ee kone an SAW MoM cei ave tet Mine ti eee ot a er Sy > Peres ERS a4 GRY Ghe Fine Avon Raitiog, THE COMPLETE DRAMATIC AND POETICAL WORKS WILLIAM SHAKEHSPEARE. WITH A SUMMARY OUTLINE OF re) ee OF a Ene On T, And a Description of His Most Authentic Portraits; COLLECTED FROM THE LATEST AND MOST RELIABLE SOURCKs. BY JOHN 8. HART, LL.D., LATE PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE 6” THE COLLEGE OF NEW JERSEY, ETC., ETC. TO WHICH IS APPENDED A fesriptv nalysi3 of the Ht of Jock Atay TOGETHER WITH AN ALPHABETICAL INDEX TO THE CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS, AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES, AND A COMPLETE GLOSSARY OF THE WORDS USED IN THE TEXT THAT VARY FROM THEIR MODERN SIGNIFICATION. THE TEXT EDITED BY W.G. CLARK anp W. A. WRIGHT. Giventy Five Fall Page Mllustrations PHE MOST EMINENT ENGLISH AND GERMAN SHAKESPEARIAN ARTISTS. PHILADELPHIA: DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER; 1022 MARKET STREET. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Prerrerrr errr titi rt rrr rit errr eee eee errr rere rer errr rrr rrr rrr rrr rrr errr WM. F. FELL & CO., RLACTROTYPERS AND PRINTER PHILADELPHIA, PUBLISHERS ANNOUNCEMENT. HE Publishers of “THe Avon SHAKESPEARE” are well aware of the many editions of Shakespeare that have already issued from the press of both England and America, but they have, nevertheless, been induced to undertake the publication of the present volume by the generally expressed desire for a book iv large, clear type, the teat of which should embody the latest revisions of the best Shakespearian scholars. As the readings of Messrs. Clark and Wright have been carefully followed, it is believed this result has been most fully achieved. The graphically descriptive Life, by Dr. John S. Hart, is rich with new and varied information, gleaned by the accomplished hand of the author from the late discoveries made by Shakespearian antiquaries, who have been stimulated in their untiring researches after all relating to the great poet’s life by the ever increasing, never flagging, public interest in one of whom his personal friend “ Rare Ben Jonson” said, “ Neither man nor muse can praise too much.” In the typographical arrangement of this work new features have been intro- duced, — each page being indexed at the page-head with the Scene and Act, while through the printed text, by means of the dark displayed type, the eye catches, without an effort, the main points or characters that appear on that page; an advantage the student cannot fail to heartily appreciate. A Descriptive Analysis of the Plots of the Plays, prepared with great care by Mr. Julius Frankel, is presented as peculiar to this edition. By it the reader is enabled to gain, if so desired, a clear understanding of the story of the plot before reading the text of the play. The Alphabetical Index to the Characters in Shakespeare's Plays, The Index to Familiar Passages, and the very complete Glossarial Index, are valuable features, important or essential to the fullest understanding of Shakespeare’s works by either the student or the general reader. The Illustrations are from drawings by the most celebrated artists who have made the study of Shakespeare’s plays a specialty. The publishers desire here to express their thanks to Mr. J. Parker Norris for much valuable information and assistance given during the progress of the work. ili THe LIFE oF SHAKESPEARE ANALYSIS OF THE PLOTS OF THE PuLaAys. CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF THE PLAYS THE TEMPEST - Tur Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. Toe Merry WIvES oF WINDSOR MEASURE FOR MEASURE THE CoMEDY OF ERRORS Mucu Apo apour NoTHING Love’s Lazpour’s Lost . A MipsummMer-Nicut’s DREAM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE As You Lixre It . THe TAMING OF THE SHREW . ALL’s WELL THAT ENDS WELL TWELFTH NIGHT; oR, WHAT You WILL. THE WINTER'S TALE. THE LIFE AND DeEatH oF KING JOHN THE TRAGEDY oF Kina RicHarp II. . THE First Part or Kine Henry IV. . THE Seconp Part or Kine Henry IV.. THe Lire or Kine Henry V. . THe First Part or Kine Henry VI. THe Seconp Part or Kina Henry VL.. THe Tuirp Part or Kina Henry VI. . THE TRAGEDY OF Kine RicHarp III. iv THE History oF Kine Henry VIII. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA . CoRIOLANUS . Titus ANDRONICUS RoMEO AND JULIET TIMON OF ATHENS JULIUS C&SAR . MACBETH . HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK . Kine LEAR . wet OTHELLO, THE Moor oF VENICE ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA CYMBELINE PERICLES . POEMS. VENUS AND ADONIS . THE Rape oF LUCRECE . SONNETS A LovEer’s CoMPLAINT . THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM . SonnETS To SuNDRY Nores or Music THE PHa@nix AND THE TURTLE. GLOSSARIAL INDEX INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES INDEX TO THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYS Stratford Church, where Shakespeare is Buried. A SUMMARY OUTLINE OF THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE; WITH A Description of His Most Authentic Portraits. CHAPTER I. MARVELLOUS IGNORANCE OF THE ENGLISH NATION IN REGARD TO THE PERSONAL HISTORY OF THEIR GREAT- EST AUTHOR—DICTUM OF STEEVENS ON THE SUBJECT, 1773 — RECENT AWAKENING TO THE IMPORTANCE OF THE INQUIRY— ORGANIZED EFFORTS IN THE LAST FIFTY YEARS TO RESOUE FROM OBLIVION WHATEVER IN THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE HAS NOT ABSOLUTELY AO the observer of our literary history, @B4/9 who stands at the head of King James’s ax, reign, and looks down the current to- se wards the present time, the very first a & object in the foreground is one proudly eminent,—an object not unlike the pyramid of Cheops, as seen by the traveller, which, whether you go up or down the Nile, whether you penetrate its rich valley from the east over the sand-hills of Arabia, or from the west across the trackless desert of Sahara, —from whatever quarter of the horizon you approach,—is the first object to strike, the last to fade from, the vision. So is it here. Whether we approach the year 1600 travelling backwards from the names of Longfellow, Tennyson, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, and Scott; or descend towards the same point from the author of Piers the Plowman, Chaucer, Wyatt, Surrey, Sidney, and Spenser, whether we cross the current of our literature by a transition from that of Germany, France, Spain, Italy, or the Orient, — from whatever quarter of the literary horizon we direct our gaze towards the point indicated, one object stands proudly eminent, one name rises spontaneously on every tongue—the greatest name in all English, in ali modern, perhaps, absolutely, in all literature. Shake- speare possibly may not be read as much, he certainly is not acted as much, as he once was. But he is studied more; he is better known; his fame is steadily in the ascendant. His star is confessedly higher and brighter now than it was at the beginning of the present century; it has risen perceptibly within the last twenty-five years; itis even yet far from having reached its meridian. Steevens, one of the most famous of the Shake- spearian editors,said,over one hundred years ago (1773): “All that is known with any degree of certainty of Shakespeare is, that he was born at Stratford-upon- Avon, married and had children there, went to Lon- don, where he commenced actor; wrote poems and plays; returned to Stratford, made his will, died, and was buried.” This statement, at the time it was made, was sub- stantially true. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that the English nation, at the end of a century and a half from the death of their greatest author, knew less of his life, if less were possible, than we now know of Homer’s, after the lapse of nearly thirty centuries. It is, in fact, in comparatively recent times only that the lives of men of letters have been counted as forming any important element in the history of a race. Ifa man fought a battle, or negotiated a treaty, or held a place at court, or was prominently connected in any way with the civil or military administration xi THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. of the government, if he was even toady to some titled dowager, his life was thought to be of some public importance; he formed a noticeable integer in the sum total of the national history. But to write a play, or to make a discovery in science, was thought to concern mainly the obscure dwellers of the Grub Street of the day, even though the discoveries of the one might revolutionize the whole fabric of human affairs, and the creations of the other might help to mould the thoughts and manners of the race until the ending doom. But a change has come over the thoughts of men in this matter. We have at last opened our eyes to the fact that the literature of a race contains in it that which has made the race what