rous'd to the 
 encounter. 
 
 Or whether gasted by the noise I made, 
 
 Full suddenly he fled. 
 
 Olo Let him fly far: 
 
 Not in this land shall he remain uncanght; 
 
 And found — Despatch. — The noble duke 
 my master. 
 
 My worthy arch and i^atron, comes to- 
 night: 
 
 By his authority I will proclaim it. 
 
 That he, which finds him, shall deserve 
 our thanks, 
 
 Bringing the murderous coward to the 
 
 stake; 
 He, that conceals him, death. 
 
 Edm. Wlien I dissuaded him from his 
 
 intent, 
 And found him pight to do it, with curst 
 
 speech 
 I threaten'd to discover liira: He replied. 
 
 Tlio^i uiqyossessing bastard.' dost ihoio. 
 
 thiiiTc, 
 If I would stand against thee, voxdd the 
 
 reposal 
 Of any trust, virtue, or worth, in thee 
 Mal-e thy words faith'd? Xo : irhat 1 
 
 should deny, 
 {As this I would; ay, thouyh tluni didst 
 
 in'oducc 
 My very character ,) I'd turn it all 
 To thy suggestion, plot, and damned jjrac- 
 
 tice: 
 And thou mast make a dtillard if the 
 
 world, 
 If they not thought the profits of my death 
 Were very pregnant and potential spurs 
 To make thee seek it. 
 
 Glo. Strong and fasten'd villain! 
 
 Would he deny his letter? — I never got 
 
 him. [Trumjjets within. 
 
 Hark, the duke's tx'umpets! I knoAv not 
 
 why he comes: — 
 
 With his prepared sword, he charges All .ports I'll bar; the villain shall not 
 
 scape; 
 The duke must grant me that: besides, 
 
 his picture 
 I will send far and near, that all the 
 
 kingdom 
 May have due note of him; and of my 
 
 land. 
 Loyal and natural boj^, I'll woi-k the 
 
 means 
 To make thee capable. 
 
 Enter Cornm'all, Regax, and Attend- 
 ants. 
 
 Corn. How now, my noble friend? 
 
 since I came hither, 
 (Which I can call but now.) I have heard 
 
 strange news. 
 Ileg. If it be true, all vengeance comes 
 
 too short. 
 Which can pursue the offender. How 
 
 dost, my lord ? 
 Glo. 0, madam, my old heart is 
 
 crack'd, is crack'd! 
 
 568 
 
Act II. 
 
 KING LEAK. 
 
 SCENK T. 
 
 Jieg. "What, did my father's godson 
 seek your life? 
 He whom my father iiam'd? your Edgar? 
 • Glo. 0, lady, lady, shame would have 
 it hid! 
 Beg. Was he not companion with the 
 riotous kniglits 
 That tend i;pon my father? 
 
 Glo. I know not, madam : 
 
 It is too bad, too bad. — 
 
 Edm. Yes, madam, lie was. 
 
 Reg. No marvel then, though he were 
 ill affected; 
 'Tis they have put him on the old man's 
 
 death. 
 To have the waste and spoil of his rev- 
 enues. 
 I liave this present evening from my sister 
 Been well-inform'd of them; and with 
 
 such cautions. 
 That, if they come to sojourn at my 
 
 house, 
 I'll not be there. 
 
 Corn. Xor I, assure thee, Regan. — 
 
 Edmund, I hear that you have shown your 
 
 father 
 A child-like office. 
 
 Edm. 'Twas my duty, sir. 
 
 Glo. He did bewray his practice; and 
 receiv'd 
 Tliis hurt you see, striving to apprehend 
 him. 
 Corn. Is he jiursued? 
 Glo. Ay, my good lord, he is. 
 
 Corn. If he be taken, he shall never 
 more 
 Be fear'd of doing harm: make your own 
 
 purpose. 
 How in my strength you please. — For you, 
 
 Edmund, 
 "WJiose virtue and obedience dotli this in- 
 stant 
 So much commend itself, you siiall be 
 
 ours; 
 Natures of such deep trust we shall mucli 
 
 need; 
 You we flrst seize on. 
 
 Edm. I shall serve you, sir^ 
 
 Truly, however else. 
 
 Glo. For him, I thank your grace. 
 Corn. You know not why we came to 
 
 visit you, — 
 Reg. Thus out of season; threading- 
 dark-eyed night. 
 Occasions, noble Gloster, of some jDoize, 
 Wherein we must have use of your ad- 
 vice: — 
 Our father, he hath Avrit, so hath our 
 
 sister. 
 Of differences, which I best tliought it 
 
 fit 
 To answer from our home; the several 
 
 messengers 
 From hence attend despatch. Our good 
 
 old friend. 
 Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow 
 Your needful counsel to our business. 
 Which craves the instant use. 
 
 Glo. I serve you, madam* 
 
 Your graces are riglit welcome. \_Exennt. 
 
 Scene II, Before Gloster's Castle. 
 Enter Kent and Steward, severally. 
 
 Steiv. Good dawning to thee, friend:. 
 Art of the house? 
 
 Kent. Ay. 
 
 Stcio. Where may we set our hoi'ses? 
 
 Kent. V the mire. 
 
 Steiv. Pr'ythee, if thou love me, tell 
 me. 
 
 Kent. I love thee not. 
 
 Steio. Why, then I care not for thee. 
 
 Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury jiiu- 
 f old, I would make thee care for me. 
 
 Ste'W. Why dost thou use me thus? I 
 know thee not. 
 
 Kent. Fellow, I know thee. 
 
 Stew. What dost thou know me for? 
 
 Kent. A knave; a rascal; an eater of 
 broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, 
 beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, 
 worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, 
 action-taking knave; aghiss-gazing, super- 
 serviceable, finical rogue; one -trunk- 
 
 coo 
 
Act II. 
 
 KIXG LEAR. 
 
 ycEXi II. 
 
 inheriting slave; nothing but the comj^o- 
 sition of a knave, beggar, and coward: 
 one whom I will beat into clamorous 
 writhing, if thou deny'st the least syllable 
 of thy addition. 
 
 Steiv. Why, what a monstrous fellow 
 art thou, thus to rail on one, that is neither 
 known of thee, nor knows thee? 
 
 Kent. What a brazen-faced varlet art 
 thou, to deny thou know'st me? Is it tM'O 
 days ago, since I tripp'd up thy heels, and 
 beat thee, before the king? Draw, you 
 rogue, for, though it be night, the moon 
 shines; I'll make a sop o' the moonshine 
 of you: Draw, you barber-monger, draw. 
 [Braic'ijig Ids sword. 
 
 Steio. Away; I have nothing to do 
 with thee. 
 
 Kent. Draw, you rascal: you come 
 with letters against the king; and take 
 Tanity the puppet's part, against the 
 royalty of her father: Draw, you rogue, 
 or I'll so carbonado your shanks: — draw, 
 you rascal; come your ways. 
 
 Stew. Help, hoi murder! help I 
 
 Kent. Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, 
 stand; you neat slave, strike. 
 
 \_Beating him. 
 
 Steiv, Hel]3, hoi murder I murder I 
 
 Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Eegax, 
 Gloster, and Servants. 
 
 Edui. HoM-now? What's the matter? 
 Part. 
 
 Kent. With you, goodman boy, if you 
 please; come, I'll flesh you; come on, young 
 master. 
 
 Glo. Weapons I arms I What's the mat- 
 ter here? 
 Corn. Keep peace, ujoon your lives; 
 He dies, that strikes again: What is the 
 matter? 
 lieg. The messengers from our sister 
 
 and the king. 
 Corn. What is your difference? speak. 
 Steio. I am scarce in breath, my lord. 
 
 Kent. Xo marvel, you have so bestirr'd 
 your valor. You cowardly rascal, nature 
 disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee. 
 
 Corn. Thou art a strange fellow: -a 
 tailor make a man? 
 
 Kent. Ay, a tailor, sir; a stone-cutter, 
 or a painter, could not have made him so 
 ill, though they had been but two hours 
 at the trade. 
 
 Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quar- 
 rel? 
 Stew. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose 
 life I have spar'd. 
 At suit of his grey beard, — 
 
 Kent. Thou zed I thou unnecessary 
 letter! — My lord, if you will give me 
 leave, I will tread this unbolted villain 
 into mortar, and daub the wall with 
 him. — Spare my grey beard, you wag- 
 tail! 
 
 Corn. Peace, sirrah! 
 You beastly knave, knoM' you no rever- 
 ence? 
 Kent. Yes, sir; but anger has a jDrivi- 
 lege. 
 
 Corn. Why art thou angry? 
 Kent. That such a slave as this should 
 wear a sword. 
 Who wears no honesty. Such smiling 
 
 rogues as these. 
 Like rats, oft bite the holy cords atwain 
 Which are too intrinse t' unloose: smooth 
 
 every passion 
 That in the natures of their lords rebels; 
 Bring oil to fire, snoAV to their colder 
 
 moods; 
 Renege, affirm, and turn their Aaicyon 
 
 beaks 
 With every gale and var}' of their mas- 
 ters. 
 As knowing nought, like dogs, but fol- 
 lowing. — 
 A plague upon your epileptic visage! 
 Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? 
 Goose, if I had you upon Sarum j^lain, 
 I'd drive ye cackling home to Camelot. 
 Corn. What, art thou mad, old fellow? 
 
Act. II. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Glo. How fell yoii ont? 
 
 Say that. 
 
 Kent. No contraries hold more aiiti])- 
 athy, 
 Than I and such a knave. 
 
 Corn. Why dost thou call him knave? 
 
 What's his offense? 
 Kent. His countenance likes me not. 
 Corn. No more, perchance, does mine, 
 
 or his, or hers. 
 Ke7it. Sir, 'tis my occujiation to be 
 plain; 
 I have seen better faces in my time 
 Than stands on any shoulder that I see 
 Before me at this instant. 
 
 Corn, This is some fellow 
 
 Who, having been jiraised for his blunt- 
 
 ness, doth affect 
 A saucy roughness; and constrains the 
 
 garb. 
 Quite from his nature: He cannot flatter, 
 
 he! — 
 An honest mind and plain, — he must 
 
 speak truth: 
 And they will take it, so; if not, he's 
 
 plain. 
 These kind of knaves I know, which in 
 
 this plainness 
 Harbor more craft, and more corrupter 
 
 ends. 
 Than twenty silly ducking observants. 
 That stretch their duties nicely. 
 
 Kent. Sir, in good sooth, in sincere 
 verity. 
 Under the allowance of your grand as- 
 pect, 
 Whose influence, like the wreath of 
 
 radiant fire 
 On flickering Phoebus' front, — 
 
 Corn. What mean'st bj' this? 
 
 Kent. To go out of my dialect, which 
 you discommend so much. I know, sir, 
 I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you, in 
 a plain accent, was a plain knave; which, 
 for my part, I will not be, though I 
 should win your displeasure to entreat me 
 to it. 
 
 Corn. What was the offense you gave 
 
 him? 
 Steiv. Never any : 
 
 It pleas'd the king his master, very late. 
 To strike at me, upon his misconstruc- 
 tion; 
 When he, conjunct, and flattering his dis- 
 pleasure, 
 Tripp'd me behind: being down, insulted, 
 
 rail'd. 
 And put upon him such a deal of man. 
 That worthy'd him, got praises of the 
 
 king 
 For him attempting who was self-sub- 
 
 du'd; 
 And, in the fleshment of tliis dread ex- 
 ploit. 
 Drew on me here. 
 
 Kent. None of these rogues, and 
 
 cowards. 
 But Ajax is their fool. 
 
 Corn. Fetch forth the stocks, ho! 
 
 You stubborn ancient knave, you rever- 
 end braggart. 
 
 We'll teach you 
 
 Kent. Sir, I am too old to learn: 
 
 Call not your stocks for me: I serve the 
 
 king; 
 On whose employment I was sent to you: 
 You shall do small respect, show to bold 
 
 malice 
 Against the grace and person of my mas- 
 ter. 
 Stocking his messenger. 
 
 Corn. Fetch forth the stocks: 
 
 As I've life and honor, there shall he sit 
 till noon. 
 Reg. Till noon! till night, my lord; 
 
 and all night too, 
 Kent. Why, madam, if I were your 
 father's dog. 
 You should not use me so. 
 
 lic(j. Sir, being his knave, I will. 
 
 \^Stoc1cs hroiigtit out. 
 Corn. This is a fellow of the self-same 
 color 
 
 571 
 
Act. it. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 Our sister speaks of: — Come, bring away 
 tlie stocks. 
 Glo. Let me beseech yonr grace not to 
 do so: 
 
 His fault is much, and the good king his 
 master 
 
 Will check him for't: your purpos'd low 
 correction 
 
 Is such, as basest and contemned'&t 
 wretches, 
 
 For pilferings and most common tres- 
 passes. 
 
 Are j)unish'd with: tlie king must take it 
 
 ■ ill. 
 That he's so slightly valued in his mes- 
 senger, 
 Should have him thus restrained. 
 
 Corn. I'll answer that. 
 
 Keg. My sister may receive it much 
 
 more worse. 
 
 To have her gentleman abus'd, assaulted. 
 
 For following her affairs. — Put in his 
 
 legs.— 
 
 [Kent is jmt in the Stocks. 
 Come, my good lord; awaj^ 
 
 [Uxetcnt Began and Cornwall. 
 Glo. I am sorry for thee, friend; 'tis 
 the duke's pleasure, 
 Whose disposition, all the world well 
 
 knows. 
 Will not be rubb'd, nor stopp'd: I'il en- 
 treat for thee. 
 ■ Kent. Pray, donot, sir; Ihave watch'd, 
 
 and travell'd hard; 
 Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll 
 
 whistle. 
 A good man's fortune may grow out at 
 
 heels: 
 Give you good morrow! 
 
 Glo. The duke's to blame in this : 'twill 
 be ill taken. \_Exit. 
 
 Kent. Good king, that must approve 
 the common saw! 
 Thou oiit of heaven's benediction com'st 
 To the warm sun! 
 
 Approach, thou beacon to this under globe. 
 That by thy comfortable beams I may 
 
 Peruse this letter! — Nothing almost sees 
 miracles. 
 
 But misery; — and I know 'tis from Corde- 
 lia; 
 
 Who hath most fortunately been inform'd 
 
 Of my obscured course, and shall find time 
 
 From this enormous state, — seeking to 
 give 
 
 Losses their- remedies: — All weary and 
 o'erwatch'd. 
 
 Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold 
 
 This shameful lodging. 
 
 Fortune, good night; smile once more; 
 turn thy wheel! [Ho sleeps. 
 
 ScE^^E III. A Part of the Heath. 
 
 Enter Edgar. 
 
 Edg. I heard myself proclaim'd : 
 And, by the happy hollow of a tree, 
 E-cap'd the hunt. No port is free; no 
 
 place. 
 That guard, and most unusual vigilance, 
 Does not attend my taking. While I may 
 
 'scape, 
 I will preserve myself: and am bethought 
 To take the basest and most poorest shape, 
 That ever penury, in contempt of man, 
 Brought near to beast: my face I'll grime 
 
 with filth; 
 Blanket my loins: elf all my hair in knots; 
 And with presented nakedness outface 
 The winds, and persecutions of the sky. 
 The country gives me proof and precedent 
 Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring 
 
 voices. 
 Strike in their numb'd and mortifi'd bare 
 
 arms 
 Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rose. 
 
 mary; 
 And with this horrible object, from \o\\ 
 
 farms. 
 Poor, pelting villages, sheep-cotes and 
 
 mills. 
 Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime^ 
 
 with prayers. 
 
Act. II. 
 
 KIXG LEAE. 
 
 SCEKK IV 
 
 Enforce their charity, — Poor TurlygoodI 
 
 2ioor Tom ! 
 That's something yet; — Edgar I notliing 
 
 am. [Exi/. 
 
 ScEXK IV. Before Gloster's Castle. 
 Enter Lear, Fool, (tnd Crcntleman. 
 
 Lea7\ 'Tis strange, that they should 
 so dejoart from home, 
 And not send back my messenger. 
 
 Goif. As I learn'd, 
 
 The night before there was no purpose in 
 
 them 
 Of this remove. 
 
 Kent. Hail to thee, noble master! 
 
 Lear. How! 
 Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime? 
 
 Kent. iS^o, my lord. 
 
 Fuol. Ha, ha; look! he wears cruel 
 garters! Horses are tied by the lieads; 
 dogs and bears, by the neck; monkies by 
 the loins; and men by the legs: Avhen a 
 man is over-lusty at legs, then he wears 
 Avooden nether stocks. 
 
 Lear. What's he, that hath so much 
 thy place mistook 
 To set thee here? 
 
 Kent. It is both he aiul she. 
 
 Your son and daughter. 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 Kent. Yes. 
 
 Lear. No, I say. 
 