it is. Those great thoughts which, in the course of centuries, have been developed by its master minds, are the moving springs that have set the race onward in its career of civilization. The man of thought is father to the man of action. Great ideas precede and cause great achievements. The ideal Achilles made the real heroes of Marathon and the Granicus. In the Anglo-Saxon race, from the days of Alfred until now, men of genius, the great original thinkers in successive generations, have given birth to ennobling thoughts, which continue to endure, and which are perpetuated, not only in the language, but in the race itself. Weare what these great thinkers have made us. Englishmen and Americans of to-day are living exponents of thoughts and truths elaborated by the illustrious dead. In the literal sense, indeed, no lineal descendant of Shakespeare remains: His blood de- scendants all died out within the generation that fol- lowed his own death. But in a higher and better sense, his true spiritual life-blood, ‘‘those thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” pulsates at this day in the veins of more than a hundred millions of men, his blood-kin of the English-speaking race, whose diction and whose thoughts, whose impulses and whose actions, consciously or unconsciously, have perceptibly taken tone and color from the man who was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, a little more than three hundred years ago. No wonder, then, that, under the quickening in- fluence of this new method of estimating values in human history, the steadily growing fame of the great dramatist has awakened at length the most intense curiosity to learn something more of his personal story, to gather from the ‘ruins of time” some pre- cious relics of that once noble edifice. The zeal and critical acumen displayed in this investigation have probably never been surpassed in any new literary undertaking. These labors, though late, have not been entirely without success. Many important facts relative to Shakespeare’s life have been ascertained since the death of Steevens, some even within the last few years. The principal facts which have been thus exhumed, have been gathered from legal documents, from registers of births, deaths, marriages, baptisms; from corporation records, wills, title-deeds, tax-lists, and the like. From such sources, vague statements, which before rested on mere tradition, have, in some cases, been disproved, in others, have been detined and established, while many facts entirely new have been rescued from oblivion. In this way a somewhat connected and consistent series of facts has been made out, constituting a skeleton for a biography. The filling out — the flesh and fulness— has been on this wise: wherever, in the whole range of contemporary literature, a passage has been found, describing the private life and manners of any one similarly situated, it has been eagerly seized as showing one of the pos- sible ways in which Shakespeare may have spent his time. Shakespeare thus has ceased, on the one hand, xil to be a collection of absurd and contradictory tradi. tions; and, on the other, has become something more than a mere tissue of dates and legal entries. He has become, indeed, to some reasonable extent, personally known. OHAPTER ai PARENTAGE OF SHAKESPEARE, WHY IMPORTANT — JOHN SHAKESPEARE, THE FATHER, WHAT IS KNOWN OF HIM — NAME AND GENEALOGY OF THE SHAKESPEARES, REPUTABLE CHARACTER OF THEIR HISTORY — MARY ARDEN, THE MOTHER, A YOUTHFUL HEIRESS, BELONG- ING TO THE LANDED GENTRY—NAME AND GENEALOGY OF THE ARDENS, THEIR HONORABLE HISTORY — HAPPY MARRIAGE OF JOHN SHAKESPEARE AND MARY ARDEN, THEIR SETTLEMENT IN STRATFORD, AND SOCIAL POSI- TION THERE— PECUNIARY AFFAIRS AND OFFICIAL DISTINCTIONS OF JOHN SHAKESPEARE. (ie date of Shakespeare’s birth is not exactly known. The nearest approach to it that we have is the day of his baptism, which is found in the parish register of Stratford. He was baptized April 26, 1564. As bap- tism in those days followed close upon birth, the prob- abilities are that Shakespeare was born within three or four days of the date of his baptism; and as the 23d of April is the day consecrated to St. George, the tutelary saint of England, Englishmen have been not unwilling to assume that Shakespeare was born on that day. Moreover, unvarying tradition — which must be allowed its weight of authority where historic evidence is wanting —has uniformly assigned the 23d of April as the day on which the Great Poet was born; and accordingly that day is now, as it ever has been, celebrated as his natal day all over the world. Of Shakespeare’s parentage we now know several important particulars, — important, because they con- tradict and set aside some of the absurd traditions respecting the poet himself. To the intelligent com- — prehension of the problem of Shakespeare’s author- ship, it is necessary to know something of his original condition in life — whether he was of gentle blood or of base, whether, in the technical sense of the word, he was educated or was merely self-taught, can make his writings neither worse nor better. But the cir- cumstances of his birth and education, his manner of living and his means of knowledge, do affect materially the inferences which may be drawn from his writings. They are essential conditions in the problem of his authorship. John Shakespeare, the father of the poet, was orig- inally, according to the best information thus far obtained, what would be called a ‘‘gentleman farmer.” The description given by Harrison, in his introduction to Holinshed’s Chronicle, published somewhere about 1580,* of a certain class of Englishmen in the days of Elizabeth, might, it is believed, fit very well the character and worldly circumstances of John Shake- speare. ‘‘ This sort of people,” says Harrison, ‘have a certain preéminence and more estimation than labor- ers and the common sort of artificers; and these commonly live wealthily, keep good houses, and travel to get riches. They are also, for the most part, farmers to gentlemen, or at the leastwise artificers- and with grazing, frequenting of markets, and keep- ing of servants (not idle servants as the gentlemen do, but such as get both their own and part of their master’s living), do come to great wealth, insomuch * Holinshed d. bet. 1578 and 1582, Harrison d. 1592 (?). THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. that many of them are able and do buy the lands of unthrifty gentlemen, and often settling their sons to the schools, to the universities, and to the Inns of the Court, or otherwise leaving them sufficient lands whereupon they may live without labor, do make them by those means to become gentlemen.” John Shakespeare seems to have been, during a considerable portion of his life, an incipient gentleman, somewhat after the same sort. It further appears that he resided originally in a small village (Snitterfield) three miles from Stratford, that he went to Stratford about the year 1551, and engaged there in trade of some kind, made purchases of property, and continued to reside there during all the minority, at least, of his son William. The name SHAKESPEARE was a familiar one in the county of Warwick, being found on record in that county in six different places in the fifteenth century, twenty-two places in the sixteenth century, and thirty- two places in the seventeenth century. The name has in itself evidence of the occupation of its original holders. Verstegan,* the antiquarian, in a work pub- lished in 1605, says: ‘‘Breakspear, Shakespear, and the like, have been surnames imposed upon the first bearers of them for valor and feats of arms.” Cam- den, under the same date, 1605, says that many an- cient families are named ‘‘from that which they com- monly carried; as, Palmer, that is, Pilgrim, for that, they [the pilgrims] carried palms when they returned from Hierusalem; Long-sword, Broad-speare, For- tescue (that is, Strong-shield), and in some such re- spect, Break-speare, Shake-speare, Shot-bolt, Wag- staff.” Fuller, in his Worthies of England, 1662, refers to the “warlike sound of his (the poet’s) surname, whence,” says he, ‘‘some may conjecture him of a military extraction,—Hasti-vibrans, or Shake- speare.” Hall further records, in his Chronicle, already quoted, that after the battle of Bosworth Field, 1485, which secured the kingdom to Henry VII., ‘‘the king began to remember his especial friends and factors, of whom some he advanced to honor and dignity, and some he enriched with possessions and goods, every man according to his desert and merit.” This Bos- worth field is only thirty miles from Stratford, and one of the Warwickshire Shakespeares, apparently an ancestor of William, seems to have been among those who fought in this battle, and who was thus enriched with possessions and goods. It is furthermore a mat- ter of record that a grant of arms was made to “John - Shakespeare, now of Stratford-upon-Avon, county of Warwick, gentleman,” a grant first drafted in 1596, and afterwards confirmed in 1599, in which it is re- cited that “his great-grandfather, and late antecessor, for his faithful and approved service to the late most prudent Prince, Henry VII., of famous memory, was advanced and rewarded with lands and tenements, given to him in those parts of Warwickshire, where they have continued by some descents in good reputa- tion and credit.” The coat-of-arms thus granted to the family contains a gold spear, headed with silver on a bend sable, on a field of gold, and also for its crest a falcon brandishing a spear. Spenser, in a passage generally believed to refer to Shakespeare, calls him Aetion, a name formed apparently from the Greek aetéc, an eagle, and says, his muse doth, like him- self, “heroically sound;” the poet’s name, too, it is to be observed, was in that day sometimes printed as two words, connected by a hyphen, Shake-speare. The poet’s mother was of an ancient and somewhat wealthy family, of the name of Arpren. Arden is * Restitution of Decayed Intelligence in Antiquities, concern- “a the Most Noble and Renowned English Nation. Antwerp, ), said, by Dugdale, the antiquarian, to be an old British word, and to signify ‘‘ woodiness” or ‘‘ woodland,” and the family has been traced back to the time of Edward, the Confessor. ‘In this place,” says Dug- dale, ‘‘l have made choice to speak historically of that most ancient and worthy family, whose surname was first assumed from their residence in this part of the country, then and yet called Arden, by reason of its woodiness, the old Britons and Gauls using the word in that sense.”” Dugdale further says that Tur- chill de Warwick, ‘“‘a man of especial note and power,” and of ‘great possessions” in the time of the Conqueror, ‘‘ was one of the first here in England that, in imitation of the Normans, assumed a surname, . . . and wrote himself Turchillus de Eardene [Turkill of Arden], in the days of King William Rufus.” Sir John Arden, of this ancient family, was squire of the body to Henry VII. The office was in those days one of considerable importance. The squire only could array the royal person; no one else could set hand on: the king. The squire carried the king’s cloak when the latter walked out, and presented the potage when the king would drink, and slept at night in the pres- ence-chamber, for the protection of his majesty’s person. Robert Arden, nephew of this Sir John, was groom of the chamber to the same Henry VII. This office also, though inferior to that of squire, was yet one of some mark. While the squire slept in the same apartment with the king, the groom slept in the ante-room outside, to guard the door. He also presented the robes with which the squire arrayed the royal person, and performed various other offices of a like nature. Besides this office, the younger Arden re- ceived from Henry VII. a lease of the royal manor of Yoxall, in Staffordshire, and was like- wise keeper of the royal park of Aldecar. This Robert Ar- den, the younger, Groom of the Chamber to Henry VII., was grandfather of Mary Arden. Thus it appears that both the Shakespeares and the Ardens were persons of consideration in Warwick- shire, in the reign of Henry VII., and for the genera- tion or two immediately succeeding. Robert Arden, son of the Robert just named, at his death, in 1556, divided his estate, by will, among several children; but Mary, his youngest, appears for some reason, to have been prominent in his thoughts. She was one of the executors of his will, and received therein a special legacy in these words: ‘‘I give and bequeath to my youngest daughter, Mary, all my land in Wilmecote, called Asbies, and the crop upon the ground, sown and tilled as it is, and £6 18s. 4d. of money, to be paid over ere my goods be divided.” This Wilmecote estate consisted of about sixty acres of land and a house, and is situated about three miles from Stratford, in the parish of Aston Cantlow. I have said the skeleton of Shakespeare’s history has been clothed with flesh and blood, by transferring to a few naked facts materials drawn from contem- poraneous literature. Let me give a specimen of this mode of giving ‘‘to airy nothing a local habitation and a name.” Suppose, in the first place, the extracts from the will just quoted. Next, suppose a line extracted from the parish register, being the official record of an interesting domestic occurrence a year xili The Arms of John Shakespeare. THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. or two later. From these two facts a fertile imagina- tion has woven a narrative somewhat after this wise:* Mary Arden! The very name breathes of poetry. But Mary isa mourner. Her father is dead, and she is now left without guidance, an heiress and an orphan. Mary lives, indeed, in a peaceful hamlet. But there are strange things around her, — things incomprehensible to a very young woman. When she goes to the parish church on Sunday, there are many things which she did not see there in her father’s time. She hears the mass sung and sees the beads bidden. Once, certainly, within those walls she had heard a very different form of worship. She recollects that in her childhood the rich religious houses of the vicinity had been suppressed, their property confis- cated, and their buildings torn down or defaced. Now there is apparently a new power trying to re- by his wisdom her doubts and perplexities about public affairs are kindly resolved. But ecclesiastical and agricultural affairs are not the only topics dis- cussed under this lonely roof-tree; and so, in due season, and not far from the time when Mary, the Queen, was expiring, and with her the Catholic wor- ship was again disappearing, as the established religion of England, Mary Arden and John Shakespeare were standing before the altar of the parish church of Aston Cantlow, and the house and lands of Asbies became thenceforth administered by one who took possession of the same by the right of the said Mary. One thing at least is certain. The parents of Shake- speare were neither the ill-bred nor the ill-conditioned people they are generally reputed to have been. On the contrary, they were persons of substance, of rep- utable descent, and in comfortable circumstances, fhfre (UWRF LEE on Where William Shakespeare was born. store these institutions. There are around her mutual persecutions and heart-burnings,— neighbor warring against neighbor, friend against friend, parents against children, husband against wife. Mary muses on many things with an anxious heart. The wealthier Ardens of Kingsbury and Hampton, of Rotley and Rodburne and Park Hall, are her very good cousins: but bad roads and bad times keep them separate; and so she leads a somewhat lonely life. But village gossip tells of a young man, a yeoman of the neighboring town, an acquaintance of her father’s, who often comes to sit upon those wooden benches in the old hall. He is a substantial and towardly young man, already a burgess in the village. From him she gathers useful suggestions as to the management of her little estate; and their son had, without the shadow of a doubt, all the advantages of breeding and education usually de- rived from growing up in such a family and attending the village school. What the latter was we shall presently inquire. John Shakespeare and Mary Arden were married probably in 1557, some time, at all events, between No- vember 24, 1556, the date of Robert Arden’s will, and September 15, 1558, the date of the baptism of their first child. This first child died in infancy. Their second died before it was a year old. Their third, William, as before stated, was baptized April 26, and is commonly reputed to have been born April 23, 1564. He was therefore the oldest of the family, ex- cepting those that died in infancy. * Altered from Knight, p. 11. Xiv THK LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CHAPTER III. THE SHAKESPEARE HOUSE, ITS IDENTIFIOATION AND HIS- TORY — EVIDENOE IT AFFORDS IN REGARD TO THE CIRCUMSTANOES OF SHAKESPEARE’S BOYHOOD — BAP- TISMAL REGISTER OF THE SHAKESPEARE FAMILY — EVIDENCE IT GIVES IN REGARD TO THE COMPANIONSHIP OF THE BOY WILL SHAKESPEARE. Ue house in which Shakespeare was born has been identified with sufficient certainty. It was situ- ated in Henley Street, and was bought by John Shake- speare in 1556. He lived in this street, and most of the time in this house, from 1551, the time of his coming to Stratford, till 1601, the time of his death. The property passed, by inheritance or will, first to William Shakespeare, then to his eldest daughter, Susannah Hall, then to his granddaughter, Elizabeth Hall (after- wards Lady Barnard), and then to Thomas and George Hart, grandsons of Shakespeare’s sister, Joan, who was married to William Hart, of Stratford. It remained in possession of the Hart family till