 Lyent. I say, yea. 
 
 Lear. No, no; they would not. 
 
 L{ent. Yes, they have. 
 
 Lear. By Jupiter, I swear, no. 
 
 Kent. By Juno, I swear, ay. 
 
 Lear. They durst not do"t. 
 They could not, would not do't; 'tis 
 
 worse than murder. 
 To do upon respect such violent outrage: 
 llesolve me, with all modest haste, Mhich 
 
 way 
 Thou might'st deserve, or they impose, 
 
 this usage. 
 Coming from us. 
 
 1 Kent. My lord, when at their home 
 ■ I did commend your highness' letters to 
 them. 
 
 Ere I was risen from the place that show'd 
 
 My duty kneeling, came there a reeking 
 post, 
 
 Stew'd in his haste, half breathless, pant- 
 ing forth 
 
 From Goneril his mistress, salutations; 
 
 Deliver'd letters, spite of intermission, 
 
 "Which presently they read: on whose 
 contents. 
 
 They summon'd up their meiny, straight 
 took horse; 
 
 Commanded me to follow, and attend 
 
 The leisure of their answer: gave me cold 
 looks: 
 
 And meeting here the other messenger, 
 
 Whose welcome, I jierceiv'd, had poison'd 
 mine, 
 
 (Being the very fellow that of late 
 
 Displayed so saucily against your high- 
 ness,) 
 
 Having more man than wit about me, 
 drew: 
 
 He raised the house Avith loud and coward 
 cries: 
 
 Your son and daughter found this tres- 
 pass worth 
 
 The shame which here it suffers. 
 
 Fool. Winters not (jone yet, if the tvild 
 
 gee.^'cfij that way. 
 
 Fathers, that wear rags, 
 
 Do make their children blind; 
 But fathers, that hear hays, 
 Shall sec their children kind. 
 
 But, for all this, thou shalt have as many 
 dolours for thy daughters, as thou canst 
 
 tell in a year. 
 Lear. 0, how tiiis mother swells up 
 
 toward my heart ! 
 Hysterica passio! down, thou climbing 
 
 sorrow. 
 Thy element's below! — Where is this 
 
 daughter? 
 Kent. With the carl, sir. here within. 
 
 573 
 
Act II. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Lear. Follow me not; 
 
 Stay here. [Exit. 
 
 Kent. Make 30U 110 more offense than 
 what you speak of? 
 
 Kent. None. 
 How chance the king comes with so small 
 a train? 
 
 Fool. An thou haclst been set i' the 
 stocks for that question, thou hadst well 
 deserved it. 
 
 Kent. Why, fool? 
 
 Fool. We'll set thee to school to an 
 ant, to teach thee there's no laboring in 
 the winter. Let go thy hold, when a 
 great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break 
 thy neck with following it; but the great 
 one that goes up the hill, let him draw 
 thee after. When a wise man gives thee 
 better counsel, give me mine again: I 
 would have none but knaves follow it, 
 since a fool gives it. 
 That sir, tohich serves and seeks for gain, 
 
 A nd folloios but for form, 
 WillpacJi:, ichen it begins to rain, 
 
 And leave thee in the storm. 
 But I loill tarry, the fool will stay. 
 
 And let the wise man fly, 
 Tlie knave turns fool, that runs aioay; 
 
 TJiefool no knave, perdy. 
 
 Kent. Where learned you this, fool? 
 
 Fool. Not i' the stocks, fool. 
 
 Re-enter Lear ^oith Gloster. 
 
 Lear. Deny to speak with me? They 
 are sick? they are weary? 
 They have travell'd hard to-night? Mere 
 
 fetches; 
 The images of revolt and flying off ! 
 Fetch me a better answer. 
 
 Glo. My dear lord. 
 
 You know the fiery quality of the duke; 
 How unremoveable and fix'd he is 
 In his own course. 
 
 Lear. Vengeance! Plague! death! 
 confusion! 
 Fiery? what quality? Why, Gloster, 
 Gloster. 
 
 I'd speak with the duke of Cornwall, and 
 
 his wife. 
 Glo. Well, my good lord, I have in- 
 
 form'd them so. 
 Lear. Inform'd them! Dost thou un- 
 derstand me, man? 
 Glo. Ay, my good lord. 
 Lear. The king would speak with 
 
 Cornwall; the dear father 
 Would with his daughter speak, com- 
 mands her service: 
 Are they inform'd of this? My breath 
 
 and blood! — 
 Fiery? the fiery duke? — Tell the hot duke 
 
 that — 
 No, but not yet: — may be he is not Avell: 
 Infirmity doth still neglect all office. 
 Whereto our health is bound; we are not 
 
 ourselves, 
 When nature, being opress'd, commands 
 
 the mind 
 To suffer with the body: I'll forbear; 
 And am fallen out with my more headier 
 
 will. 
 To take the indispos'd and sickly fit 
 For the sound man. — Death on my state! 
 
 wherefore 
 
 {^Looking on Kext. 
 Should he sit here? This act pursuades 
 
 me, 
 That this remotion of the duke and her 
 Is practice only. Give me my servant 
 
 forth: 
 Go, tell the duke and his wife, I'd speak 
 
 with them. 
 Now, presently: bid them come forth and 
 
 hear me. 
 Or at their chamber door I'll beat the 
 
 drum, 
 Till it cry — Sleej) to death. 
 
 Glo. I'd have all well betwixt you. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Lear. me, my heart, my rising 
 
 heart! — but, down. 
 Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney 
 did to the eels, when she put them i' the 
 paste alive; she rapp'd 'em 0' the cox- 
 
 571 
 
Act, II. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene. IV 
 
 combs witli a stick, aiul cry'd, Down ican- 
 tcns, Dotun: 'Twas her brother, that in 
 pure kiuduess to his horse, buttered his 
 haj'. 
 
 Enler Cornavall, Eegan, Gloster, and 
 Servants. 
 
 Lear. Good morrow to 3-011 both. 
 
 Corn. Hail to your grace! 
 
 [Kent is set at liberty. 
 
 Reg. I am glad to see your highness. 
 
 Lear. Regan, I think you are; I know 
 
 what reason 
 
 I have to think so: if thou shouldst not 
 
 be glad, 
 I would divorce me from my mother's 
 
 tomb. 
 Sepulchring an adultress. — 0, are you 
 free? [To Kent. 
 
 Some other time for that. — Beloved 
 
 Regan, 
 Thy sister's naught: 0, Regan, she hath 
 
 tied 
 Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture 
 here. — 
 
 [Points to his heart. 
 I can scarce speak to thee; thou'lt not 
 
 believe. 
 Of how dejwav'd a quality. — 0, Regan! 
 lieg. I pray you, sir, take patience; I 
 have hope. 
 You less know how to value he- desert. 
 Than she to scant her duty. 
 
 Lear. Say, how is that? 
 
 lieg. I cannot think, my sister in the 
 least 
 AVould. fail her obligation: If, sir, per- 
 chance. 
 She have restrain'd the riots of your fol- 
 lowers, 
 'Tis on such ground, and to such whole- 
 some end. 
 As clears her from all blame. 
 Lear. My curses on her! 
 Reg. 0, sir, you are old; 
 
 Nature in you stands on the very verge 
 
 Of her confine: you should be rul'd, and 
 
 led 
 By some discretion, that discerns your 
 
 state 
 Better than you yourself: Therefore, 
 
 I pray you. 
 That to our sister you do make return; 
 Say, you have wrong'd her, sir. 
 
 Lear. Ask her forgiveness? 
 
 Do you but mark how this becomes the 
 
 house: 
 Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; 
 Age is unnecessary : on my knees I heg, 
 
 [Kneeling. 
 Tliat you'll vouchsafe me raiment, led, and 
 
 food. 
 Reg. Good sir, no more; these are un- 
 sightly tricks: 
 Return you to my sister. 
 
 Lear. Never, Regan: 
 
 She hath abated me of half my train; 
 Look'd black upon me; struck me with her 
 
 tongue. 
 Most serpent-like, upon the very heart: — 
 All the stor'd vengeances of heaven 
 
 fall 
 On her ingrateful top! Strike her young 
 
 bones. 
 You taking airs, with lameness! 
 
 Corn. Fye, fye, fye! 
 
 Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart 
 
 your blinding flames 
 Into her scornful eyes ! Infect her 
 
 beauty. 
 You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the power- 
 ful sun, 
 To fall and blast herjiride! 
 
 Reg. the blest gods! 
 
 So will j'ou wish on me, when the rash 
 
 mood's on. 
 Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never 
 
 have my curse; 
 Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give 
 Thee oe'r to harshness; her eyes are fierce, 
 
 but thine 
 Do comfort, and not burn: 'Tis not in 
 
 thee 
 
 575 
 
Act II. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 Scene IV^. 
 
 To grudge my pleasures, to cut ofE my 
 
 train, 
 To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, 
 And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt 
 Against my coming in : thou better know'st 
 The offices of nature, bond of childhood, 
 Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude; 
 Thy half o' the kingdom hast thou not 
 
 forgot, 
 lYherein I thee endow'd. 
 
 Reg. Good, sir, to the purpose. 
 
 [ Trumpets xoitlmi . 
 
 Lear. Who put my man i' the stocks? 
 
 Corn. What trumpet's that? 
 
 Enter Steward. 
 
 Beg. I know't, my sister's: this 
 ajjproves her letter, 
 That she would soon be here. — Is your 
 lady come? 
 Lear. This is a slave, whose easy bor- 
 row'd pride 
 Dwells in the fickle grace of her he fol- 
 lows: — 
 Out, varlet, from my sight! 
 
 Corn. What means your grace? 
 
 Lear. Who stock'd my servant? Ee- 
 gan, I liave good hope 
 Thou didst not know oft. — Who comes 
 here? heavens. 
 
 Enter Goneril. 
 If you do love old men, if your sweet 
 
 sway 
 Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, 
 Make it your cause; send down, and take 
 
 my part I — 
 Art not asham'd to look upon tliis 
 beard I — [To Goxeril. 
 
 0, Eegan, wilt thou take her by the 
 hand? 
 Gon. Why not by the hand, sir? How 
 have I offended? 
 All's not offense, that indiscretion finds. 
 And dotage terms so. 
 
 Lear. 0, sides, you are too tough! 
 
 Will you yet hold? — How came my man 
 i' the stocks? 
 
 Corn. I set him there, sir; but his own 
 disorders 
 
 Deserv'd much less advancement. 
 
 Lear. You ! did you ? 
 
 Beg. I pray you, father, being weak, 
 seem so. 
 
 If, till the expiration of your mouth. 
 
 You will return and sojourn with my sis- 
 ter. 
 
 Dismissing half your train, come then to 
 me; 
 
 I am now from home, and out of that 
 provision 
 
 Which shall be needful for your enter- 
 tainment. 
 Lear. Eeturn to her, and fifty men 
 dismiss'd? 
 
 No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose 
 
 To wage against the enmity o'the air; 
 
 To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, — 
 
 Necessity's sharp pinch! — Eeturn with 
 her? 
 
 Why, the hot-blooded France, that dow- 
 erless took 
 
 Our youngest born, I could as well be 
 brought 
 
 To knee his throne, and, square-like, 
 pension beg 
 
 ToQ keep base life afoot: — Eeturn with 
 her? 
 
 Persuade me rather to be slave and sump- 
 ter 
 
 To this detested groom. 
 
 [^Looking on the Steioard. 
 Gon. At your choice, sir. 
 
 Lear. I pr'ythee, daughter, do not 
 make me mad ; 
 
 I will not trouble thee, my child ; fare- 
 well: 
 
 We'll no more meet, no more see one an- 
 other: — 
 
 But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my 
 daughter; 
 
 Or, rather, a disease that's in my flesh. 
 
 Which I must needs call mine: but I'll not 
 chide; 
 
 Let shame come M'lien it will, I do call it: 
 
 576 
 
Act II. 
 
 KING LEAK. 
 
 SCEXE IV. 
 
 I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, 
 
 Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging 
 Jove; 
 
 Mend when thou canst; be better at tliy 
 leisure: 
 
 I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, 
 
 I, and my hundred knights. 
 
 Reg. Not altogether so, sir; 
 
 I look'd not for you yet, nor am pro- 
 vided 
 
 For your fit welcome: Give ear, sir, to my 
 sister; 
 
 For those that mingle reason with your 
 passion, 
 
 Must be content to think you old, and 
 so — 
 
 But she knows what she does. 
 
 Lear. Is this well spoken now? 
 
 Reg. I dare avouch it, sir: What, fifty 
 followers? 
 
 Is it not Avell? What should you need of 
 more? 
 
 Yea, or so many? si th that both charge 
 and danger 
 
 Speak 'gainst so great a number? IIow, in 
 one house. 
 
 Should many people, under two com- 
 mands, 
 
 Hold amity? 'Tis hard; almost impossible. 
 Gon. Why might not you, my lord; 
 receive attendance 
 
 TFrom those that she calls servants, or 
 from mine? 
 Reg. Why not, my lord? If then they 
 chanc'd to slack you, 
 
 We could control them: If you will come 
 to me, 
 
 (For now I spy a danger,) I entreat you 
 
 To bring but five and twenty; to no more 
 
 Will I give place or notice. 
 Lear. I gave you all — 
 Reg. . And in good time you gave it. 
 Lear. Made you my guardians, my de- 
 positaries; 
 
 But kept a reservation to be follow'd 
 
 With such a number: What, must I come 
 ♦ to you 
 
 With five and twenty, Eegan? said you 
 so? 
 Reg. And speak it again, my lord; no 
 
 more with me. 
 Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do 
 look well-favor'd. 
 
 When others are more wicked; not being 
 the worst, 
 
 Stands in some rank of praise: — I'll go 
 Avith thee; {To Goneril. 
 
 The fifty yet doth double five and twenty, 
 
 And thou art twice her love. 
 
 Gon. Hear me, my lord; 
 
 What need you five and twenty, ten or 
 five. 
 
 To follow in a house, where twice so many 
 
 Have a command to tend you? 
 
 Eeg. What need one? 
 
 Lear. 0, reason not the need: our 
 basest beggars 
 
 Are in the poorest thing superfluous: 
 
 Allow not nature more than nature needs, 
 
 Man's life is cheap as beast's: thou art a 
 lady; 
 
 If only to go warm were gorgeous. 
 
 Why, nature needs not what thou gor- 
 geous wear'st. 
 
 Which scarcely keeps thee warm. — But, 
 for true need, — 
 
 You heavens, give me that patience, pa- 
 tience I need! 
 
 You see me here, you gods, a poor old 
 man, 
 
 As full of grief as age; wretched in both! 
 
 If it be you that stir these daughters' 
 hearts 
 
 Against their father, fool me not so much 
 
 To bear it tamely; touch me with noble 
 anger! 
 
 0, let not women's weapons, water-drops. 
 
 Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatu- 
 ral hags, 
 
 I Avill have such revenge on you both, 
 
 That all the world shall — I will do such 
 things, — 
 
 AVhat they are yet, I know not; but they 
 shall be 
 
 577 
 
Act II. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 ScE>fE R^ 
 
 The terrors of the earth. You think I'll 
 
 weep; 
 No, I'll not weep: — 
 
 I have full cause of weeping: but this heart 
 Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws. 
 Or ere I'll weep: — 0, fool, I shall go mad! 
 \^Exexint Lear, Gloster, Kent, and Fool. 
 Corn. Let us withdraw, 'twill be a 
 storm. \_Storm heard at a distance. 
 Reg. This house 
 
 Is littie; the old man and his people can- 
 not 
 Be well bestow'd. 
 
 Gon. 'Tis his own blame; he hath put 
 Himself from rest, and must needs taste 
 his folly. 
 Reg. For his particular, I'll receive 
 him gladly, 
 But not one follower. 
 
 Go7i. So am I purpos'd. 
 
 Where is my lord of Gloster? 
 
 Re-enter Gloster. 
 
 Corn. Folio w'd the old man forth; — 
 he is return'd. 
 
 Glo. The king is in high rage. 
 
 Corn. Whither is he going? 
 
 GJo. He calls to horse; but will I know 
 
 not whither. 
 Corn. 'Tis best to give him way; he 
 
 leads himself. 
 Gon. My lord, entreat him by no 
 
 means to stay. 
 Glo. Alack, the night comes on, and 
 the bleak winds 
 Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about 
 There's scarce a bush. 
 
 Reg. 0, sir, to willful men. 
 
 The injuries thai they themselves procure. 
 Must be their schoolmasters: Shut up 
 
 your doors; 
 He is attended with a desparate train; 
 And what they may incense him to, being 
 
 apt 
 
 To have his ear abus'd, wisdom bids fear. 
 
 Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord; 
 
 'tis a wild night: 
 
 My Eegan counsels well: come out o' the 
 
 storm. [Uxeunt. 
 
 ScEKE I. A Heath. 
 
 A Storm is heard, tvith TJiunder and 
 lightning. 
 
 Enter Kent, and a Gentleman, meeting. 
 Kent. Who's here, besides foul 
 
 weather? 
 Kent. One minded like the weather, 
 
 most unquietly. 
 Kent. I know you; Where's the king? 
 Gent. Contending with the fretful ele- 
 ment: 
 Bids the wind blow the earth into the 
 
 sea. 
 Or swell the curled waters 'bove the 
 
 main. 
 That things might change, or cease: tears 
 his white hair: 
 
 ACT IIL 
 
 Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless 
 
 rage, _ 
 
 Catch in their fury, and make nothing of: 
 
 Strives in his little world of man to out- 
 scorn 
 
 The to-and-fro-conflicting Mdnd and 
 rain. 
 
 This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear 
 would couch. 
 
 The lion and the belly-pinched wolf 
 
 Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs. 
 
 And bids what will take all. 
 
 Kent. But who is with him? 
 
 Gent. None but the fool; who labors 
 to out-jest 
 
 His heart-struck injuries. 
 
 Kent. Sir, I do know you; 
 
 And dare, upon the warrant of my heart. 
 
 578 
 
Act. III. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Commend a dear thing to yon. There is 
 divison, 
 
 Althougli as yet tlie face of it be cover'd 
 
 With mutual cunning/twixt Albany and 
 Cornwall; 
 
 Who have (as who liave not, that tlieir 
 great stars 
 
 Thron'd and set high?) servants, who seemi 
 no less; 
 
 Which are to France the spies and specu- 
 lations 
 
 Intelligent of our state; what hath been 
 seen, 
 
 Either in snuffs and jiackings of the 
 dukes; 
 
 Or the hard rein which both of them have 
 borne 
 
 Against the old kind king: or something 
 deeper, 
 
 Whereof, perchance, these are but furnish- 
 ings:— 
 
 But, true it is, from France there comes 
 a power 
 
 Into this scatter'd kingdom; who already. 
 
 Wise in our negligence, have secret feet 
 
 In some of our best ports, and are at 
 point 
 
 To show their open banner. — Now to you : 
 
 If on my credit you dare build so far 
 
 To make you speed to Dover, you shall 
 find 
 
 Some that will thank you, making just 
 report 
 
 Of how unnatural and bemadding sor- 
 row 
 
 The king hath cause to 'plain. 
 
 I am a gentleman of blood and breeding; 
 
 And from some knowledge and assurance, 
 offer 
 
 This office to you. 
 
 Gent. I will talk further with you. 
 Kent. No, do not. 
 
 For confirmation that I am much more 
 
 Than my out wall, open this purse, and 
 take 
 
 What it contains: If you sliall see Cor- 
 delia, 
 
 (As fear not but you shall,) show her this 
 
 ring; 
 And she will tell you who your fellow is 
 That yet you do not know. Fie on this 
 
 storm! 
 I will go seek the king. 
 
 Kent. Give me your baud: Have you 
 
 no more to say ? 
 Kent. Few words, but no effect, more 
 
 than all yet; 
 That, when Ave have found the king, (in 
 
 which your pain 
 That way; I'll this;) he that first lights on 
 
 him. 
 Holla the other. \_Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene II. Another Part of the Hearth. 
 Storm continues. 
 
 Enter Lear and Fool. 
 
 Lear. Blow, wind, and crack you 
 cheeks! rage! blow! 
 
 You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout 
 
 Till you have drench'd our steeples, 
 drown'd the cocks! 
 
 You sulphurous and thought-executing 
 fires, 
 
 Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunder- 
 bolts. 
 
 Singe my white head! And thou, all- 
 shaking thunder. 
 
 Strike flat the thick rotundity o'er the 
 world ! 
 
 Crack nature's molds, all germens spill 
 at once. 
 
 That make ingrateful man! 
 
 Fool. nuncle, court holy-water in a 
 
 dry house is better than this rain-water 
 
 out o' door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy 
 
 daughters' blessing; here's a night pities 
 
 either wise men or fools. 
 
 Lear. Rumble thy belly-full! Spit, fire! 
 spout, rain! 
 
 Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my 
 daughters: 
 
 I tax not you, you elements, with unkind- 
 ness. 
 
 579 
 
Act III. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 SCEXE II. 
 
 I never gave you kingdom, call'd jou clail- i Unwhiiiped of .justice. Hide thee, tliou 
 
 dren. 
 
 bloody, hand; 
 
 You owe me no subscription; why then Thou perjurd, and thou similar man of 
 
 let fall 
 
 virtue 
 
 Your horrible pleasure; here I stand your i Thou art incestuous: Caitiff, to pieces 
 
 slave, 
 
 shake. 
 
 A poor infirm, weak, and depis'd old | That under covert and convenient seem- 
 man: — 1 ing 
 
 Hast j)ractis'd on man's life: — Close j^ent- 
 
 up guilts, 
 Eive your concealing continents, and cry 
 
 But yet I call you servile ministers. 
 That have with two pernicious daughters 
 
 join'd 
 Your high engendered battles 'gainst a [ These dreadful summoners grace. — I am 
 
 head 
 
 a man, 
 
 So old and white as this. 0! 0! 'tis foul! ' More sinned against than sinning. 
 
 Fool. He that has a house to put his 
 head in, has a good head-piece. 
 
 The man that malces his toe 
 U'liat he his heart should ^nalce, 
 
 Shall of a corn cry woe. 
 And turn his sleep to luaTce. 
 
 — for there was never yet fair woman, 
 but she made mouths in a glass. 
 
 Enter Kext. 
 
 Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all 
 
 patience, I will say nothing, 
 Ke7it. Alas, sir, are you here? things 
 that love night. 
 
 Love not such nights as these: the wrath- 
 ful skies 
 
 Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, 
 
 And make them keep their caves. Since 
 I was man. 
 
 Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid 
 thunder. 
 
 Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I 
 never 
 
 Eemember to have heard: man's nature 
 cannot carry 
 
 The affliction, nor the fear. 
 
 Lear. Let the great gods. 
 
 That keep this dreadful jiother o'er our 
 heads. 
 
 Find out their enemies now. Tremble, 
 thou wretch. 
 
 That hast within thee undivulged crimes, 
 
 Kent. Alackjbare-headed! 
 
 Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; 
 Some friendship Avill it lend you ■'gainst 
 
 the tempest; 
 Eepose you there: while I to this hard 
 
 house, 
 (More hard than is the stone whereof 'tis 
 
 rais'd ; 
 Which even but now, demanding after you. 
 Denied me to come in,) return and force 
 
 Their scanted courtesy. 
 Lear. My wits begin to turn, — 
 
 Come on, my boy: How dost, my boy ? 
 
 Art cold?" 
 I am cold myself. — Where is this straw, 
 
 my fellow? 
 The art of our necessities is strange. 
 That can make vile things precious. 
 
 Come, your hovel. 
 Poor fool and knave, I have one part in 
 
 my heart 
 That's sorry yet for thee. 
 
 Fool. He that has a little tiny wit, — 
 
 With heigh, ho, the wind and 
 the rain — 
 Must mahe content 2cith his for- 
 tunes fit; 
 For the rain it raineth every 
 day. 
 
 Lear. True, my good boy. — Come, 
 bring us to this hovel. 
 
 [Exeunt Lear and Kent. 
 
 580 
 
Act III. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Fool. I'll speak a prophecy ere I go: 
 When priests are more in word than matter; 
 When hreiocrs mar their malt with tvater; 
 Wlien every case in law is right; 
 A^o squire in debt, nor no poor knight; 
 When slanders do not live in tongues; 
 Nor cutjnirses come not to throngs; 
 Tlien shall the realm of Albion 
 Come to great confusion. 
 Then comes the time, who lives to seeH, 
 That going shall be us'd with feet. 
 
 This pi'ophecy Merlin shall make; fop 
 I live before his time. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. A Room in Gloster's Castle. 
 Enter Glosteu and Edmund. 
 
 Glo. Alack, alack, Edmnntl, I like not 
 this unnatural dealing; When I desired 
 their leave that I might pity him, they 
 took from me the use of mine own house; 
 charged me on pain of their perpetual 
 displeasure, neither to speak of him, en- 
 treat for him, nor any way sustain him. 
 
 Bdm. Most savage, and unnatural! 
 
 Glo. Go to; say you nothing; Thei'e 
 is division between the dukes; and a worse 
 matter than that: I have received a letter 
 this night; — 'tis dangerous to be spoken; 
 ^ — I have locked the letter in my closet: 
 these injuries the king noAv bears will be 
 revenged home; there is part of a power 
 already footed: we must incline to the 
 king. I will seek him, and privily relieve 
 him: go you, and maintain talk with the 
 duke, that my charity be not of him per- 
 ceived: If he ask for me, I am ill, and 
 gone to bed. If I die for it, as no less is 
 threatened me, the king my old master 
 must be relieved. There is some strange 
 thing toward, Edmund; pray you, be care- 
 ful. [Exit. 
 
 Edm. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall 
 the duke 
 Instantly know; and of that letter too: — 
 This seems a fair deserving, and must 
 draw me 
 
 That which my father loses; no less than 
 
 all: 
 The younger rises, when the old doth fall. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. A Part of the Heath, with a 
 Hovel. 
 
 Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. 
 
 Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good 
 my lord, enter; 
 
 The tyranny of the open night's too rough 
 
 For nature to endure. [Storm still. 
 
 Lear. Let me alone. 
 
 Kent. Good my lord, enter here. 
 Lear. Wilt break my heart? 
 
 ^snt. I'd rather break mine own : Good 
 
 my lord, enter. 
 Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much, that 
 this contentious storm 
 
 Invades us to the skin: so 'tis to thee; 
 
 But where the greater malady is fix'd. 
 
 The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun 
 a bear : 
 
 But if thy flight lay toward the raging 
 sea, 
 
 Thoud'st meet the bear i' the mouth. 
 When the mind's free. 
 
 The body's delicate: the tempest in my 
 mind 
 
 Doth from my senses take all feeling else, 
 
 Save what beats there. — Filial ingrati- 
 tude! 
 
 It is not as this mouth should tear this 
 hand. 
 
 For lifting food to 't ? — But I will pun- 
 ish home: — 
 
 No, I will weep no more. — In such a night 
 
 To shut me out! — Pour on; I will en- 
 dure : 
 
 In such a night as this! Regan, Gon- 
 eril! — 
 
 Your old kind father, whose frank heart 
 gave all, — 
 
 0, that way madness lies; let me shun 
 that! 
 
 No more of that. — 
 
 581 
 
Act III. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 ScEXE. ly. 
 
 Kent. Good my lord^ enter here. 
 
 Lear. Pr'ythee, go to thyself; seek 
 
 thine own ease; 
 This tempest will not give me leave to 
 
 ponder 
 On things would hurt me more. — But Fll 
 
 go in: 
 In, boy; go first. — \_To the Fool.] You 
 
 houseless poverty, — 
 Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'l 
 
 sleep. — {^ool goes in. 
 
 Poor naked wretches, whosoe'er you are. 
 That bide the jDelting of this pitiless 
 
 storm. 
 How shall your houseless heads, and unfed 
 
 sides. 
 Your loop'd and window'd raggedness 
 
 defend you 
 From seasons such as these? 0, I have 
 
 ta'en 
 Too little care of this! Take physic, 
 
 pomp; 
 Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel; 
 That thou may'st shake the superflux to 
 
 them. 
 And show the heavens more just. 
 
 Edg. \^Wit]iin.'\ Fathom and half, 
 
 fathom and half ! Poor Tom! 
 
 [The Fool runs out from the Hovel. 
 Fool. Come not in here, nuncle, here's 
 
 a spirit. 
 Help me, help me! 
 
 Kent. Give me thy hand. — Who's 
 
 there? 
 Fool. A sj^irit, a spirit ; he says his 
 
 name's j)oor Tom. 
 Kent. "What art thou that dost grum- 
 ble there i' the straw? 
 Come forth. 
 
 Enter Edgar, disguised as a Madman. 
 
 Edg. Away! the foul fiend follows 
 
 me! — 
 Through the sharp hawthorn blows the 
 
 cold wind. — 
 Humph! go to thy cold bed, and warm 
 
 thee. 
 
 Lear. Hast thou given all to thy two 
 daughters? 
 And art th(5u come to this? 
 
 Edg. Who gives any thing to poor 
 Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led 
 through fire and through flame, through 
 ford and whirlpool, over bog and quag- 
 mire; that hath laid knives under his pil. 
 low, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane 
 by his porridge; made him proud of heart, 
 to ride on a bay trotting-horse over four- 
 inched bridges, to course his own shadow 
 for a traitor: — Bless thy five wits! Tom's 
 a-cold, — 0, do de, do de, do de. — Bless 
 thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and 
 taking! Do poor Tom some charity, 
 whom the foul fiend vexes: There could 
 I have him now, — and there, — and there, 
 — and there again, and there. 
 
 [Storm continues. 
 Lear. What, have his daughters brought 
 him to this pass? — 
 Could'st thou save nothing? Didst thou 
 give them all? 
 Fool. Nay, he reserved a blanket, else 
 we had been all shamed. 
 
 Lear. Now, all the plagues that in the 
 pendulous air 
 Ilang fated o'er men's faults, light on thy 
 daughters! 
 Ke7it. He hath no daughters, sir. 
 Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could 
 have subdued nature 
 To such a lowness, but his unkind daugh. 
 
 ters. — 
 Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers 
 Should have thus little mercy on their 
 
 flesh? 
 Judicious punishment! 'twas this flesh 
 
 begot 
 Those pelican daughters, 
 Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock's 
 hill;— 
 Halloo, halloo, loo, loo! 
 
 Fool. This cold night will turn us all 
 to fools and madmen. 
 
 Edg. Take heed of the foul fiend ; obey 
 
 583 
 
Act. hi. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 thy parent; keep thy word justly; swear 
 not; commit not with man's sworn spouse; 
 set not thy sweet heart on proud array: 
 Tom's a-cold. 
 
 Lear. What hast thou been? 
 
 Edg. A serving-man, proud in heart 
 and mind; tliat curled my hair; wore 
 gloves in my cap; swore as many oaths as 
 I spake words, and broke them in the 
 sweet face of heaven: Wine loved I 
 deeply; dice dearly; False of heart, light 
 of ear, bloody of hand: Hog in sloth, fox 
 in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in mad- 
 ness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking 
 of shoes, nor the rustling of silks, betray 
 thy poor heart to women: Keep thy pen 
 from lenders' books, and defy the foul 
 fiend. — Still through the hawthorn blows 
 the cold wind: Says suum, mun, ha no 
 nonny, dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa; 
 let him trot by [Storm still continueH. 
 
 Lear. Why thou wert better in thy 
 grave, than to answer with thy uncovered 
 body this extremity of the skies. — Is man 
 no more than this ? Consider him well; 
 Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no 
 hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no per- 
 fume: Ha! here three of us are sophisti- 
 cated! — Thou art the thing itself: unac- 
 commodated man is no more but such a 
 poor, bare, forked animal as thou art — 
 Off, off, you lendings: — Come: unbutton 
 here . [ Tearing off Ms clothes. 
 
 Fool. Pry'thee, nuncle, be contented ; 
 this is a naughty night to swim in. — Look, 
 here comes a walking fire. 
 
 Edg. This is the foul fiend Flibberti- 
 gibbet: he begins at curfew, and walks 
 till the first cock; he gives the web and 
 the pin, squints the eye, and makes the 
 hare-lip : mildews the white wheat, and 
 hunts the poor creature of earth. 
 
 Saint Witlwld footed thrice the ivold; 
 
 He met the oiight-mare, and her nine-fold; 
 Bid her alight, 
 And her troth plight, 
 
 And, aroint thee, witch, aroi^it thee! 
 
 Kent. How fares your grace? 
 Enter GI;Oster with, a Torch. 
 
 Lear. What's he? 
 
 Kent. Who's there? What is't you 
 seek? 
 
 Glo. What are you there? Your 
 names? 
 
 Edg. Pool- Tom; that eats the swim- 
 ming frog, the toad, the tadpole, the 
 wall-newt, and the water; that in the fury 
 of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, 
 swallows the old rat, and the ditch-dog; 
 drinks the green mantle of the standing- 
 pool; who is whipped from tything to 
 tything, and stocked, punished, and im- 
 prisoned; who hath had three suits to his 
 back, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, 
 and weapon to wear. 
 
 But mice, and rats, and such small deer, 
 Have ieen Tom's food for seven long year. 
 
 Bewai'e my follower: — Peace, Smolkin; 
 peace, thou fiend! 
 Glo. What, hath your grace no better 
 
 company? 
 Edg. The prince of darkness is a 
 gentleman; 
 Modo he's call'd, and Mahu. 
 