about the year 1820, the last of that name who occupied it being the seventh in descent in a direct line from Joan Shakespeare, the sister of William. By special contributions, in 1849 this house was made the property of the nation. It has been restored as nearly as possible to its original con- dition three hundred years ago, has been filled with Shakespeare mementoes of every kind, and bailiff, aldermen, and burgesses. The bailiff, or chief alderman, once a fortnight held a court. There was also a court-leet, which appointed “ ale-tasters,”’ a class of officers to prevent fraud in the quality of that im- portant element in an Englishman’s comfort. The court-leet appointed also affeerors, whose duty it was to punish citizens for various minor offences for which there was no express provision in the statutes. Last, there was the constable, an officer of no little considera- tion in such a town. John Shakespeare, the father of William, held successively all these offices. He was on the jury of the court-leet in 1556, an ale-taster in 1557, a burgess in 1558, a constable in 1559, an affeeror in 1559 and again in 1561, an alderman in 1565, and high- bailiff or chief magistrate in 1568. William was in his fifth year when his father was at the height of his municipal distinction. One thing is noticeable in regard to this gradual ele- vation of John Shakespeare in the social scale. In all the registers where his name occurs prior to 1571, he is recorded simply as John Shakespeare, in one place a fund has been set apart for the purpose of keep- ing it permanently in repair, and open to the in- spection of visitors from all nations. Enough remains of the original structure to show that Shakespeare was born, and that he spent his boyhood and youth, in a home fully equal, in re- gard to the comforts and proprieties of life, to those common among the well-to-do burgher class of England in the sixteenth century. No one who wishes to trace the circumstances which have influenced, for good or evil, the growth of a great intellect, will overlook the companionship of childhood. Who were the youthful companions of William Shakespeare? The parish register of Stratford, after the date of William’s baptism, contains among others the following entries of the Shakespeare family: Gilbert, baptized October 13, 1566; Joan, bap- tized April 15, 1569; Richard, baptized March 11, 1574; Edmund, baptized May 3, 1580. Putting these dates together, and calling im- agination once more to our aid, we find that when Wil- liam was two and a half years old, Gilbert came to be his playmate; when William was five years old, that most precious gift to a loving boy, a sister, was granted, to grow up with him, and to find in him at once a play- mate and a protector; at ten, he had another brother to lead out into the green fields; and at sixteen, the youngest was born, “the baby,” whom William prob- 1 never regarded in any other light than as a play- thing. These things may be accounted mere fancies. I think they contain a doctrine. Selfishness and gloom are apt to be engendered by a solitary childhood. The baptismal register shows, in the childhood of Shake- speare, no cause at least for the existence of such mor- bid affections, as his writings give no evidence that Se amnag ever did exist in his healthy and cheerful mind. Stratford-upon-Avon is a small town in Warwick- shire, ninety-six miles north-west from London. Its population in the time of Shakespeare was about fifteen hundred. The municipal government consisted of a The Room where Shakespeare was Born in the House in Henley Street. John Shakespeare, glover. But in a record on Sep: tember 28, 1571, William being then in his eighth year, the father’s name is entered as Magister Shakespeare; and ever after among his neighbors he is known, not as goodman Shakespeare, or plain John Shakespeare, but as Master Shakespeare. This title of Master or Mr. was then never used, as now that of M. D. is never used, except by virtue of some specific legal right. This change of title in the history of John Shake- speare, it can hardly be doubted, was in consequence of his increasing wealth and his position in the village. It shows incontestably that he was about this time a leading man in the town, and consequently that his son, the poet, could not have been the illiterate butch- er’s boy that the early biographers represented him to be. We are left free to admire his transcendent genius without being called upon to believe the absurd tables of his clownish ignorance. As further bearing upon the circumstances of the poet’s childhood, the following ascertained facts may be cited, showing the probable occupation and the worldly condition of John Shakespeare. In 1556 he XV THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. acquired a tenement and garden adjacent, in Henley Street, and also a tenement with a garden and croft [small enclosed field] in Grenehyll Street, both in Strat- ford. In 1557 or 1558, he acquired by marriage the estate of Asbies, sixty acres of land and house, three miles from Stratford; also, by inheritance, some landed property at Snitterfield, three and a half miles from Stratford. In 1570, he held, as tenant under Sir Wil- liam Clopton, a meadow of fourteen acres, at an annual rent of £8 (= $200 then). The inference from these facts is unmistakable. John Shakespeare was at one period living upon his own land, and renting the land of others, and actively engaged in the business of cultiva- tion, in an age when tillage was profitable. When, a little later in life, he came to the village and settled in Henley Street, he probably kept up his agricultural | operations, and also kept a shop in his house, where he sold the products of his farm,— butcher’s meat, wool, hides, and other articles, such as gloves made from the skins of the animals slaughtered. Harrison says: ‘‘Men of great port and countenance are so far from suffering their farmers [tenants] to have any gain at all, that they become graziers, butchers, tanners, sheepmasters, woodmen, and denique quid non.” Grammar School Attended by Shakespeare, Stratford. This explains the mystery of the apparently contra- dictory traditions in regard to the occupation of John Shakespeare. We see how he was a “butcher,” also a ‘“‘ wool-merchant,” also a “glover,” also a ‘ farmer,” also a ‘‘ yeoman; ” how finally John Shakespeare, the woodman of Arden, sold timber to the corporation of Stratford. The evidence is tolerably complete that John Shake- speare, in his later years, for some cause not ascer- tained, fell into pecuniary difficulties and embarrass- ments. He was evidently in straitened circumstances in 1579; was turned out of the aldermanship in 1586; was arrested for debt in 1587; and finally, in 1592, was reported by the authorities as absenting himself from church for fear of being arrested for debt. But as these things occurred chiefly after the formative period in the life of his son William, and as these diffi- culties, even when greatest, did not seem to affect the social status of the family, it is hardly necessary to pursue the subject further, except to remark that, xvi probably on this account, William was thrown -upon his own resources somewhat earlier than he might otherwise have been. The boy evidently knew little either of a father’s care or of a father’s control after the age of fifteen. CHAP TER Dy. SHAKESPEARE’S SCHOOL AND SCHOOLMASTERS — WHAT IS KNOWN OF HIS COURSE OF STUDY — HIS KNOWLEDGE OF LATIN AND GREEK — EVIDENCE IN HIS WRITINGS OF HIS BEING A OCLASSIOAL SCHOLAR. TRATFORD-UPON-AVON was, as it still is, a quiet place, comparatively free from disturbance and excitement. Its ecclesiastical foundations were numerous and ample. With one of these, the Guild of the Holy Cross, was connected an endowed gram- mar school. It was founded in 1482, in the reign of Edward IV., by gift of Thomas Jolyffe, on condition that the authorities of the town and guild “should find a priest, fit and able in knowledge, to teach gram- mar freely to all scholars coming to the school, ; taking nothing of the scholars for their teaching.” The school was afterwards enriched by Sir Hugh Clopton, the great benefactor of Strat- ford, and finally was reorganized by Edward VI., in his royal charter to the town, which requires, among other things, ‘‘ that the free grammar school for the instruction and education of boys and youth there, should be hereafter kept up and maintained as theretofore it used to be.” There is no register, or document of any kind, to show that Shakespeare actually attended this school. That he did so attend, however, is morally certain, from the fact of its existence, and from his father’s position and standing in the village. We have no record that the showers fell or the sun shone upon the little garden and croft in Henley Street, yet we make no question of the fact. We have an almost equal certainty that the boy