 Glo. Our flesh and blood, my lord, is 
 grown so vile. 
 That it doth hate what gets it. 
 Edg. Poor Tom's a-cold. 
 Glo. Go in with me; my duty cannot 
 suffer 
 To obey in all your daughter's hard 
 
 commands: 
 Though their injunction be to bar my 
 
 doors. 
 And let this tyrannous night take hold 
 
 upon you; 
 Yet have I ventur'd to come seek you out. 
 And bring you where both fire and food 
 is ready. 
 Lear. First let me talk with this phi- 
 losopher. — 
 What is the cause of thunder? 
 
 583 
 
Act. III. 
 
 KING LEAK 
 
 SCEN"E. IV. 
 
 Kent. Good my lord, take his offer; 
 Go into the house. 
 
 Lear. I'll talk a word with this same 
 learned Theban. — 
 What is your study? 
 
 Ed(j. How to prevent the fiend, and 
 
 to kill Terrain. 
 Lear. Let me ask you one word in 
 
 private. 
 Kent. Importune him once more to 
 go, my lord; 
 His wits begin to unsettle. 
 
 Qlo. Can'st thou blame him ? 
 
 His daughters seek his death: — Ah, that 
 
 good Kent! — 
 He said it would be thus:— Poor banish'd 
 
 man! — - 
 Thou say'st, the king grows mad ; I'll tell 
 
 thee, friend, 
 I am almost mad myself: I had a son. 
 Now outlawed from my blood; he sought 
 
 my life, 
 But lately, very lately; I loved him, 
 
 friend, — 
 No father his son dearer: true to tell 
 
 thee, 
 
 S^Storm continues. 
 The grief hath craz'd my wits. What a 
 
 night's this ! 
 I do beseech your grace, — 
 
 Lear. 0, cry you mercy; 
 
 Noble philosopher, your comjaany. 
 Edg. Tom's a-cold. 
 Glo. In, fellow, there, to the hovel: 
 
 keep thee warm. 
 Lear. Come, let's in all. 
 Kent. This Avay, my lord. 
 
 Lear. With him; 
 
 I will keep still with my philosopher. 
 Kent. Good my lord, soothe him; let 
 
 him take the fellow. 
 Glo. Take him you on. 
 Kent. Sirrah, come on; go along with 
 
 us. 
 Lear. Come, good Athenian. 
 Glo. No words, no words: 
 
 Hush. 
 
 Edg. Child Boivland to the dark 
 
 tower came, 
 His ivordwas still, — Fie, f oh and fum, 
 
 I smell the hlood of a British man. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Sc£;>rE V. A Room in Gloster's Castle. 
 Enter Cor:n"T\'all and^ Edmuxd. 
 
 Corn. I will have my revenge, ere I 
 depart his house. 
 
 Ed7n. How, my lord, I may be cen- 
 sured, that nature thus gives way to 
 loyaltj^, something fears me to think of. 
 
 Corn. I now preceive, it was not alto- 
 gether your brother's evil disposition 
 made him seek his death; but a provok- 
 ing merit, set a- work by a reprovable bad- 
 ness in himself. 
 
 Edm. How malicious is my fortune, 
 that I must repent to be just ! This is 
 the letter he spoke of, which approves 
 him an intelligent party to the advantage 
 of France. heavens ! that this treason 
 were not, or not I the detector ! 
 
 Corn. Go with me to the duchess. 
 
 Edm. If the matter of this paper be 
 certain, you might have business in hand. 
 
 Corn. True, or false, it hath made 
 thee earl of Gloster. Seek out where thy 
 fathers^is, that he may be ready for our 
 apprehension. 
 
 Edm. \_Aside.'\ If I find him com- 
 forting the king, it will stuff his suspicion 
 more f ull}'. — I will persevere in my 
 course of loyalty, though the conflict be 
 sore between that and my blood. 
 
 Corn. I will lay trust upon thee; and 
 thou shalt find a dearer father in my love. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene. VI. A Chamber in a Farm- 
 house, adjoining the Castle. 
 
 -E'M^er Gloster, Lear, Kent, Fool, and 
 
 Edgar. 
 Glo. Here is better than the open air; 
 take it thankfully; I will piece out the 
 
 584 
 
Act III. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 Scene V I. 
 
 comfort with what addition I can: I will 
 not bo long from you. 
 
 Kent. All the power of his wits has 
 given way to his impatience: — The gods 
 reward your kindness! 
 
 {Exit Gloster. 
 Edg. Frateretto calls me; and tells 
 me, Nero is an angler in the lake of dark- 
 ness. Pra}', innocent, and beware the 
 foul fiend. 
 
 Fool. Pr'ythee,nuncle, tell me, whether 
 a madman be a gentleman, or a yeoman? 
 Lear. A king, a king! 
 Fool. No; he's a yeoman, that has a 
 gentleman to his son: for he's a mad 
 yeoman, that sees his son a gentleman 
 before him. 
 
 Lear. To have a thousand with red 
 burning spits 
 Come hissing in upon them: — 
 
 Edg. The foul fiend bites my back. 
 Fool. He's mad, that trusts in the 
 tameness of a wolf. 
 
 Lear. It shall be done, I will arraign 
 them straight: — 
 Come; sit thou here, most learned 
 justicer: — [7b Edgar. 
 
 Thou, sapient sir, sit here. [T'o/Ae Fool.] 
 — Now, you she foxes! — 
 Edg. Look, where he stands and 
 glares ! — 
 Wantest thou eyes at trial, madam ? 
 
 Come o'er the iourn, Bessy, to vie: — 
 Fool. She dares not come over to thee. 
 Edg. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom 
 in the voice of the nightingale. Hopdance 
 cries in Tom's belly for two white lierring. 
 Croak not, black angel; I have no food 
 for thee. 
 
 Ivent. How do you, sir? Stand you 
 not so amazed: 
 Will you lie down and rest upon the 
 cushions? 
 I^car. I'll see their trial first: — Bring 
 in the evidence: — 
 Thou robed man of justice, take thy 
 place; \To Edgar. 
 
 585 
 
 And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, 
 
 ITotheYool. 
 Bench by his side: — You are of the com- 
 mission. 
 Sit you too. {To Kent. 
 
 Edg. Let us deal justly. 
 
 Sleepest, or tvaTcest thou, jolly shepherd'? 
 
 Thy sheep le in the corn; 
 And for one blast of thy minikin mouth. 
 
 Thy sheep shall taheno harm. 
 
 Pur! the cat is gray. 
 
 Lear. Arraign her first; 'tis Goneril. 
 I here take my oath before this honorable 
 assembly, she kicked the poor king, her 
 father. 
 
 Pool. Come hither, mistress; Is your 
 name Goneril? 
 
 Lear. She cannot deny it. 
 
 Fool. Cry your mercy, I took you for 
 
 a joint-stool. 
 Lear. And here's another, whose 
 warp'd looks proclaim 
 What store her heart is made of. — Stop 
 
 her there! 
 Arms, arms, sword, fire! — Corruption in 
 
 the place! 
 False justicer, why hast thou let her 
 'scape ? 
 Edg. Bless thy five wits! 
 Kent. pity! — Sir, where is the pa- 
 tience now. 
 That you so oft have boasted to retain? 
 Edg. My tears begin to take his part 
 so much, 
 They'll mar my counterfeiting. [Aside. 
 
 Lear. The little dogs and all. 
 Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they 
 bark at me. 
 Edg. Tom will throw his head at 
 them: — 
 Avaunt, you curs! 
 
 Be ihg moulli or hlack or white, 
 Tooth that iwisons if it Lite; 
 Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, 
 IL I and,' or sjmniel, hrach, or lym; 
 
Act. III. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 SCEN-E YI, 
 
 Or lobtail tike, or trundle-tail; 
 Tom icill make them iveep and wail: 
 For, ^vitli tliroicing thus my head, 
 Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. 
 
 Do de, do de. Sessa. Come, march to 
 wakes and fairs and market towns: — 
 Poor Tom, thy horn is dr}'. 
 
 Lear. Then let them anatomize Regan, 
 see what breeds about her heart: Is there 
 any cause in nature that makes these hard 
 hearts? — You, sir, I entertain you for 
 one of my hundred; only, I do not like 
 the fashion of your garments: you will 
 say they are Persian attire; but let them 
 be changed. [7b Edgar. 
 
 Kent. Now, good my lord, lie here 
 and rest awhile. 
 
 Lear. Make no noise, make no noise; 
 draw the curtains: So, so, so: We'll go 
 to supper i' the morning: So, so, so. 
 
 Fool. And I'll go to bed at noon. 
 
 Re-enter Gloster. 
 
 Glo. Come hither, friend: Where is 
 
 the king, my master? 
 Kent. Here, sir; but trouble him not, 
 
 his wits are gone. 
 Glo. Good friend, I pr'ythee take him 
 
 in thy arms; 
 I have o'erheard a plot of death upon him: 
 There is a litter ready; lay him in't, 
 And drive towards Dover, friend, where 
 
 thou shalt meet 
 Both welcome and protection. Take up 
 
 thy master: 
 If thou should'st dally half an hour, his 
 
 life 
 With thine, and all that offer to defend 
 
 him, 
 Stand in assured loss: Take up, take up; 
 And follow me, that will with some pro- 
 vision 
 Give thee quick conduct. 
 
 Kent, Oppress'd nature sleeps: — 
 
 This rest might yet have balm'd thy 
 
 broken senses, 
 
 Which, if convenience, will not allow. 
 Stand in hard cure. — Come, help to bear 
 
 thy master; 
 Thou must not stay behind. 
 
 {To the 'Fool. 
 Glo. Come, come, away. 
 
 [Exeu?it Ke)it, Gloster, and the Fool, 
 hearing off the King. 
 Edg. When we our betters see bearing 
 
 our woes. 
 We scarcely think our miseries our foes. 
 Who alone suffers, suffers most i' the 
 
 mind; 
 Leaving free things, and happy shows, 
 
 behind. 
 But then the mind much sufferance doth 
 
 o'erskijj. 
 When grief hath mates, and bearing 
 
 fellowship. 
 How light and portable my pain seems 
 
 now, 
 When that which makes me bend, makes 
 
 the king bow; 
 He childed, as I father'd! — Tom, away: 
 Mark the high noises; and thyself bewray. 
 When false opinion, whose wrong thought 
 
 defiles thee. 
 In thy just proof, repeals, and reconciles 
 
 thee. 
 What will hap more to-night, safe 'scape 
 
 the king! 
 Lurk, lurk. {Exit. 
 
 Scene YII. A Room in Gloster's Castle. 
 
 Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gokeril, 
 Edmund, and Servants. 
 
 Corn. Post speedily to my lord, your 
 husband; show him this letter: — the army 
 of France is landed: — Seek out the villain 
 Gloster. 
 
 {Exeunt some of the Servants. 
 
 Reg. Hang him instantly. 
 
 Gon. Pluck out his eyes. 
 
 Corn. Leave him to my displeasure. — 
 Edmund, keep you your sister company; 
 the revenges we are bound to take upon 
 
 586 
 
Act III. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 your traitorous father are not fit for your 
 beholding. Advise the duke, where you 
 are going, to a mostfestinate preparation: 
 we are bound to the like. Our post shall 
 be swift, and intelligent betwixt us. 
 Farewell, dear sister; — farewell, my lord 
 of Gloster. 
 
 Enter Steward. 
 
 How now? Where's the king? 
 
 Steiu. My lord of Gloster hath con- 
 vey'd him hence: 
 Some five or six and thirty of his knights. 
 Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; 
 "Who, with some other of the lord's de- 
 pendants. 
 Are gone with him towards Dover, where 
 
 they boast 
 To have well-armed friends. 
 
 Corn. Get horses for your mistress. 
 
 Gon. Farewell, sweet lord and sister. 
 
 [Exiient Ooneril mid Edmund. 
 
 Corn. Edmund, farewell. — Go, seek 
 
 the traitor Gloster. 
 
 Pinion him like a thief, bring him before 
 
 us: 
 
 [Exeunt other Servants. 
 Though well we may not pass upon his 
 
 life 
 Without the form of justice: yet our 
 
 power 
 Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which 
 
 men 
 May blame, but not control. Who's 
 there? The traitor. 
 Re-enter Servants luith Glostek. 
 Beg. Ingrateful fox! 'tis he. 
 Corn. Bind fast his corky arms. 
 
 GIo. What mean j^our graces? 
 
 Good my friends, consider 
 You are my guests: do me no foul play, 
 friends. 
 Corn. Bind him, I say. 
 
 [Servants hind him. 
 Reg. Hard, hard: — filthy traitor! 
 Glo. Unmerciful lady as you are, I am 
 none. 
 
 Corn. To this chair bind him: — 
 Villain, thou shalt find — 
 
 [ReCtX^ plucks Ids heard. 
 Glo. By the kind gods 'tis most ig- 
 nobly done 
 To pluck me by the beard. 
 
 Reg. So white, and such a traitor! 
 Glo. Naughty lady, 
 
 These hairs, which thou dost ravish from 
 
 my chin. 
 Will quicken and accuse thee: lam your 
 
 host; 
 With robbers' hands, my hospitable 
 
 favors 
 You should not ruffle thus. What will 
 you do? 
 Corn. Come, sir, what letters had you 
 
 late from France? 
 Reg. Be simple-answer'd, for we know 
 
 the truth. 
 Corn. And what confederacy have you 
 with the traitors 
 Late footed in the kingdom ? 
 
 Reg. To whose hands have you sent 
 the lunatic king? 
 Speak. 
 
 Glo, I have a letter guessingly set 
 
 down. 
 Which came from one that's of a neutral 
 
 heart. 
 And not from one opj^os'd. 
 Corn. Cunning. 
 
 Reg. And false. 
 
 Corn. Where hast thou sent the king? 
 Glo. To Dover. 
 
 Reg. Wherefore 
 
 To Dover? Wast thou not charg'd at thy 
 
 peril — 
 Corn. Wherefore to Dover? Let him 
 
 first answer that. 
 Glo. I am tied to the stake, and I 
 
 must stand the course. 
 Reg. Wherefore to Dover? 
 Glo. Because I would not see tliy cruel 
 
 nails 
 Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy 
 
 fierce sister 
 
 587 
 
Act III. 
 
 Kma LEAE. 
 
 SCEXE YII. 
 
 In liis anointed llesli stick boarisli fangs. 
 
 The sea, with, such a storm as his bare 
 head 
 
 In hell-black night endur'd, -n'ould have 
 buoy'd ujo, 
 
 And qnench'd the stelled fires: yet, poor 
 old heart. 
 
 He holp the heavens to rain. 
 
 If wolves had at thy gate howl'd that 
 stern time. 
 
 Thou shouid'st have said. Good porter, 
 turn the hey; 
 
 All cruels else subscrib'd: — But I shall 
 see 
 
 The winged vengeance overtake such chil- 
 dren. 
 Corn. See it shalt thou never: — Fel- 
 lows, hold the chair: 
 
 Upon these eyes of thine I'll set my foot. 
 
 [Gloster is lielcl dotvn in his chair, 
 
 ' ■ while Gornwall^Zj^cI's out one of 
 
 his Eyes and sets his Foot on it. 
 
 Glo. He, that will think to live till he 
 be old. 
 Give me some help: — cruel I ye 
 gods! 
 Reg. One side will mock another; the 
 
 other too. 
 Corn. If you see vengeance, — 
 Serv. Hold your hand, my lord : 
 
 I have serv'd you ever since I was a child : 
 But better service have I never done you. 
 Than now to bid you hold. 
 Reg. How now, you dog? 
 Serv. If you did wear a beard upon 
 your chin, 
 I'd shake it on this quarrel: What do you 
 mean? 
 Corn. My villain! 
 
 \I)raws, and runs at him. 
 
 Serv. Nay, then come on, and take 
 the chance of auger. 
 
 [Dratus. TJiey fight. Corx-wall is 
 ■wounded. 
 
 Reg. Give me thy sword. — 
 
 [7b another Serv.] 
 A peasant stand up thus ! 
 
 [S7iatches a Sword, comes behind, and 
 stabs him. 
 Serv. 0, I am slain! — My lord, you 
 have one eye left 
 To see some mischief on him : — ! [Dies. 
 Corn. Lest it see more, jn'eveut it: — 
 Out, vile Jelly! 
 Where is thy lustre now? 
 
 \^Tears out Gloster's otlter Eye, and 
 throws it on the Ground. 
 
 Glo. All dark and comfortless. — 
 Where's my son Edmund? 
 Edmund, enkindle all the sj^arks of 
 
 nature, 
 To quit this horrid act. 
 
 Reg. Out, treacherous villain! 
 
 Thou call'st on him that hates thee: it 
 
 was he 
 That made the overture of thy treasons 
 
 to us; 
 Who is too good to pity thee. 
 
 Glo. 6 my follies! 
 
 Then Edgar was abus'd — 
 Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper 
 ^ him! 
 Reg. Go, thrust him out at gates, -and 
 let him smell 
 His way to Dover. — How is't, my lord? 
 How look you? 
 Corn. I have receiv'd a hur t : — Follow 
 me, lady. — 
 Turn out that eyeless villain; throw this 
 
 slave 
 Upon the dunghill. — Eegaii, I bleed 
 
 apace: 
 Untimely comes this hurt: Give me your 
 arm. 
 
 \_E.r,it Cormoall, Jed by Regan; Servants 
 unbind Gloster, and lead Itini out. 
 
 1 Serv. I'll never care what wicked- 
 ness I do, 
 If this man comes to good. 
 
 588 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene YII. 
 
 2 Serv. If she live long, 
 
 And, in the end, meet the old course of 
 
 death. 
 Women will all turn monsters. 
 
 1 Serv. Let's follow the old earl, and 
 get the Bedlam 
 
 To lead him where he would; his roguish 
 
 madness 
 Allows itself to any thing. 
 
 3 Sei'v. Go thou; I'll fetch some flax, 
 
 and whites of eggs. 
 To apply to his bleeding face. Now, 
 
 heaven help him! \^Exeunt severally. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. The Heath. 
 Enter Edgar. 
 
 Edg. Yet better thus, and known to 
 
 be contemn'd, 
 Thau still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be 
 
 worst. 
 The lowest and most dejected tiling of 
 
 fortune, 
 Stands still in esperance, lives not in 
 
 fear: 
 The lamentable change is from the best; 
 The worst returns to laughter. Welcome 
 
 then. 
 Thou unsubstantial air, that I embrace! 
 The wretch, that thou hast blown unto 
 
 the worst. 
 Owes nothing to thy blasts. — But who 
 
 comes here? 
 
 Enter Gloster, led lij an (Ad Man. 
 
 My father, poorly led? — World, world, 
 
 world ! 
 But that thy strange mutations make us 
 
 hate thee, 
 Life would not yield to age. 
 
 Old Man. my good lord, I have 
 been your tenant, and your father's ten- 
 ant, these fourscore years. 
 
 Glo. Away, get thee away; good 
 friend, be gone: 
 Thy comforts can do me no good at all. 
 Thee they may hurt. 
 
 Old Man. Alack, sir, you cannot see 
 
 your Avay. 
 Glo. I have no way, and therefore 
 want no eyes; 
 
 I stumbled when I saw: Full oft 'tis seen. 
 Our mean secures us; and our mere defects 
 Prove our commodities. — Ah, dear son 
 
 Edgar, 
 The food of thy abused father's wrath ! 
 Might I but live to see thee in my touch, 
 I'd say, I had eyes again! 
 
 Old Man. How now? Who's there? 
 
 Edg. \^Aside.'] gods! Who is't can 
 say, I am at the worst? 
 I am worse than e'er I M'as. 
 
 Old Man. 'Tis poor mad Tom. 
 
 Edg. [Aside.'\ And worse I may be yet: 
 The worst is not, 
 So long as we can say. This is the worst. 
 Old Man. Fellow, where goest? 
 Glo. Is it a beggar-man? 
 
 Old Man. Madman and beggar too. 
 Glo. He has some reason, else he could 
 not beg. • 
 
 I' the last night's storm I such a fellow 
 
 saw; 
 Which made me think a man a worm: 
 
 My son 
 Came then into my mind; and yet my 
 
 mind 
 Was then scarce friends with him: I have 
 heard more since. 
 Edg. How should this be? — 
 
 Bad is the trade must play the fool to sor- 
 row, 
 Ang'ring itself and others. [.Lsidc] — 
 Bless thee, master! 
 Glo. Is that the naked fellow? 
 Old Man. Ay, my lord. 
 
 Glo. Then, pr'ythee, get thee gone: 
 If, for my sake. 
 
 5S9 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Thou wilt o'ertake us, hence a mile or 
 
 twain, 
 I' the way to Dover, do it for ancieut 
 
 love; 
 And bring some covering for this naked 
 
 soul. 
 Whom I'll entreat to lead me. 
 
 Old Man. Alack, sir, he's mad. 
 
 Olo. 'Tis the time's plague, when mad- 
 men lead the blind. 
 Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleas- 
 ure; 
 Above the rest, be gone. 
 
 Old Man. I'll bring him the best parel 
 that I have, 
 Come on't what will. \_Exit. 
 
 Glo. Sirrah, naked fellow. 
 Edg. Poor Tom's a-cold: I cannot 
 daub it further. [Aside. 
 
 Glo. Come hither, fellow. 
 Edg. [Aside.] And yet I must. — Bless 
 
 thy sweet 63^68, they bleed. 
 Glo. Know'st thou the way to Dover? 
 Edg. Both stile and gate, horse-way 
 and foot-path. Poor Tom hath been 
 scared out of his good wits: Bless the 
 good man from the foul fiend ! Five 
 fiends have been in poor Tom at once. 
 So, bless thee, master! 
 
 Glo. Here, take this purse, thou whom 
 the heaven's plagues 
 Have humbled to all strokes: that I am 
 
 wretched. 
 Makes thee the happier: — Heavens, deal 
 
 so still ! 
 Let the superfluous, and lust-dieted man. 
 That slaves your ordinance, that will not 
 
 see 
 Because he doth not feel, feel your power 
 
 quickly; 
 So distribution should undo excess. 
 And each man have enough. — Dost thou 
 know Dover? 
 Edg. Ay, master. 
 
 Glo. There is a cliff, whose high and 
 bending head 
 Looks fearfully in the confined deep: 
 
 Bring me but to the very brim of it; 
 And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear. 
 With something rich about me: from that 
 
 place 
 I shall no leading need. 
 
 Edg. Give me thy arm; 
 
 Poor Tom shall lead thee. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. Before the Duke of Albany's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Goneril and Ed:mund; Steward 
 meeting them. 
 
 Gon. Welcome, my lord: I marvel, 
 
 our mild husband 
 jSTot met us on the way: — Now, wliere's 
 
 your master? 
 Steiv. Madam, within; but never man 
 
 so chang'd: 
 I told him of the army that was landed ; 
 He smil'd at it: I told him you were com- 
 ing; 
 His answer was, Tlie icorsc : of Gloster's 
 
 treachery. 
 And of the loyal service of his son. 
 When I inform'd him, then he call'd me 
 
 sot; 
 And told me, I had turn'd the wrong side 
 
 out: — 
 What most he should dislike, seems pleas- 
 ant to him; 
 What like, offensive. 
 
 Gon. Then shall you go no further. 
 
 [To Edmund. 
 It is the cowish terror of his spirit. 
 That dares not undertake: he'll not feel 
 
 wrongs. 
 Which tie him to an answer; Ouk wishes, 
 
 on the way, 
 May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to 
 
 my brother: 
 Hasten his musters, and conduct his 
 
 powers: 
 I must change arms at home, and give 
 
 the distaff 
 Into my husband's hands. This trusty 
 
 servant 
 
 SCO 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Shall pass between us: ere long you are 
 
 like to hear, 
 If you dare venture in your own behalf, 
 A mistress's command. Wear this; spare 
 speech ; [ Giving a Favor. 
 
 Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst 
 
 speak. 
 Would stretch thy spirits up into the 
 
 air; — 
 Conceive, and fare tliee well. 
 
 Edm. Yours in the ranks of death. 
 Gon. My most dear Gloster! 
 
 {Exit Edmukd. 
 0, the difference of man, and man! To 
 
 thee 
 A woman's services are due; my fool 
 Usurps my bed. 
 
 Stew. Madam, here comes my lord. 
 {Exit Steivard. 
 
 Enter Albany. 
 
 Gon. I have been worth the whistle. 
 Alb. Goneril, 
 
 You are not worth the dust which the 
 
 rude wind 
 Blows in your face. — I fear your disposi- 
 tion: 
 That nature, whicli contemns its origin. 
 Cannot be border'd certain in itself; 
 She that herself will sliver and disbranch 
 From her material sap, perforce must 
 
 wither. 
 And come to deadly use. 
 
 Gon. No more; the text is foolish. 
 Alh. Wisdom and goodness to the vile 
 
 seem vile: 
 Filths savor but themselves. What have 
 
 you done? 
 Tigers, not daughters, what have you per- 
 
 form'd ? 
 A father, and a gracious aged man, 
 Whose reverence the head-lugg'd bear 
 
 would lick. 
 Most barbarous, most degenerated! have 
 
 you madded. 
 Could my good brother suffer you to do 
 
 it? 
 
 A man, a prince, by him so benefited? 
 If that the heavens do not their visible 
 
 spirits 
 Send quickly down to tame these vile 
 
 offenses, 
 'Twill come. 
 
 Humanity must perforce prey on itself, 
 Like monsters of the deep. 
 
 Gon. Milk-livered man! 
 
 Thou bear's t a cheek for blows, a head for 
 
 wrongs ; 
 Who hast not in thy brows an eye dis- 
 cerning 
 Thine honor from thy suffering; that not 
 
 know'st. 
 Fools do those villains pity, who are 
 
 punish'd 
 Ere they have done their mischief. 
 
 Where's thy drum? 
 France spreads his banners in our noise- 
 less land , 
 With plumed helm thy slayer begins 
 
 threats; 
 Whilst thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and 
 
 cry'st. 
 Alack! why does he so! 
 
 Alb. See thyself, devil! 
 
 Proper deformity seems not in the fiend 
 So horrid, as in woman. 
 
 Gon. vain fool! 
 
 Alb. Thou chang'd and self-cover 'd 
 
 thing, for shame, 
 Be-monster not thy feature. Were it my 
 
 fitness 
 To let these hands obey my blood, 
 They are apt enough to dislocate and tear 
 Thy flesh and bones: — Howev'r thou art 
 
 a fiend, 
 A woman's shape doth shield thee. 
 Gon. Marry, your manhood now! 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Alb. What news? 
 
 Mess. 0, my good lord, the duke of 
 Cornwall's dead. 
 Slain by his servant, going to put out 
 The other eye of Gloster. 
 
 591 
 
Act. IV. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 SCEN'E III. 
 
 Alb. Gloster's eyes I 
 
 Mess. A servant that he bred, thrill'd 
 
 with remorse, 
 
 Oppos'd against the act, bending his sword 
 
 To his great master; who, thereat enrag'd, 
 
 Flew on him, and among them fell'd him 
 
 dead: 
 But not without that harmful stroke, 
 
 which since 
 Hath pluck'd him after. 
 , All). This shows you are above 
 
 You justicers, that these our nether 
 
 crimes 
 So speedily can venge! — But, poor 
 
 Gloster! 
 Lost he his other eye? 
 
 Mess. Both, both, my lord. — 
 
 This letter, madam, craves a speedy an- 
 swer; 
 'Tis from your sister. 
 
 Qon. \^Aside.^ One way I like this 
 well; 
 But being widow, and my Gloster with 
 
 her. 
 May all the building in my fancy pluck 
 Upon my hateful life: Another M-ay, 
 The news is not so tart. — I'll read, and 
 answer. [Exit. 
 
 Alb. Where was his son, when they did 
 
 take his eyes? 
 Mess. Come with my lady hither. 
 Alb. He is not here. 
 
 Mess. No, my good lord; I met him 
 
 back again. 
 Alb. Knows he the wickedness? 
 Mess. Ay, my good lord; 'twas he in- 
 form'd against him; 
 And quit the house on purpose, that their 
 
 punishment 
 Might have freer course. 
 
 Alb. Gloster, I live 
 
 To thank thee for the love thou show'dst 
 
 the king. 
 And to avenge thine eyes. — Come hither, 
 
 my friend: 
 Tell me what more thou knowest. 
 
 YExeunt. 
 
 Scene III. The French Camp near 
 
 Dover. 
 
 Enter Kent, and a Gentleman. 
 
 Kent. Why the king of France is so 
 
 suddenly gone back know you the reason? 
 
 Gent. Something he left imperfect in 
 
 the state. 
 
 Which since his coming forth is thought 
 
 of; which 
 Imports to the kingdom so much fear and 
 
 danger. 
 That his personal return was most requir'd, 
 And necessary. 
 
 Kent. Who hath he left behind him 
 general? 
 
 Gent. The Marschal of France, Mon- 
 sieur le Fer. 
 
 Kent. Did your letters j^'erce the 
 queen to any demonstration of grief? 
 Gent. Ay, sir; she took them, read 
 them in my presence; 
 And now and then an ample tear trill'd 
 
 down 
 Her delicate cheek; it seem'd, she was a 
 
 queen 
 Over her passion; who, most rebel-like, 
 Sought to be king o'er her. 
 
 Kent. 0, then it mov'd her. 
 
 Gent. Not to a rage: patience and sor- 
 row strove 
 Who should express her goodliest. You 
 
 have seen 
 Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and 
 
 tears 
 Were like a better day: Those happy 
 
 smiles. 
 That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to 
 
 know 
 What guests were iji her eyes; which 
 
 l^arted thence. 
 As pearls from diamonds dropj)'d. — In 
 
 brief, sorrow 
 Would be a rarity most belov'd; if all 
 Could so become it. 
 
 Kent. Made she no verbal question? 
 Gent. 'Faith, once, or twice, she 
 heav'd the name of Father 
 
 593 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Pantingly forth, as if it press'd herheai't; 
 Cried, Sisters! sisters! — Shame of ladies! 
 
 sisters! 
 Kent! fatJier! sister! ]] Itat? i' the storm? 
 
 'i the night? 
 Let pity not be believed! — There she shook 
 The holy water from her heavenly eyes. 
 And clamor moisten'd: then away she 
 
 started 
 To deal with grief alone. 
 
 Kent. It is the stars. 
 
 The stars above us, govern our conditions; 
 Else one self mate and mate could not 
 
 beget 
 Such different issues. You spoke not 
 with her since? 
 Gent. No. 
 
 Kent. Was this before tlie king re- 
 turned? 
 Gent. No, since. 
 
 Kent. Well, sir; the poor distress'd 
 Lear is i' the town : 
 AVho sometime, in his better tune, remem- 
 bers 
 What we are come about, and by no means 
 Will yield to see his daughter. 
 
 Gent. Why, good sir? 
 
 Ke7it. A sovereign shame so elbows him: 
 his own unkindness. 
 That stripp'd her from his benediction, 
 
 turn'd her 
 To foreign casualties, gave her dear 
 
 rights 
 To his dog-hearted daughters, — these 
 
 things sting 
 His mind so venomously, that burning 
 
 shame 
 Detains him from Cordelia. 
 ■ Gent. Alack, poor gentleman! 
 
 Kent. Of Albany's and Cornwall's 
 
 powers you heard not? 
 Gent. 'Tis so; they are afoot, 
 Kent. Well, sir, I'll bring you to our 
 master Lear, 
 And leave you to attend him: some dear 
 
 cause. 
 Will in concealment wrap me up a while; 
 
 When I am known aright, you shall not 
 
 grieve 
 Lending me this acquaintance. I pray 
 
 you, go 
 Along with. me. \^Exeunt. 
 
 ScEN-E IV. The same. A Tent. 
 
 Enter Cordelia, Physicians, and Sol- 
 diers. 
 
 Cor. Alack, 'tis he; why, he was met 
 
 even now 
 As mad as the vex'd sea: singing aloud; 
 Crown'd with rank fumiter, and furrow 
 
 weeds. 
 With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo- 
 flowers. 
 Darnel; and all the idle weeds that grow 
 In our sustaining corn. — A century sent 
 
 forth ; 
 Search every acre in the high-grown 
 
 field. 
 And bring him to our eye. 
 
 \_Exit an Officer. 
 What can man's wisdom do. 
 In the restoring his bereaved sense? 
 He, that helps him, take all my outward 
 
 worth. 
 Phy. There is means, madam: 
 Our foster nurse of nature is repose. 
 The which he lacks; that to provoke in 
 
 him. 
 Are many simple operative, whose power 
 Will close the eyes of anguish. 
 
 Cor. All bless'd secrets. 
 
 All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth. 
 Spring with my tears! be aidant, and 
 
 remediate. 
 In the good man's distress! — Seek, seek 
 
 for him; 
 Lest his iingovern'd rage dissolve the life 
 That wants the means to lead it. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 J/c.s.y. Madam, news; 
 
 The British powers are marching hither- 
 M'ard. 
 
 593 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 SCEKE IV. 
 
 Cor. 'Tis known before; our j^repara- 
 tion stands 
 In expectation of them. — dear father. 
 It is tliy business that I go about; 
 Therefore great France 
 
 
 My mourning, and important tears, hath 
 
 pitied. 
 Xo blown ambition doth our arms incite, 
 But love, dear love, and our ag'd father's 
 
 right; 
 Soon may I hear, and see him. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. A Room in Gloster's Castle. 
 