Shake- speare, ‘‘with his satchel and shining morning face,” found his way regularly to the grammar school in Chapel Street. A grammar school in England in those days meant a school for teaching mainly Latin and Greek, corre. sponding in some respects to the old-fashioned acad- emy once so common in this country. It was always taught by men of the clerical profession, graduates of the universities. The teacher of this particular school from 1572, when Shakespeare was eight years old, to 1580, when he was sixteen, was a graduate of Cambridge, the Rev. Thomas Hunt, who was at the same time curate of the adjoining parish of Ludding- ton. In this school, and under this teacher, without a shadow of doubt, Shakespeare was instructed in the knowledge of the ancient tongues. As to the extent of this knowledge, an unfair presumption has been cre- ated by the oft-quoted expression of Ben Jonson on the subject. Jonson, who knew Shakespeare intimately, speaks of his having ‘‘small Latin and less Greek.” This was said in Ben’s usual style, more to point an antithesis than to state exact truth. Jonson, himself the pupil of the great Camden, was eminent for classical scholarship, and gloried in the fact. Statements by him on this subject, therefore, are to be received with some degree of allowance. What seemed to him a small modicum of Latin and Greek may have been after all a very fair possession. But taking his expression literally, it shows that Shakespeare had certainly some hy THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. considerable knowledge of the classics, and with equal ‘certainty that he had in his youth attended the public grammar school, where only in Stratford this knowl- edge could have been acquired by him. Now the course of studies in these old endowed grammar schools is a matter of public record. It included instruction always in Latin and Greek, often in French, and some- times in Italian. The classics usually read were Cesar, Sallust, Cicero, Terence, Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, in Latin; Lucian, Xenophon, Homer, and Aristophanes, in Greek.* The pupil, furthermore, was obliged to read a goodly portion of this Latin before beginning Greek. It is doubtful whether, in any public grammar school then existing in England, a boy could begin Greek without a familiar acquaintance with at least Cesar, Cicero, Virgil, and Ovid; and after beginning Greek, the Latin, be it remembered, would be still continued ; be it remembered too that the Greek itself was studied through the medium of the Latin, the only grammar and the only dictionary of the Greek at the pupil’s command being written in Latin, as indeed it was done in my own school days. So far as the dic- tionary was concerned, Shakespeare then could not have had even the little Greek that the critical Ben was willing to allow him, without having known a good deal of Latin. In all probability he knew as much of both as would be learned by a bright boy who attended the grammar school until he was fifteen or sixteen, but who did not go thence to the university. There is nothing in his history, and still less in his writings, to make it necessary to suppose, as has been very generally done, that for his knowledge of Roman affairs he was dependent entirely upon the very imper- fect translations then extant of the Roman writers. The signs, too, are unmistakable that in the use of words he was thoroughly at home in the classic ele- ment of the language, to an extent utterly unattainable by one who had never studied Latin and Greek. There is perhaps no more decisive test of scholar- ship,— meaning by that term acquaintance with lan- guages,— than the extent of a man’s vocabulary. The number of different words that common uneducated people use is surprisingly small. A thousand or two, sometimes only a few hundred, are all the words at their command. Uneducated men of genius, like Bunyan, have of course a larger stock at command. But even in their case the number of different words used by them is comparatively small. The words they do use are forcible and are used with great vigor, but the range is limited. Men acquire a wide range of words in two ways, namely, 1st, by becoming acquaint- ed with numerous and varying subjects through study and observation, and, 2d, by the study of languages, and by the latter chiefly. Hence it is noticeable that writers who have studied foreign languages, ancient or modern, excel others in the range of their vocabu- lary. Milton, for instance, who was eminent as a scholar, uses in his poetical works no less than eight thousand different words. But Shakespeare, in his poetry, nearly doubles the amount, using more than fifteen thousand — a vocabulary larger, so far as known, than that of any other English writer. A more con- vincing proof of scholarship could not well be con- ceived. It may not be amiss to dwell a moment longer upon this point, as it is an essential fact in any theory that undertakes to explain intelligibly the problem of Shakespeare’s authorship. ‘A young author’s first work,” as Coleridge well observes, “almost always bespeaks his recent pursuits.” The earliest produc- tions of Shakespeare, accordingly, those written soon * See British Quarterly for July, 1865, after he had left school, betray unmistakably the classi- cal scholar. Compare them with those of any un- taught genius, say Bunyan, and see the difference. Venus and Adonis, ‘the first heir of his invention,” and the Rape ef Lucrece, published only one year later, are both on classical subjects; and while treated with originality of conception, the author using’ freely old materials to construct an edifice of his own contriv- ance, are yet thoroughly and consistently classical in all their ideas and devices. They show a mind steeped and saturated with a knowledge of Greek and Latin fable. Would an unlettered village youth have ven- tured on such subjects, in addressing a nobleman like Southampton, distinguished alike for his own scholar- ship and for his patronage of scholars? All of Shake- speare’s earlier plays, such as Love’s Labour’s Lost, The Comedy of Errors, and the three parts of Henry VI, abound in classical allusions, classical quotations, and Latinisms both of diction and construction, almost to the verge of pedantry; — not indeed the direct ped- antry of his contemporaries, Marlowe, Greene, and Peele, who made open show of their learning, and who stole bodily from the ancients; Shakespeare, even in these earlier days of his authorship, when still fresh from his school studies, and infected to some extent with the spirit of his times, yet used his classical knowledge as a master, not as a servile copyist. As he proceeded in his work, and acquired maturity of power and of art, his mastery appears both in his less frequent use of classical allusions and in the wonderful nicety with which the allusions actually used are wrought into the substance of his own thought. In the Latin constructions sometimes used in these later plays, and in the Latin-English words which he some- times coins, he shows not only singular facility of in- vention, but unerring correctness. Milton himself does not walk with more assured tread than does Shakespeare, whenever he has occasion to resort to classic lore. And then how wonderfully steeped with beauty are these classical words and ideas, after having passed through his subtile brain! How purely classi- cal, yet with a grace how entirely his own, is that ex- quisite image in Hamlet: ‘A station like the herald Mercury, | New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.” Observe, too, the new use to which this master of language here puts the word “station”—a mode of standing —a use of the word how purely Latin, and yet how thoroughly Shakespearian. Perhaps, how- ever, there is not in all his works a finer instance of his absolute dominion in the world of words than in that singular expression in Macbeth: “This my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine.” Not only by words and phrases, however, does he show knowledge of classical lore, but by the com- pleteness with which he enters into the life of the ancients, as in the Roman plays, where he seems to be actually co-existent with Cesar and Pompey, with Brutus and Cassius, with Antony and Cleopatra. It is not possible to believe that this intimate knowledge of the “‘very form and pressure of the time” in those old Roman days, came from copying extracts from school grammars and lexicons, and reading the wretched translations of Thomas Phaer and Arthur Golding. The foundation of this classical knowledge, assuredly, was laid in that public grammar school at Stratford, where, during all his boyhood, to the age beyond that at which youth then went to the univer- sities, he had the continued instruction of a learned clergyman, himself a graduate of Cambridge. There XVil and then, beyond question, Shakespeare