 Enter Regan and Steward. 
 
 Reg. But are my brother's powers set 
 
 forth? 
 Stew. Ay, madam. 
 
 Reg. Himself 
 
 In person there? 
 
 Steiv. Madam, with much ado: 
 
 Your sister is the better soldier. 
 
 Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with 
 your lord at home? 
 
 59i 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Steio. No, madam. 
 
 Reg. What might import my sister's 
 
 letter to him? 
 Stew. I know not, lady. 
 Reg. 'Faith, he's posted hence on seri- 
 ous matter. 
 It was great ignorance, Gloster's eyes be- 
 ing out, 
 To let him live; where he arrives, he moves 
 All hearts against us: Edmund, I think, 
 
 is gone. 
 In pity of his miserj', to despatch 
 His nighted life; moreover, to descry 
 The strength o' the enemy. 
 
 Steiv. I must needs after him, madam, 
 
 with my letter. 
 Reg. Our troops set forth to-morrow; 
 stay with us; 
 The ways are dangerous. 
 
 Steiv. I may not, madam: 
 
 My lady charg'd my duty in this business. 
 
 Reg. Why should she write to Edmund? 
 
 Might not you 
 
 TransjDort her purpose by word? Belike, 
 
 Something — I know not what: — I'll love 
 
 thee much. 
 Let me unseal the letter. 
 
 Stezv. Madam, I had rather — 
 
 Reg. I know, your lady does not love 
 her husband; 
 I am sure of that: and, at her late being 
 
 here, 
 She gave strange ceiliads, and most speak- 
 ing looks 
 To noble Edmund: I know, you are of 
 her bosom. 
 Stew. I, madam? 
 
 Reg. I speak in understanding; you 
 are, I know it: 
 Therefore, I do advise you, take this note: 
 My lord is dead; Edmund and I have 
 
 talk'd; 
 And more convenient is he for my hand, 
 Than for your lady's: — You may gather 
 
 more. 
 If you do find him, pray you, give him 
 this: 
 
 And when your mistress hears thus much 
 
 from you, 
 I pray, desire her call lier Avisdom to her. 
 So, fare you well. 
 If you do chance to hear of that blind 
 
 traitor^ 
 Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. 
 Steiv. 'Would I could meet him, madam; 
 I would show 
 What party I do follow. 
 
 Reg. Fare thee well. 
 
 [^Ezeunt. 
 
 Scene VI. The Country near Dover. 
 
 Enter Glostee, and Edgar dressed like 
 a Peasant. 
 
 Glo. When shall we come to the top of 
 
 that same hill? 
 Edg. You do climb up it now: look, 
 
 how we labor. 
 €rlo. Methinks, the ground is even. 
 Edg. Horrible step; 
 
 Hark, do you hear the sea? 
 
 Glo. No, truly. 
 
 Edg. Why, then your other senses 
 grow imperfect 
 By your eyes' anguish. 
 
 Glo. So may it be, indeed: 
 
 Methinks, thy voice is alter'd ; and thou 
 
 speak'st 
 In better phrase, and matter, than thou 
 didst. 
 Edg. You are much deceiv'd; in 
 nothing am I chang'd. 
 But in my garments. 
 
 Glo. Methinks, you are better spoken. 
 Edg. Come on, sir; here's the place; — 
 stand still. — How fearful 
 And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low! 
 The crows, and choughs, that wing the mid- 
 way air. 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles: Half way 
 
 down 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire; dread- 
 ful trade! 
 
 593 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Methinks, he seems no bigger than his 
 
 head : 
 The fishermen, that walk upon the 
 
 beach, 
 Appear like mice; and yon' tall anchoring 
 
 bark, 
 Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, her 
 
 buoy 
 Alihost too small for sight: The mur- 
 muring surge, 
 That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles 
 
 chafes. 
 Cannot be heard so high: — I'll look no 
 
 more; 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient 
 
 sight 
 Topple down headlong, 
 
 Glo. Set me where you stand. 
 
 Edg. Give me your hand; You are 
 
 now within a foot 
 Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the 
 
 moon 
 Would I not leap upright. 
 
 Glo. Let go my hand. 
 
 Here, friend, is another purse: in it a 
 
 jewel 
 Well worth a poor man's taking: Fairies, 
 
 and gods. 
 Prosper it with thee! Go thou further 
 
 ofi; 
 Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee 
 
 going. 
 Edg. Now fare you well, good sir. 
 
 \^Seems to go. 
 Glo. With all my heart. 
 
 Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his 
 
 despair. 
 Is done to cure it. 
 
 Glo. you mighty gods! 
 
 This world I do renounce: and, in your 
 
 sights. 
 Shake patiently my great affliction off: 
 If I could bear it longer, and not fall 
 To quarrel with 3'our great opposeless 
 
 wills. 
 My snuff, and loathed part of nature, 
 
 should 
 
 Burn itself out. If Edgar live, bless 
 
 him! — 
 Now fellow, fare thee well. 
 
 \^He leaps, and falls along. 
 
 Edg. Gone, sir ? farewell. — 
 
 And yet I know not how conceit may 
 
 rob 
 The treasury of life, when life itself 
 Yields to the theft: Had he been where 
 
 he thought. 
 By this, had thought been past. — Alive, 
 
 or dead? 
 Ho, you sir! friend! — Hear you, sir? — 
 
 speak ! 
 Thus might he pass indeed: — yet he re- 
 vives: 
 What are you, sir? 
 
 Glo. Away, and let me die. 
 
 Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gos- 
 samer, feathers, air. 
 So many fathoms down precipitating, 
 Thou hadst shiver'd like an egg: but 
 
 thou dost breathe; 
 Hast heavy substance; bleed'st not; 
 
 speak'st: art sound. 
 Ten masts at each make not the altitude. 
 Which thou hast perpendicularly fell; 
 Thy life's a miracle: Speak yet again. 
 Glo. But have I fallen, or no? 
 Edg. Prom the dread summit of this 
 
 chalky bourn; 
 Look up a-height; — the shrill-gorg'd 
 
 lark so far 
 Cannot be seen or heard: Do but look 
 
 up. 
 Glo. Alack, I have no eyes. — 
 Is wretchedness depriv'd that benefit, 
 To end itself by death? 'Twas yet some 
 
 comfort. 
 When misery could beguile the tyrant's 
 
 rage. 
 And frustrate his proud will. 
 
 Edg. Give me your arm: 
 
 Up: — So; — How is't? Feel you your 
 
 legs? You stand. 
 Glo. Too well, too well. 
 
 596 
 
Act IY. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Edg. This is above all strangeness. 
 
 Upon the crown o' the cliff, what thing 
 
 was that 
 Which parted from yon ? 
 
 Glo. A poor unfortunate beggar. 
 
 Edg. As I stood here below, methought, 
 
 his eyes 
 Were two full moons; he had a thousand 
 
 noses. 
 Horns whelk'd, and wav'd like the en- 
 ridged sea; 
 It was sometiend: Therefore, thou happy 
 
 father. 
 Think that the clearest gods, who make 
 
 them honors 
 Of men's impossibilities, have preserved 
 
 thee. 
 Glo. I do remember now: henceforth 
 
 ril bear 
 Affliction, till it do cry out itself. 
 Enough, enough, and die. That thing 
 
 you speak of, 
 I took it for a man; often 'twould say, 
 Tlie fiend, the fiend: he led me to that 
 
 place. 
 Edg. Bear free and patient thoughts. — 
 But who comes here? 
 
 Enter Tj^A'r, fantastically dressed up with 
 flowers. 
 
 The safer sense will ne'er accommodate 
 His master thus. 
 
 Lear. No, they cannot touch me for 
 coining; 
 I am the king himself. 
 
 Edg. thou side-piercing sight! 
 
 Lear. Nature's above art in that re- 
 spect. — There's your press-money. That 
 fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: 
 draw me a clothier's yard. — Look, look, a 
 mouse I Peace, peace; — this piece of 
 toasted cheese will do't. — There's my 
 gaunlet; I'll prove it on a giant. — Bring 
 up the brown bills. — 0, well flown bird! 
 — i' the clout, i' the clout: hewgh! — Give 
 the word. 
 
 Edg. Sweet marjoram. 
 
 Lear. Pass. 
 Glo. I know that voice. 
 Lear. Ha! Goneril! — with a white 
 beard! — They flatter'd me like a dog; and 
 told me, I had white hairs in my beard, 
 ere the black ones were there. To say ay, 
 and 710, to everything I said! — Ay and no 
 too was no good divinity. When the rain 
 came to wet me once, and the wind too, 
 to make me chatter; when the thunder 
 would not peace at my bidding; there I 
 found them, there I smelt them out. Go 
 to, they are not men o' their words: they 
 told me I was everything; 'tis a lie; I am 
 not ague-proof. 
 
 Glo. The trick of that voice I do well 
 remember: 
 Is't not the king? 
 
 Lear. Ay, every inch a king: 
 
 When I do stare, see how the subject 
 
 quakes. 
 I pardon that man's life: what was thy 
 
 cause? — 
 Adidtery. — 
 Thou shalt not die: for Gloster's bastard 
 
 son 
 Was kinder to his father, than my daugh- 
 ters 
 Born in the lawful bed. 
 
 Glo. 0, let me kiss that hand ! 
 
 Lear. Let me wipe it first; it smells of 
 
 mortality. 
 Glo. ruin'd piece of nature! This 
 great world 
 Shall so wear out to naught. — Dost thou 
 know me? 
 Lear. I remember thine eyes well 
 enough. Dost thou squiny at me? No, 
 do thy worst, blind Cupid; I'll not love. — 
 Eead thou this challenge; mark but the 
 penning of it. 
 
 Glo. Were all the letters suns, I could 
 
 not see one. 
 Edg. I would not take this from re- 
 port; — it is, 
 And my heart breaks at it. 
 Lear. Eead. 
 
 597 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Glo. What, T^itli the case of eyes? 
 Lear. 0, ho, are you there with me? 
 No eyes in your head, nor no money in 
 your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy 
 case, your purse in a light: Yet you see 
 how this world goes. 
 Glo. I see it feelingly. 
 Lear, What, art mad? A man may 
 see how this world goes, with no eyes. 
 Look with thine ears; see how yon' justice 
 rails upon yon' simple thief. Hark, in 
 thine ear: Change places; and, handy- 
 dandy, which is the justice, which is the 
 thief ? — Thou hast seen a farmer's dog 
 bark at a beggar? 
 Glo. Ay, sir. 
 
 Lear. And the creature run from the 
 cur? There thou migh'st behold the 
 great image of authority: a dog's obeyed 
 in office. 
 Through tatter'd clothes small vices do 
 
 appear; 
 Eobes, and furr'd gowns, hide all. Plate 
 
 sin with gold, 
 And the strong lance of justice hurtless 
 
 breaks : 
 Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth 
 
 pierce it. 
 None does ofiend, none, I say, none; I'll 
 
 able 'em: 
 Take that of me, my friend, who have 
 
 the power 
 To seal the accuser's lips. Get thee glass 
 
 eyes; 
 And, like a sciirvy politician, seem 
 To see the things thou dost not. Now, 
 
 now, now, now. 
 Pull off my boots: — harder, harder; so. 
 Edg. 0, matter and impertinency 
 
 mix'd! 
 Reason in madness! 
 
 Lear. If thou Avilt weep my fortunes, 
 
 take my eyes. 
 I know thee well enough; thy name is 
 
 Gloster: 
 Thou must be patient; we came crying 
 
 hither. 
 
 Thou know'st the first time that we smell 
 the air, 
 
 We wawl, and cry: — I will preach to thee; 
 mark me. 
 Glo. Alack, alack the day! 
 Lear. When we are born, we cry, tliat 
 we are come 
 
 To this great stage of fools; This a 
 
 good block? 
 
 It were a delicate stratagem, to shoe 
 
 A troop of horse with felt: I'll put it in 
 proof; 
 
 And when I have stolen upon these sons- 
 in-law, 
 
 Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill. 
 
 Enter a Gentleman, ivitli attendants. 
 
 Gent. 0, here he is, lay hand upon 
 him,— Sir, 
 
 Your most dear daughter 
 
 Lear. No rescue? What, a prisoner? 
 I am even 
 The natural fool of fortune. — Use me 
 
 well; 
 You shall have ransom. Let me have a 
 
 surgeon, 
 I am cut to the brains. 
 
 Gent. You shall have any thing. 
 
 Lear. No seconds? All myself ? 
 Why, this would make a man, a man of 
 
 salt. 
 To use his eyes for garden water-pots. 
 Ay, and for laying autumn's dust. 
 
 Gent. Good sir, — 
 
 Lear. I will die bravely, like a bride- 
 groom: What? 
 I will be jovial; come, come; I am a king. 
 My masters, know you that! 
 
 Gent. You are a royal one, and we 
 
 obey you. 
 Lear. Then there's life in it. Nay, 
 an' you get it, you shall get it by running. 
 Sa, sa, sa, sa. 
 
 \_Exit running; Attendants folloio. 
 Kent. A sight most pitiful in the 
 meanest wretch; 
 
 598 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KI^G LEAR. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Past speaking of in a king! — Thou hast 
 
 one daughter, 
 Who redeems nature from the general 
 
 curse 
 Which twain have brought her to, 
 JSdff. Hail, gentle sir. 
 Gent. Sir, speed you: What's your 
 
 will? 
 Bdg. Do you hear aught, sir, of a 
 
 battle toward ? 
 Ge72t. Most sure, and vulgar; every one 
 hears that 
 Which can distinguish sound. 
 
 Edg. But, by your favor. 
 
 How near's the other army? 
 
 Gent. Near, and on speedy foot; the 
 main descry 
 Stands on the hourly thought. 
 Edff. I thank you, sir: that's all. 
 
 Gent. Though that the queen on spe- 
 cial cause is here. 
 Her army is mov'd on. 
 Edg. I thank you, sir. [Exit Gent. 
 Gen. You ever-gentle gods, take my 
 breath from me; 
 Let not my worser spirit tempt me again 
 To die before you please! 
 
 Edg. Well pray you, father. 
 
 Gent. Now, good sir, what are you? 
 Edg. A most poor man, made tame by 
 fortune's blows; 
 Who, by the art of known and feeling 
 
 sorrows, 
 Am pregnant to good pity. Give me 
 
 your hand, 
 I'll lead you to some biding. 
 
 Glo. Hearty thanks: 
 
 The bounty and the benizon of heaven 
 To boot, and boot! 
 
 Enter Steward. 
 
 Stew. A proclaim'd prize ! Most happy ! 
 That eyeless head of thine was first f ram 'd 
 
 flesh 
 To raise my fortunes. — Thou old unhappy 
 
 traitor. 
 
 Briefly thyself remember: — The sword 
 
 is out 
 That must destroy thee. 
 
 Glo. Now let thy friendly hand 
 
 Put strength enough to it. 
 
 [Edgar opposes. 
 
 Stew. Wherefore, bold peasant, 
 
 Dar'st thou support a publish'd traitor? 
 
 Hence; 
 Lest that the infection of his fortune 
 
 take 
 Like hold on thee. Let go his arm. 
 
 Edg. Ch'ill not let go, zir, without 
 vurther 'casion. 
 
 Steiv. Let go, slave, or thou diest. 
 Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, 
 and let poor volk pass. And ch'ud ha' 
 been zwagger'd out of my life, 'twould 
 not ha' been zo long as 'tis by a vortnight. 
 Nay, come not near the old man; keep 
 out, che vor' ye, or ise try whether your 
 costard or my bat be the harder: Ch'ill 
 be plain with you. 
 Steio. Out, dunghill! 
 Edg. Ch'ill pick your teeth, zir: 
 Come; no matter vor your foins. 
 
 [T7iey fight; and Edgar knocks Mm 
 doimi. 
 Stew. Slave, thou hast slain me: — 
 Villain, take my purse; 
 If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body; 
 And give the letters, Avhich thou find'st 
 
 about me. 
 To Edmund earl of Gloster ; seek him 
 out 
 
 Upon the British party: 0, untimely 
 
 death ! {Dies. 
 
 Edg. I know thee well: a serviceable 
 villain ; 
 As duteous to the vices of thy mistress. 
 As badness would desire. 
 
 Glo. What, is he dead? 
 
 Edg. Sit you down, father; rest you. — 
 Let's see his pockets : these letters, that 
 
 he speaks of, 
 May be my friends. — He's dead: I am 
 only sorry 
 
 599 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene. VII. 
 
 He had no other death's man. — Let us 
 
 see : 
 Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame 
 
 us not: 
 To know our enemies' minds, we'd rip 
 
 their hearts ; 
 Their papers, is more lawful: 
 
 [Reads.] Let our r-eciprocal votus he re- 
 membered. You, have many opportunities 
 to cut Mm off: if your will -want not, time 
 and place will ie fruitfully offered. Tliere 
 is nothing done, if he return the conqueror: 
 Then am I the prisoner, and his led my 
 gaol; from which deliver me, and s^ipply 
 the place for your labor. 
 
 Your ivife, {so I would say,) 
 And your aff^ectionate servant, 
 
 GONERIL. 
 
 undistinguish'd space of woman's will! — 
 
 A plot upon her virtuous husband's life; 
 
 And the exchange, my brother! — Here, in 
 the sands. 
 
 Thee I'll rake up, and, in the mature 
 time. 
 
 With this ungracious paper strike the 
 sight 
 
 Of the death-practis'd duke: For him 'tis 
 well, 
 
 That of thy death and business I can tell. 
 [Exit Edgar, dragging out the Body. 
 Glo. The king is mad: How stiff is my 
 vile sense. 
 
 That I stand up, and have ingenious feel- 
 ing 
 
 Of my huge sorrows! Better I were dis- 
 tract : 
 
 So should my thoughts be sever'd from 
 my griefs; 
 
 And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose 
 
 The knowledge of themselves. 
 
 Re-enter Edgae. 
 
 Edg. Give me your hand: 
 
 Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten 
 
 drum. 
 Come, father, I'll bestow you with a friend. 
 
 \_Exeu7it. 
 
 Scene VII. A Tent in the French Camp. 
 
 Lear on a Bed, asleep: Physician, Gentle- 
 man and others attending. Enter Cor- 
 delia and Kent. 
 
 Cor. thou good Kent, how shall I 
 live, and work. 
 To match thy goodness? My life will be 
 
 too short. 
 And every measure fail me. 
 
 Kent. To be acknowledg'd, madam, is 
 o'erpaid. 
 All my reports go with the modest truth; 
 Nor more, nor clipp'd, but so. 
 
 Cor. Be better suited; 
 
 These weeds are memories of those worser 
 
 hours; 
 I pr'ythee, put them off. 
 
 Ke7it. Pardon me, dear madam; 
 
 Yet to be known, shortens my made in- 
 tent: 
 My boon I make it, that you know me 
 
 not. 
 Till time and I think meet. 
 
 Cor. Then be it so, my good lord. — 
 How does the king? 
 
 [To the Physician. 
 Phys. Madam, sleeps still. 
 Cor. you kind gods. 
 Cure this great breach in his absurd na- 
 ture! 
 Th' untun'd and jarring senses, 0, wind 
 
 up. 
 Of this child-changed father! 
 
 Phys. So please your majesty. 
 
 That we may wake the king? he hath slept 
 long. 
 Cor. Be govern'd by your knowledge, 
 and proceed 
 I' the sway of your own will. Is he ar- 
 ray'd ? 
 Gent. A.J, madam; in the heaviness of 
 his sleep. 
 We put fresh garments on him. 
 
 Phys. Be by, good madam, when we 
 do awake him; 
 I doubt not of his temperance. 
 
 600 
 
Act IV. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 SCEXE VII. 
 
 Cor. Very well. 
 
 Phys. Please you, draw near. — Louder 
 
 the music there. 
 Cor. my dear father! Restoration, 
 hang 
 Thy medicine on my lips; and let this 
 
 kiss 
 Repair those violent harms, that my two 
 
 sisters 
 Have in thy reverence made! 
 
 Kent. Kind and dear princess! 
 
 Cor. Had you not been their father, 
 these white flakes 
 Had challenged pity of them. Was this a 
 
 face 
 To be expos'd against the warring winds? 
 To stand against the deep dread-bolted 
 
 thunder? 
 In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
 ■Of quick, cross lightning? to watch (poor 
 
 perdu!) 
 With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog, 
 Though he had bit me, should have stood 
 
 that night 
 Against my fire; And wast thou fain, poor 
 
 father. 
 To hovel thee with swine, and rogues for- 
 lorn. 
 In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! 
 'Tis wonder, that thy life and wits at 
 
 once 
 Had not concluded all. — He wakes; speak 
 to him. 
 Phys, Madam, do you; 'tis fittest. 
 Cor. How does my royal lord? How 
 
 fares your majesty? 
 Lear. You do me wrong, to take me 
 out o' the grave: — 
 Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound 
 Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears 
 Do scald like molten lead. 
 
 Cor. Sir, do you know me? 
 
 Lear. You are a spirit, I know; When 
 
 did you die? 
 Cor. Still, still, far wide! 
 Phys. He's scarce awake; let him alone 
 awhile. 
 
 Lear. Where have I been? — Where am 
 
 I?— Fair day-light?— 
 I am mightily abus'd. — I should even die 
 
 with pity. 
 To see another thus. — I know not what to 
 
 say.— 
 I will not swear, these are my hands: — 
 
 let's see; 
 I feel this pin prick. 'Would I were as- 
 
 sur'd 
 Of my condition. 
 
 Cor. 0, look upon me, sir. 
 And hold your hands in benediction o'er 
 
 me: — 
 No, sir, you must not kneel. 
 
 Lear. Pi'ay do not mock me: 
 
 I am a very foolish fond old man. 
 Fourscore and upward; and, to deal plain- 
 
 I fear, I am not in my perfect mind. 
 Methinks, I should know you, and know 
 
 this man: 
 Yet I am doubtful : for I am mainly ig- 
 norant 
 What place this is; and all the skill I have 
 Remembers not these garments; nor I 
 
 know not 
 Where I did lodge last night: Do not 
 
 laugh at me; 
 For, as I am a man, I think this lady 
 To be my child Cordelia. 
 
 Cor. And so I am, I am. 
 
 Lear. Be your tears wet? Yes, 'faith. 
 I pray weep not: 
 If you have poison for me, I will drink it. 
 I know, you do not love me; for your sis- 
 ters 
 Have, as I do remember, done me wrong: 
 You have some cause, they have not. 
 Cor. No cause, no cause. 
 
 Lear Am I in France? 
 Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. 
 
 Lear. Do not abuse me. 
 Phys. Be comforted, good madam: the 
 great rage. 
 You see, is cur'd in him: and yet it is 
 
 danger 
 
 601 
 
Act ly 
 
 KIXG LEAR. 
 
 SCEXE Vil. 
 
 To make liini even o'er the time lie lias 
 
 lost. 
 Desire liim to go in; trouble liimno more, 
 Till further settling. 
 
 Cor. Will't please your highness walk? 
 Lear. You must bear with me: 
 
 Pray now, forget and forgive: I am old, 
 and foolish. 
 
 \_Exeunt Lear, Cordelia, Physician, 
 and Attendants. 
 Gent. Holds it true, sir. 
 That the duke of Cornwall was so slain? 
 Kent. Most certain, sir. 
 
 Gent. Who is conductor of his people? 
 Kent. As 'tis said, 
 
 The bastard son of Gloster. 
 
 Gent. They say, Edgar, 
 
 His banish'd son, is with the earl of Kent 
 In Germany. 
 
 Kent. Eeport is changeable. 
 
 'Tis time to look about; the powers o' the= 
 
 kingdom 
 Approach apace. 
 
 Gejit. The arbitrament is like to be a 
 bloody. 
 Fare you well, sir, [Exit.- 
 
 Kent. My point and period will be 
 thoroughly wrought. 
 Or well, or ill, as this day's battle's 
 fought. 
 
 {Exit.^ 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. The Camp of the British 
 Forces, near Dover. 
 
 Enter, with Drums and Colors, Edmuxd, 
 Eegax, Officers, Soldiers, and others. 
 
 Edrn. Know of the duke, if his last 
 purpose hold; 
 Or, whether since he is advis'd by aught 
 To change the course: He's full of alter- 
 ation. 
 And self-reproving: — Bring his constant 
 pleasure. 
 
 [To an Officer, who goes out. 
 Reg. Our sister's man is certainly mis- 
 carried. 
 Edm. 'Tis to be doubted, madam. 
 Reg. Now, sweet lord, 
 
 You know the goodness I intend upon 
 
 you: 
 Tell me, — but truly, — but then speak the 
 
 truth. 
 Do you not love my sister? 
 
 Edm. In honor'd love. 
 
 Reg. I never shall endure her: Dear 
 my lord. 
 Be not familiar with her. 
 
 Edm. Fear me not: — 
 She, and the duke her husband, 
 
 Enter Albany, Goneril, a-nd Soldiers. 
 
 Gon. I had rather lose the battle, than* 
 
 that sister 
 
 Should loosen him and me. [Aside. 
 
 Alb. Our very loving sister, will be. 
 
 met. — 
 
 Sir, this I hear, — The king is come to his 
 
 daughter, 
 TYith others, whom the rigor of our state,. 
 Forc'd to cry out. Where I could not be- 
 
 honest, 
 I never yet was valiant: for this business,. 
 It toucheth us as France invades our land, 
 Not holds the king; with others, whom, 1 
 
 fear. 
 Most just and heavy causes make oppose, 
 Edm. Sir, you speak nobly. 
 Reg. Why is this reason'd? 
 
 Gon. Combine together 'gainst the; 
 enemy: 
 For these domestic and particular broils 
 Are not to question here. 
 
 Alb. Let us then determine 
 
 With the ancient of war on our proceed- 
 ings. 
 Edm. I shall attend you presently at 
 vour tent. 
 
 602 
 
Act V. 
 
 KING LEAK. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Reg. Sister, you'll go with us? 
 
 Gon. No. 
 
 Reg. "Tis most convenient; pray you, 
 
 go with us. 
 Oon. 0, ho, I know the riddle: \^Aside.'] 
 
 I will go. 
 
 As they are going out, enter Edgar, dis- 
 guised. 
 
 Edg. If e'er your grace had speech 
 with man so poor, 
 Hear me one word. 
 All). I'll overtake you. — Speak. 
 
 \_Exeunt Edmund, Regan, Goneril, 
 Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants. 
 Edg. Before you fight the battle, ope 
 this letter. 
 If you have victory, let the trumpet 
 
 sound 
 For him that brought it: wretched though 
 
 I seem, 
 I can produce a champion, that will prove 
 What is avouched there: If you miscarry, 
 Your business of the world hath so an end, 
 And machination ceases. Fortune love 
 you! 
 Alh. Stay till I have read the letter. 
 Edg. I was forbid it. 
 
 When time shall serve, let but the herald 
 
 cry, 
 And I'll appear again. [Exit. 
 
 Alb. Why, fare thee well; I will o'er- 
 look thy paper. 
 
 Re-enter Edmund. 
 
 Edm. The enemy's in view, draw up 
 your powers. 
 Here is the guess of their true strength 
 
 and forces 
 By diligent discovery; — but your haste 
 Is now urg'd on you. 
 Alb. We will greet the time. {Exit. 
 Edm. To both these sisters have I 
 sworn my love; 
 Each jealous of the other, as the stung 
 Are of tlie adder. Which of them shall I 
 take? 
 
 Both! one? or neither? Neither can be 
 
 enjoy'd. 
 If both remain alive: To take the widow, 
 Exasperates, makes mad her sister Gon- 
 eril; 
 And hardly shall I carry out my side. 
 Her husband being alive. Now then we'll 
 
 use 
 His countenance for the battle: which be- 
 ing done. 
 Let her, who would be rid of him, devise 
 His speedy taking off. As for the mercy 
 Which he intends to Lear, and to Cor- 
 delia, — 
 The battle done, and they within our 
 
 power. 
 Shall never see his pardon: for my state 
 Stands on me to defend, not to debate. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. A Field between the two 
 Camps. 
 
 Alarm within. Enter, xvitUDrum and 
 Colors, Leak, Cordelia, and their 
 Forces; and exeunt. 
 
 Enter Edgar aiul Gloster. 
 
 Edg. Here, father, take the shadow of 
 this tree 
 For your good host; pray that the right 
 
 may thrive. 
 If ever I return to 3"ou again, 
 I'll bring you comfort. 
 
 Glo. Grace go with you, sir! 
 
 [Exit Edgar. 
 
 Alarums: afterwards a Retreat. Re-enter 
 Edgar. 
 
 Edg. Away, old man, give me thy 
 hand, away; 
 King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter 
 
 ta'en : 
 Give me thy hand, come on. 
 
 Glo. No further, sir; a man may rot 
 
 even here. 
 Edg. What, in ill thoughts again? 
 Men must endure 
 
 603 
 
Act Y 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Their going hence, even as their coming 
 
 hither: 
 Eipeness is all: Come on, 
 
 Glo. And that's true too. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. The British Camp near 
 Dover. 
 
 Enter, in Conquest, loith Drum and Colors, 
 Edmuistd; Lear and Cordelia, as 
 Prisoners; Officers, Soldiers, etc. 
 
 Edm. Some officers take them away: 
 
 good guard; 
 Until their greater pleasures first be 
 
 known 
 That are to censure them. 
 
 Cor. We are not the first. 
 
 Who, with best meaning, have incurred 
 
 the worst. 
 For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down; 
 Myself could else out-frown false fortune's 
 
 frown. — 
 Shall we not see these daughters, and 
 
 these sisters? 
 Lear. No, no, no, no! Come, let's 
 
 away to prison: 
 We two alone will sing like birds i' the 
 
 cage: 
 When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll 
 
 kneel down. 
 And ask of thee forgiveness: So we'll 
 
 live. 
 And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, 
 
 and laugh 
 At gilded butterflies, and hear poor 
 
 rogues 
 Talk of court news: and we'll talk with 
 
 them too — 
 Who loses, and who wins; who's in, who's 
 
 out; — 
 And take upon us the mystery of things. 
 As if we were heaven's spies: And we'll 
 
 wear out, 
 "In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of 
 
 great ones, 
 That ebb and flow by the moon. 
 
 Edm. Take them away. 
 
 Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cor- 
 delia, 
 The gods themselves throw incense. Have 
 
 I caught thee? 
 He, that parts us, shall bring a brand 
 
 from heaven, 
 And fire us hence, like foxes. Wipe thine 
 
 eyes; 
 They shall not make us weep: we'll see 
 
 them starve first. 
 Come. 
 
 [Exetoit Lear and Cordelia, guarded. 
 Edm. Come hither, captain; hark. 
 Take out this note; [Giving a Paper.'] go, 
 
 follow them to prison: 
 One step I have advanc'd thee; if thou 
 
 dost 
 As this instruct thee, thou dost make thy 
 
 way 
 To noble fortunes: Know thou this, — that 
 
 men 
 Are as the time is: to be tender-minded 
 Does not become a sword: — Thy great 
 
 employment 
 Will not bear question; either say, thou'lt 
 
 do 't. 
 Or thrive by'other means. 
 
 Off. I'll do 't, my lord. 
 
 Edm. About it; and write happy, 
 when thou hast done. 
 Mark, — I say, instantly; and carry it so. 
 As I have set it down. 
 
 Off'. If it be man's work, I will do it. 
 
 [Exit Officer. 
 
 Flourisli. Enter Albany, Goneril, 
 Regan, Officers, and Attendants. 
 
 Alb. Sir, you have shown to-day your 
 
 valiant strain, 
 And fortune led you well: You have the 
 
 captives. 
 Who were the opposites of this day's 
 
 strife : 
 We do require them of you; so to use 
 
 them. 
 
 604 
 
Act \ . 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 As we shall find their merits and our 
 
 safety 
 May equally determine. 
 
 Edm. Sir, I thought it fit 
 
 To send the old and miserable king 
 To some retention, and appointed guard; 
 Whose age has charms in it, whose title 
 
 more, 
 To pluck the common bosom on his side. 
 And turn our impress'd lances in our 
 
 eyes 
 Which do command them. With him I 
 
 sent the queen; 
 My reason all the same; and they are 
 
 ready 
 To-morrow, or at further space, to ap- 
 pear 
 Where you shall hold your session. At 
 
 this time. 
 We sweat, and bleed; the friend hath lost 
 
 his friend; 
 And the best quarrels, in the heat, are 
 
 curs'd 
 By those that feel their sharpness: — 
 The question of Cordelia, and her father. 
 Requires a fitter place. 
 
 Alb. Sir, by your patience, 
 
 I hold you but a subject of this war. 
 Not as a brother. 
 
 Reg. That's as we list to grace him. 
 Methinks, our pleasure might have been 
 
 demanded. 
 Ere you had spoke so far. He led our 
 
 powers; 
 Bore the commission of my place and 
 
 person; 
 The which immediacy may well stand 
 
 up. 
 And call itself your brother. 
 
 Gon, Not so hot: 
 
 In his own grace he doth exalt himself. 
 More than in your advancement. 
 
 Reg. In my rights. 
 
 By me invested, he compeers the best. 
 Gon. That were the most, if he should 
 
 husband you. 
 Reg. Jesters do oft prove prophets. 
 
 Gon. Holloa, holloa! 
 