became ac- quainted with the classical tongues, and with some of the masterpieces of classical composition; and this familiarity with the ancients, thus began in youth, was, there can be as little doubt, continued in later life, while seeking materials for his own great works. No other theory seems possible. No other satisfies the conditions of the problem of his authorship. Assuredly, he was an intelligent, educated artist, not an inspired idiot. CHAPTER V. OTHER EDUCATIONAL INFLUENCES AOTING UPON HIS YOUTHFUL MIND — (@) RELIGIOUS TRAINING AND ASSO- CIATIONS, THE QUESTION WHETHER JOHN SHAKESPEARE, THE FATHER, WAS A CATHOLIO, STRONGLY PROTESTANT OHARAOTER OF THE STRATFORD PARISH CHURCH, LIST OF THE SERVICE BOOKS USED IN THAT CHURCH, CATE- CHISMS AND MANUALS OF RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION IN WHICH SHAKESPEARE IN HIS BOYHOOD WAS DRILLED ; (6) CHRONIOLES AND LEGENDS WHICH FORMED A PART OF HIS YOUTHFUL READING, A LIST OF THESE BOOKS GIVEN; (€) LOOAL ASSOCIATIONS TO WHICH HIS YOUTH- FUL MIND WAS SUBJECTED, REMARKABLE SERIES OF FAOTS ON THIS POINT, UT education is more than learning. Education is growth, and whatever contributes to the growth of a great intellect, whether it be the religious associa- tions of church and home, the story books devoured, the local usages and traditions by which one is sur- rounded and inspired, whatever thus acts upon the growth of a great intellect, is a part of its means of education. Let us glance at some of these outside “schools and schoolmasters ” of the boy Shakespeare. And first of religious associations. On this point I propose to dwell a little, as the subject is one not so generally understood as it should be, and the facts that bear upon it are not matters of conjecture, but of record — clear, positive, and well defined; and they throw a strong light upon one of the most marked features of the author’s works. More than a century and a half after his death, the theory was broached that John Shakespeare, the father of William, was a Catholic. The facts in regard to this matter are, briefly, as follows: The Hart who, in 1770, occupied the Shakespeare tenement in Henley Street, had the roof new tiled. The bricklayer employed for this purpose professed to have found between the rafters and the old tiling a manuscript, which on examination purported to be the confession of faith of John Shakespeare, and which contained ample avowals of his being a Roman Catholic. The authenticity of this document, like the notorious Ireland forgeries, is now entirely discarded by Shakespearian experts and critics. John Shakespeare was of course born a Catholic, as were the great body of other Englishmen born prior to the breach between Henry VIII. and the Pope, in 1531. But the fact that he held various civil offices in Stratford, and especially that of chief burgess or mayor, shows incontestably that John Shakespeare was, outwardly at least, a Protestant during all the time of William’s boyhood, for by the statute of Elizabeth, 1558-9, known as the oath of supremacy, every civil magistrate in the realm was bound under penalties of forfeiture and imprisonment to conform to the established reformed religion. John Shakespeare in his old age is indeed officially reported, among others of his neighbors, for “not coming monthly to the church,” as required by statute, but XViil THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. at the same time it is significantly added that he was thought ‘to forbear church for debt or fear of pro- cess;’’ in other words, he stayed away from church to escape arrest for debt, not out of disaffection for the reformed religion. Then we have the fact, from which there is no escaping, that William and all his brothers and sisters were regularly baptized in the Stratford parish church, which was not only Protestant but Puritan, the vicar, Richard Bifield, being one of the most zealous of the Puritan divines.* Shakespeare himself, his wife, his daughter, his son-in-law, all lie buried in the most conspicuous position in the chancel,— the strongest pos- sible attestation that this Protestant church was the religious home of the Shakespeare family. The services of that church, then, were, beyond question, among the educational influences under which the intellect of Shakespeare grew. Let us see for a moment what these services were, and how far they were of a kind likely to influence such a mind. The Psalter in use there, the only one in fact then known to the English church, was the hard, bald Doric of old Sternhold and Hopkins; these were the Psalms to which without doubt his boyish ears were accustomed. The Book of Common Prayer, adopted in the reign of Edward VI., 1549, and reaffirmed by Elizabeth, 1559, was then in use in all the churches, and was, with all its wealth of purest English, perfectly familiar. to the youthful Shakespeare. The portions of Scripture which he heard from the Prayer-Book on the Sabbath were, as they still are, from Oranmer’s version, 1540, known as The Great Bible, a huge folio for the use of the churches. But the household Bible of that day, the only one printed in small volume, was the Geneva version, executed by the Presbyterian refugees at Geneva, Switzerland, in 1560. This Geneva Bible, it can hardly be doubted, was the one used in the household of John Shakespeare and of his son William. It was indeed for half a century, that is, until the appearance of our present version, in 1611, the common household Bible of the great majority of the English people. That Shakespeare was familiar with this Geneva Bible is further proved by a critical examination of the Scripture words and phrases which he uses in such abundance, and which are clearly those of the Geneva version. In this connection it is proper to notice certain manuals of religious instruction in which all young persons were then drilled. Shakespeare, in King John (I. i.), mentions one of these, the Absey Book. This Absey Book, so called from A B O, is the name of a little manual for the instruction of young chil- dren, put forth in the first year of the reign of Ed- ward VI. It contains ‘‘the A B O, the Pater Noster, Ave, Creed, and Ten Commandments.” It contained also, in some of the subsequent editions, a few short lessons for reading and spelling, and a brief catechism of religious instruction. Besides this Absey Book, Edward, before the close of his reign, put forth a new edition of the old English Primer, being ‘‘a short catechism of plain instruction, containing the sum of Christian learning.” These two manuals, the Absey Book and the Primer, covering substantially the same ground as that occupied half a century later by the New England Primer put forth by the “great John Cotton” of Boston, were made obligatory. Every schoolmaster of the realm was required, by royal command, and under severe penalties, to teach these * Various little incidents show the Puritan character of the village. In 1564, 2s. are paid by the corporation for defacing the image in the chapel. In 1630, a man is fined by the authorities for travelling on the Sabbath. The inscriptions on the tombstones of the Shakespeare family in the church all speak deep religious feeling of the John Bunyan order. THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. manuals to his pupils. It is morally certain then that Shakespeare conned them and committed them to memory. To recapitulate: From the plain old Psalter of Sternhold and Hopkins, in use in the parish church, from the weekly services of the Book of Common Prayer, from the daily use at his mother’s knee of that most familiar household book, the Geneva Bible, from the careful training which good Master Hunt gave him inthe Absey Book and the Primer, it is easy to understand how a mind so susceptible to external influences as was that of Shakespeare became so imbued and saturated, as we find it, with Scripture language and doctrine. Another educational influence needs to be men- tioned. Shakespeare’s plays show him to have been early familiar with the old English chronicles and other legendary lore which formed a part of the popular reading of that day. A mind such as his would naturally revel in this kind of reading, as did Walter Scott’s in the old border ballads of Scotland. Some of the books of this kind at the command of the youthful Shakespeare, which he has used so largely in his works, and which evidently helped to mould and fashion his thoughts, it is worth while to mention. They were ‘the books, the academes,” (Love’s Lab. Lost, 1V. iii.) from which his soul drank nourish- ment, just as truly as it did from Master Hunt and Lily’s grammar and the volume of Greek and Latin lore over which he pored in the famous Chapel Street grammar school. Among the books thus devoured by the imaginative boy we may reckon, with scarcely a possibility of mistake, the following: 1. The Palace of Pleasure, by William Painter, 1566. This was a collection of stories and novels, from various languages, translated into English. In this collection we find among others the pitiful Italian story of Romeo and Juliet, as translated from the French of Boisteau. — 2. Fabyan’s Chronicle of the old British history, 1516. This contains among its many wild legends the “story of Leir and his three daughters’ —a story peculiarly interesting to a Warwickshire man, as ‘“Leir” is reputed to have founded the neighboring town of ‘Caerlier,” now called Leicester. 