 That eye, that told you so, look'd but 
 a-squint. 
 Reg. Lady, I am not well; else I should 
 answer 
 From a full-flowing stomach. — General, 
 Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patri- 
 mony; 
 Dispose of them, of me; the walls are 
 
 thine: 
 Witness the world, that I create thee 
 
 here 
 My lord and master. 
 
 Con. Mean you to wed him? 
 
 Alb. The let-alone lies not in your 
 
 good will. 
 Edm. Nor in thine, lord. 
 A lb. Half-blooded fellow, yes. 
 
 Reg. Let the drum strike, and prove 
 my title thine. 
 
 [To Edmund. 
 Alb. Stay yet; hear reason: — Edmund, 
 I arrest thee 
 On capital treason; and, in thy arrest. 
 This gilded serpent: [Pointing to Gon.] — 
 
 for your claim, fair sister, 
 I bar it in the interest of my wife; 
 'Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord. 
 And I, her husband, contradict your 
 
 banns. 
 If you will marry, make your love to 
 
 me. 
 My lady is bespoke. 
 
 Con. An interlude! 
 
 Alb. Thou art arm'd, Gloster: — Let 
 the trumpet sound: 
 If none appear to prove upon thy person. 
 Thy heinous, manifest, and many trea- 
 sons, 
 There is my pledge: [Throioing down a 
 Glove.'\ I'll prove it on thy heart, 
 Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing 
 
 less 
 Than I have liere proclaim'd thee. 
 
 Reg. Sick, 0, sick! 
 
 Gon. If not, I'll ne'er trust poison. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 605 
 
Act. V. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 Edm. There's my exchange: [^Throw- 
 ing down a Qlove.'\ what iu the world he 
 
 is 
 That names me traitor, villain-like he 
 
 lies: 
 Call by thy trumjDet: he that dares ap- 
 proach, 
 On him, on you, (who not?) I Avill main 
 
 tain 
 My truth and honor firmly. 
 All. A herald, ho! 
 Edm. A herald, ho, a herald! 
 
 Alb. Trust to thy single virtues; for 
 thy soldiers, 
 All levied in my name, have in my name 
 Took their discharge. 
 
 Reg. This sickness grows upon me. 
 
 Enter a Herald. 
 
 Ali. She is not well; convey her to my 
 tent. 
 
 [Exit Regan, led. 
 Come hither, herald, — Let the trumpet 
 
 sound, — 
 And read out this. 
 Off. Sound trumpet. 
 
 \_A Trumpet sounds. 
 Herald reads. 
 If any man of quality, or degree, ^oitli- 
 in the lists of the army, will maintain 
 npon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloster, 
 that he is a manifold traitor, let Mm^ ap- 
 p)ear at the third sotind of the trumpet: 
 He is hold in Ms defense. 
 
 Edm. Sound. [1 Trumpet. 
 
 Her. Again. [2 Trumpet. 
 
 Her. Again. [3 Trumpet. 
 
 [Trumpet answers toitliin. 
 
 Enter Edgar, armed, preceded iy a 
 
 Trumpet 
 Alb. Ask him his purposes, why he 
 appears 
 Upon this call o' the trumpet. 
 
 Her. What are you ? 
 
 Your name, your quality? and why you 
 
 answer 
 This present summons ? 
 
 Edg. Know, my name is lost; 
 
 By treason's tooth bare-gnawn, and can- 
 ker-bit : 
 
 Yet am I noble, as the adversary 
 
 I come to cope withal. 
 
 Alb. Which is that adversary? 
 
 Edg. What's he, that speaks for Ed- 
 mund earl of Gloster? 
 Edm. Himself; — What say'st thou to 
 
 him? 
 Edg. Draw thy sword! 
 
 That, if my speech offend a noble heart. 
 
 Thy arm may do thee justice: here is 
 mine. 
 
 Behold, it is the privilege of mine honors. 
 
 My oath, and my profession: I protest, — 
 
 Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and 
 eminence, 
 
 Despite thy victor sword, and fire-new 
 fortune. 
 
 Thy valor, and thy heart, — thou art a 
 traitor : 
 
 False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy 
 father; 
 
 Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious 
 prince; 
 
 And, from the extremest upward of thy 
 head. 
 
 To the descent and dust beneath thy 
 feet, 
 
 A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou. 
 No, 
 
 This sword, this arm, and my best spirits, 
 are bent 
 
 To prove upon thy heart, whereto I 
 speak. 
 
 Thou liest. 
 
 Edm. In wisdom, I should ask thy 
 name: 
 
 But, since thy outside looks so fair and 
 warlike, 
 
 And that thy tongue some 'say of breed- 
 ing breathes, 
 
 What safe and nicely I might well delay 
 
 By rule of knighthood, I disdain and 
 spurn : 
 
 Back do I toss these treasons to thy head; 
 
 636 
 
Act V. 
 
 KING LEAE. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 With the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm tliy 
 
 heart; 
 Which, (for they yet glance by, and 
 
 scarcely bruise,) 
 This sword of mine shall give them in- 
 stant way. 
 Where they shall rest for ever, — Trumpets, 
 speak. 
 • [Ala7-ums. Tliey fight. Edmund /ff//s. 
 Alb. save him, save him! 
 Qon. This is mere practice, Gloster: 
 By the law of arms, thou wast not bound 
 
 to answer 
 An unknown opposite; thou art not van- 
 quish 'd, 
 But cozen'd and beguil'd. 
 
 Alb. Shut your mouth, dame. 
 
 Or with this paper shall I stop it: — Hold, 
 
 sir. 
 Thou worse than any name, read thine 
 
 own evil: — 
 No tearing, lady: I perceive you know it. 
 {Gives the letter to Edmund. 
 Gon. Say, if I do; the laws are mine, 
 not thine: 
 Who shall arraign me for 't? 
 
 Alb. Most monstrous! 
 
 Know'st thou this paper? 
 
 Gon. Ask me not what I know. 
 
 \^Exit Goneril. 
 Alb. Go after her: she's desperate; 
 govern her. 
 
 [Tb an Officer, who goes out. 
 Edm. What you have charg'd me with, 
 that have I done; 
 And more, much more; the time will 
 
 bring it out; 
 'Tis past, and so am I: But what art 
 
 thou. 
 That hast this fortune on me? If thou 
 
 art noble, 
 I do forgive thee. 
 
 Edg. Let's exchange charity. 
 
 I am no less in blood than thou art, Ed- 
 mund: 
 If more, the more thou liast wrong'd me. 
 My name is Edgar, and thy father's son. 
 
 The gods are just, and of our pleasant 
 
 vices 
 Make instruments to scourge us: 
 The dark and vicious place where thee he 
 
 got, 
 Cost him his eyes. 
 Edm. Thou hast spoken right, 'tis 
 
 true; 
 The wheel has come full circle; I am 
 
 here. 
 Alb. Methought, thy very gait did 
 
 prophesy 
 A royal nobleness: — I must embrace thee: 
 Let sorrow split nij heart, if ever I 
 Did hate thee, or thy father! 
 
 Edg. Worthy prince, 
 
 I know it well. 
 
 Alb. Where have you hid yourself? 
 How have you known the miseries of your 
 
 father? 
 Edg. By nursing them, my lord. — List 
 
 a brief tale; — 
 And, when 'tis told, 0, that my heart 
 
 would burst! — 
 The bloody proclamation to escape. 
 That follow'd me so near, (0, our lives' 
 
 sweetness! 
 That with the pain of death we'd hourly 
 
 die. 
 Rather than die at once!) taught me to 
 
 shift 
 Into a mad-man's rags; to assume a sem- 
 blance 
 That very dogs disdain'd: and in this 
 
 habit 
 Met I my father with his bleeding rings. 
 Their precious stones new lost, became 
 
 his guide. 
 Led him, begg'd for him, sav'd him from 
 
 despair; 
 Never (0 fault!) reveal'd myself unto 
 
 him. 
 Until some half hour past, when I was 
 
 arm'd 
 Not sure, though hoping, of this good 
 
 success, 
 I ask'd his blessing, and from first to l-^' 
 
 607 
 
Act Y . 
 
 KIXG LEAR. 
 
 SCEKE III. 
 
 Told him my pilgrimage: but his flaw'd 
 
 heart, 
 (Alack, two weak the conflict to support!) 
 'Twixt two extremes of i^assion, joy and 
 
 grief. 
 Burst smilingly. 
 Edm. This speech of yours hath mov'd 
 
 me. 
 And shall, perchance, do good: but speak 
 
 you on; 
 You look as you had something more to 
 
 say. 
 Alb. If there be more, more woful 
 
 hold it in; 
 For I am almost ready to dissolve, 
 Hearing of this. 
 
 Edg. This would have seem'd a 
 
 period 
 To such as love not sorrow; but another. 
 To amplify too much, would make much 
 
 more. 
 And top extremity. 
 "Whilst I was big in clamor, came there a 
 
 man. 
 Who having seen me in my worst estate, 
 Shunn'd my abhorr'd society; but then, 
 
 finding 
 Who 't was that so endur'd, with his 
 
 strong arms 
 He fasten'd on my neck, and bellow'd out 
 As he'd burst heaven; threw him on m.y 
 
 father; 
 Told the most piteous tale of Lear and 
 
 him. 
 That ever ear receiv'd: which in recount- 
 ing. 
 His grief grew puissant, and the strings 
 
 of life 
 Began to crack: Twice then the trumpet 
 
 sounded. 
 And there I left him trauc'd. 
 
 Alb. But who was this? 
 
 Edg. Kent, sir, the banish 'd Kent; 
 
 Enter a Gentleman hastily with a hlood'if 
 Knife. 
 
 Gent. Help! help! help! 
 Edg. What kind of help?' 
 
 Alb. Speak, man. 
 
 Edg. What means that bloody knife? 
 Gent. ^Tis hot, it smokes; 
 
 It came even from the heart of — 
 
 Alb. Who, man? Speak. 
 
 Gent. Your lady, sir, your lady: and. 
 her sister 
 By her is poison'd; she confesses it. 
 Edm. I was contracted to them both; 
 
 all three 
 Now marry in an instant. 
 Alb. Produce their bodies, be they 
 alive or dead ! — 
 This judgement of the heavens, that 
 
 makes us tremble. 
 Touches us not with pity. 
 
 {Exit Gentlemen.. 
 
 Enter Kej^t. 
 
 Edg. Here comes Kent, sir. 
 
 Alb. 0! it is he. 
 The time will not allow the compliment. 
 Which very manners urges. 
 
 Kent. I am come 
 
 To bid my king and master aye good 
 
 night; 
 Is he not here? 
 
 Alb. Great thing of us forgot! — 
 Speak, Edmund, where's the king? and 
 
 where's Cordelia? — 
 See'st thou this object, Kent? 
 
 [^The bodies o/'Goneril and Regan 
 are brought in. 
 Kent. Alack, why thus? 
 Edm. Yet Edmund was belov'd : 
 
 The one the other poison'd for my sake. 
 And after slew herself. 
 
 Alb. Even so. — Cover their faces. 
 Edm. Ijmntfor life: — Some good I 
 who in disguise \ mean to do, 
 
 Follow'd his enemy king, and did him i Despite of mine own nature. Quickly 
 
 service ; send, — 
 
 Improper for a slave. I Be brief in it, — to the castle; for my writ 
 
 608 
 
Act V. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Scene HI. 
 
 Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia: — 
 
 I might have sav'd her; now she's gone 
 
 Nay, send in time. 
 
 for ever! — 
 
 All. Run, run, 0, run — 
 
 Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha! 
 
 Edg. To whom, my lord? — Who has 
 
 What is't thou say'st? — Her voice was 
 
 the office? send 
 
 ever soft. 
 
 Thy token of reprieve. 
 
 Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in 
 
 Ellin. Well thought on; take my 
 
 woman: — 
 
 sword, 
 
 I kill'd the slave that was hanging thee. 
 
 Give it the captain. 
 
 Off. 'Tis true, my lords, he did. 
 
 Alb. Haste thee, for thy life. 
 
 Lear. Did I not, fellow? 
 
 [Exit Edgar. 
 
 I have seen the day, witli my good biting 
 
 Edm. He liath commission from thy 
 
 faulchion 
 
 wife and me 
 
 I would have made them skip: I am old 
 
 To hang Cordelia in the prison, and 
 
 now. 
 
 To lay the blame upon her own despair. 
 
 And these same crosses spoil me. — Who 
 
 That she fordid herself. 
 
 are you ? 
 
 Alb. The gods defend her! Bear him 
 
 Mine ey^s are none o' the best: — I'll tell 
 
 hence awhile. 
 
 you straight. 
 
 [Edmund is borne off. 
 
 Ke7it. If fortune brag of two she lov'd 
 
 Enter Lear, luitJi Cordelia, dead in his 
 
 and hated. 
 
 Arms; Edgar, Officer, and others. 
 
 One of them we behold. 
 
 Lear. Howl, howl, howl, howl! — 0, 
 
 Lear. This is a dull sight: Are you 
 
 ye are men of stones: 
 
 not Kent? 
 
 Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use 
 
 Kent. The same. 
 
 them so 
 
 Your servant Kent: Where is your servant 
 
 That heaven's vault should crack: — 0, 
 
 Caius? 
 
 she is gone for ever! — 
 
 Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell 
 
 I know when one is dead, and when one 
 
 you that; 
 
 lives; 
 
 He'll strike, and quickly too: — He's 
 
 She's dead as earth: — Lend me a looking 
 
 dead and rotten. 
 
 glass; 
 
 Ke7it. No, my good lord; I am the 
 
 If that her breath will mist or stain tlie 
 
 very man; — 
 
 stone, 
 
 Lear. I'll see that straight. 
 
 Why, then she lives. 
 
 Kent That, from your first of differ- 
 
 Kent. Is this the pi'omis'd end? 
 
 ence and decay. 
 
 Edg. Or image of that horror? 
 
 Have follow'd your sad steps. 
 
 Alb. Fall, and cease! 
 
 Lear. You are welcome hither. 
 
 Lear. This feather stirs; she lives! if 
 
 Ke)it. Nor no man else; 
 
 it be so. 
 
 All's cheerless, dark, and deadly. — 
 
 It is a chance that does redeem all sor- 
 
 Y^our eldest daughter^ have fore-doom'd 
 
 rows 
 
 themselves. 
 
 That ever I have felt. 
 
 And desperately are dead. 
 
 Kent. my good master! [Kneeling. 
 
 Lear. Ay, so I think. 
 
 Lear. Pr'ythce, away. 
 
 Alb. He knows not what he says; and 
 
 Edg. 'Tis noble Kent, your friend. 
 
 vain it is 
 
 Lear. A plague upon you, murderers. 
 
 That we present us to him. 
 
 traitors, all! 
 
 Edg Very bootless. 
 
 (109 
 
Act V. 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 SCEJfE III. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Off. Edmund is dead, my lord. 
 
 Alh That's but a trifle here. — 
 
 You lords and noble friends, know our 
 
 intent. 
 What comfort to this great decay may 
 
 come, 
 Shall be applied: For us, we will resign. 
 During the life of this old majesty. 
 To him our absolute power: — You to 
 
 your rights; 
 
 [To Edgar and Kent. 
 With boot, and such addition as your 
 
 honors 
 Have more than merited. — All friends 
 
 shall taste 
 The wages of their virtue, and all foes 
 The cup of their deservings. — 0, see, 
 
 see! 
 Lear. And my poor fool is hang'dl 
 
 No, no, no life: 
 Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have 
 
 life. 
 And thou no breath at all ? 0, thou wilt 
 
 come no more. 
 Never, never, never, never, never! — 
 Pray you, undo this button: Thank you, 
 
 sir. — 
 Do you see this? Look on lier, — look, — 
 
 her lips, — 
 Look there, look there! — {He dies. 
 
 Edg. He faints! — My lord, my lord! — 
 Kent. Break, heart; I pr'ythe'e break! 
 Edg. Look up, my lord. 
 
 Kent. Vex not his ghost: 0, let him 
 pass! he hates him, 
 That would upon the rack of this tough 
 
 world 
 Stretch him out longer. 
 
 Edg. 0, he is gone, indeed. 
 
 Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd 
 so long: 
 He but usurp'd his life. 
 
 Alh. Bear them from hence. — Our 
 present business 
 Is general woe. Friends of my soul, you 
 twain 
 
 {To Kent and Edgar. 
 Eule in this realm, and the gor'd state 
 sustain. 
 Kent. I have a journey, sir, shortly to 
 
 go; 
 My master calls, and I must not say, no. 
 An. The weight of this sad time we 
 
 must obey; 
 Speak what we feel, not what we ought 
 
 to say. 
 The oldest hath borne most: we, that are 
 
 young. 
 Shall never see so much, nor live so long. 
 
 [Exeunt, witJi a dead March. 
 
 eicr