3. Halls Chronicle, 1548. This was devoted to a narrative of the wars of the houses of York and Lancaster, a large part of the battle-fields of which _ were within a day’s walk of Stratford-upon-Avon. That this book had been well thumbed by the youthful bard may be inferred from the fact that three-fourths of all his great historical plays were founded on materials gathered from this field. 4. Holinshed’s Chronicle of England, Scotland, and Treland, 1577. This is another fascinating book of the same sort. Shakespeare follows it in all his plays on English history. He doubtless devoured it when a boy, just as Walter Scott devoured the old Scotch ballads and legends. 5. Gesta Romanorum, translated into English by Robinson, 1595. This was a famous story-book of those days. It was a vast storehouse of monkish and - Mediaval legends, full of fascination for an imaginative ‘mind, and containing among other things the two stories which form the groundwork of the Merchant of Venice, also the story of the Emperor Theodosius and his three daughters, which is another form of the old fable of King Lear. 6. Reginald Scot's Discovery of Witchcraft, 1584. This work, with its infinite details and wild stories of witches, fairies, hobgoblins, and other uncanny folk, must have had a strange fascination for the mind that has given us the weird sisters of Macbeth, Ariel and | Caliban of The Tempest, and all the long list of Puck, Peaseblossom, Titania, Queen Mab, and their fellows. Many other books might be mentioned as forming very probably a part of the library of the boy Shake- speare. But of these six which have been named, Palace of Pleasure, Fabyan’s Chronicle, Hall’s Chron- icle, Holinshed’s Chronicle, Gesta Romanorum, and Reginald Scot’s Discovery of Witchcraft, we can no more doubt than we could if we saw the very books themselves with his autograph upon them, the very dog’s-ears telling us where to turn for the well- thumbed passages which have formed the staple of so many of his most glorious creations. We are considering, remember, the educational in- fluences that gave shape and color to the character of this wonderful man. I have spoken thus far, first, of his school and the studies which he pursued there; secondly, of his church and his religious instruction and associations; thirdly, of the story books and legends which were within his reach, and with which his works show him to have been entirely familiar. All these things are strictly educational; by grouping them together thus in one view, we are able to realize to some extent the kind of atmosphere in which the mind of Shakespeare was immersed, and in which it received such a healthy development. But there was still one other educational influence, not inferior to any of these. I refer to the powerful influence of the local associations that were around him on every side, and on this point I shall make no apology for entering a little into particulars. The subject, you will find, is in the highest degree suggestive. The childhood of Shakespeare, it can hardly be doubted, was one of great physical activity. The Stratford bust, which, with all its faults as a work of art, is perhaps the best authenticated likeness of him, tells unmistakably the same story. In his writings, too, he displays a minute familiarity with out-door sports of every kind, an acquaintance with external nature and country scenes, such as is never gained except by those whose childhood and youth are spent largely in the open air, among the green fields and by the hedge-rows and lanes of the country. The free, harum-scarum country boy speaks out from his page in places innumerable. In this, as in many other points, there is a striking resemblance between Shake- speare and Sir Walter Scott,— the same healthy robust- ness of thought, the same joyousness of temperament, the same fondness for out-door life and out-door sports, the same close observation of nature, the same love for legendary lore, written or unwritten. The story of Scott’s early life fortunately is on record ; and, by analogy, it tells us plainly how, in corresponding cir- cumstances, the Stratford boy with his great exuberance of life deported himself among the stirring associa- tions by which he was surrounded. Let us look for a moment at some of these local transactions and asso- ciations, which were likely to act upon the imagination of a thoughtful boy in that spring-time of life when the thick-coming fancies of the brain are just begin- ning to take root. We have all read Walter Scott’s description of Kenilworth Castle, and of the gorgeous pageants ex- hibited there by the Earl of Leicester to Queen Elizabeth. All mid-England was there by thousands, three hundred and twenty hogsheads of ale drank on the occasion testifying to the extent of the gathering. Is it likely, can we conceive it possible, that a boy of active habits and ardent imagination, then in the twelfth year of his age, and living only thirteen miles away, would be absent from such an exhibition? The dramatic cast of many parts of that superb entertain- ment must have been espécially suggestive to the XIX THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. mind of the young villager. When, on that occasion, | Let us look at some of the other local associations: the great Earl welcomed his sovereign with a more | Only ten miles from Stratford was Warwick Castle, than regal magnificence, it is not hard to believe that | the seat of the great Earl, the king-maker, with its his ambition looked higher than the part of favorite | huge piles of masonry and its rich historical associa- counsellor and minister. The Stratford boy would | tions. Many an old servitor of the house would be not be slow to take up the pleasing surmise, as it | there, only too glad to pour into the ear of the curious passed from mouth to mouth among the gaping mul- | boy the tales of tragic interest which had been enacted titude, nor would he soon forget the pageant itself, or | within and around its walls. the gay throngs surging in and out through the lordly A mile from Warwick, at Blacklow-hill, was the portals. The only passage in the plays in which | scene of another startling tragedy. There, in 1312, Shakespeare appears distinctly to allude to Queen | the favorite of Edward IL. Piers Gaveston, was be- Elizabeth is one the hint of which seems to have been | headed by the barons. Conspicuous among the objects caught on this occasion. Bear in mind that in these | that would here rivet the attention was the ancient shows at Kenilworth, the mythology of lakes and seas | statue of Guy at Guy’s Cliff, the famous “ Black Dog of abounds. ‘Arion appears sitting on a dolphin’s back,” | Arden,” by whose hand the butchery was perpetrated. ‘“‘Triston, in likeness of a mermaid, comes towards her Only twelve miles away was the scene of the great == ze ies Bary) im i : i | NE Ue i Bee ae Feil VOI S HTM ib | a SSS eee ee 165 5 — tr Ruins of Kenilworth Castle. majesty.” With these things in mind, let us see if we | battle of Evesham, where, in 1265, Edward I. defeated do not get some new light on the origin of that | the barons under Simon de Montfort. The tomb of exquisite passage in the speech of Oberon, in A Mid- | King John was at Worcester, only twenty miles away. summer-Night’s Dream, already referred to (II. i.). Coventry, eighteen miles away, was the seat of the famous Black Prince. There were the famous lists Obe. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest | where, according to Shakespeare’s own description Since once I sat upon a promontory, 4, lil , And heard a mermaid ons dolphiv’s back iiifenand ay ‘i ey ine fut rm first a Wei oo the Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath ouses Of LOrkK an ancaster. here, too, was That the muds sen grew civil at her pone! something still more attractive to a young poet. The Wo ions thovue-nnld's teak Oe Coventry Mysteries, the most famous of their kind in Pucks ; pense : I remember. England, were then in full activity, and the people of é. at very time I saw, but thou couldst not, ; pana ; ~ é ye Flying between the cold moon and the earth, a rural ani ‘apie ae dly less attracted to them Cupid all arni'd : a certain abn he took ‘ ap pets pe ‘jes e of Ger ee: se Me the Passion a fair vestal throned by the west, 8 rammer : cL And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, t siglo oe nai i io. wr : he, and thronged As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; oO see these remarkable open alr t reatricals,— the But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft germ from which in less than twenty years Shake- Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon “a? : : And the imperial votaress passed on, speare’s own theatre was to SPUaee In maiden meditation, fancy-free. A two days’ walk would bring one from Stratford 2 He « THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. to Shrewsbury, where the Hotspur Percy was slain, and the Scotch Earl Douglas taken, and minute touches in Shakespeare’s description of the fight show that his eye was thoroughly familiar with the scenery of this great battle-field. One day’s walk down the Avon brings you to the scene of the great battle of Tewksbury, — the crown- ing struggle of a terrible sixteen years’ war. In that battle, as Margaret so piteously says to Richard, “Thou slewest Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.” (Richard ITI, I. iii.). The battle of Bosworth Field was fought within thirty miles of Stratford. Burton, writing in 1624, says the inhabitants then living around the plains of Bosworth Field “Shave many occurrences and passages [of the battle] yet fresh in memory, by reason that some persons thereabout, which saw the battle fought, were living within less than forty years.” Forty years from Burton’s date takes us back to the six- teenth year of William Shakespeare. Why should not he, the boy-dramatist, like Scott, the boy-novelist, have gathered knowledge and caught inspiration from the lips of these old narrators? The battle of Bos- worth Field was, in Shakespeare’s day, the Waterloo of English history. Burton again, in another place, speaking of this battle, identifies the spot ‘by a little mount cast up, where the common report is, that at the first beginning of the battle Henry Earl of Rich- mond made his pareenetical oration to his army (Pich- ard ITT., V. iii.); [also] by divers pieces of armor, weapons, and other warlike accoutrements, and by many arrow-heads new found, whereof about twenty years since [1604] great store were digged up, of which some I have now in my custody, being of a long, large, and big proportion, far greater than any now in use; as also by relation of the inhabitants, who have many occurrences and passages yet fresh in memory.” Let it bé remembered in this connection that of the ten historical plays, no less than eight are associated in many of their battle-fields with the localities which have been named, and with which Shakespeare was from boyhood perfectly familiar. Of these plays, four, namely, Richard IT, Henry IV., Part I., Henry IV., Part If., and Henry V., consti- tute a connected tetralogy, showing the rise of the House of Lancaster. The remaining four, namely, Henry VI., Part I., Henry VI., Part If, Henry VI, Part III., and Richard ITI., constitute a second tetralogy, showing the rise of the House of York. The wars described in these eight plays agitated the English nation for full a century. The memory of them was still fresh in the minds of the English people at the time when Shakespeare’s boyhood began, being about as far removed from him as the events of the American Revolution are from us. The battle-fields of these fierce wars and the monuments of them on every side of him were a part of the educational forces to which his young mind was subjected. No one who has read Romeo and Juliet is likely to forget the amiable Friar Lawrence. The picture of this kind-hearted old man has all the marks of a por- trait, the original of which may be traced with no great violence and probability. Twelve miles from Stratford, at Evesham, were the ruins of the famous _ Abbey of the Benedictines, which bad been robbed and dismantled by Henry VIII., in 1539. More than one hundred and fifty inmates of this monastery were turned loose upon the world. Many of these men from his graver counsellors, hearing of ser- mons, and listening to good counsel and admonitions, that in the end they got him to lie down in a cradle upon the stage, where these three ladies, joining in a sweet song, rocked him asleep, that he snorted again, and in the mean time closely conveyed under the clothes wherewithal he was covered a vizard like unto a swine’s snout upon his face, with three wire chains fastened thereunto, the other end whereof being sever- ally holden by these three ladies, who fell to singing again, and then discovered his face, that the spectators might see that they had transformed him, going on with their singing. Whilst all this was acting, there came forth of another door, at the farthest end of the stage, two old men, the one in blue, with a sergeant of arms, his mace upon his shoulder, the other in red, with a drawn sword in his hand, and leaning with the other hand upon the other’s shoulder; and so they two went along in a soft pace, round about by the skirt of the stage, till at last they came to the cradle, when all the Court was in the greatest jollity; and then the foremost old man with his mace struck a fearful blow upon the cradle, whereat all the courtiers, with the three ladies and the vizard, all vanished ; and the deso- late prince, starting up barefaced, and finding himself thus sent for to judgment, made a lamentable com- plaint of his miserable case, and so was carried away by wicked spirits. ‘This prince did personate in the gest the wicked of the world; the three ladies, Pride, Covetousness, and Luxury; the two old men, the End of the World and the Last Judgment. This sight took such impres- sion in me that when I came towards man’s estate, it was as fresh in my memory as if I had seen it newly acted.” Now if R. Wiltes, born in 1564, saw when a child this exhibition in the town of Gloucester, I do not find it at all difficult to believe that when, in 1569, John Shakespeare, Bailiff of Stratford-upon-Avon, ordered the payment of 9s. to the Queen’s Players for the ex- hibition of a Merry Interlude, his son Will, then five years old, stood in like manner between his father’s legs, as he sat upon one of the benches, and there saw a like notable ‘‘ gest; and that he continued to wit- ness the other exhibitions of a like kind which occurred from time to time in his native town during the whole period of his boyhood. The inference which these records suggest is strength- ened by others of a later date. The first direct evi- _ dence that we have of Shakespeare’s being in London THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. is a list of certain persons in that city, engaged as players and as proprietors of the Play House. In this company, of which Shakespeare is one, occur the names of several other actors from the same county of Warwick, and one other at least from Stratford itself. Thus, then, it was. The great dramatist found, even in these rude exhibitions, something congenial. He found in these wandering and clumsy theatricals the elements of his own glorious day-dreams. His soul was touched, rudely it may be, but on that chord which yielded its deepest and sweetest music. To join his fellow-townsmen who had already embarked in this business, and to seek by it in the great metropolis the means of living and of fame, was certainly one of the most natural and probable of all possible results. It was instructive. His leaving Stratford for London at the time he did needs no further explanation. It re- quires no fable of deer-stealing and prosecution, no interposition of paternal misfortunes, no fiction of domestic disquietudes and treasons. Shakespeare found himself among the players for the same reason that the birds in spring-time find themselves among the branches. He became a dramatist under a law as generic as that which draws sweetness from the olian harp when kissed by Zephyrus, or that which opens the throats of the feathered tribes when vernal airs and genial skies warm them into melody. It was nature herself prompting her favorite son to his ap- propriate work. The strolling players and the merry interludes, at the little town of Stratford-upon-Avon, were to Shakespeare the mirror of Merlin, revealing to himself the secret of his own wonderful powers. The powers were there. They needed only an occa- sion to put them in motion. CHAPTER IX. UNCERTAINTY ABOUT THE TIME OF SHAKESPEARE’S AD- VENT IN LONDON — FIRST FOUND THERE IN CONNEOTION WITH THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN’S PLAYERS —SKETOH OF THE HISTORY OF THIS COMPANY —THE ELDER BUR- BAGE, HIS THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES — ATTITUDE OF THE CORPORATION OF LONDON TOWARDS THE PLAYERS, ITS EFFECT UPON THE LOCATION OF THE PLAY HOUSE — NOTICES OF THE THEATRE, THE CURTAIN, THE GLOBE, THE BLAOKFRIARS. NE of the riddles of literature is that so little should be known of the man who is beyond ques- tion the greatest genius that literature has to boast of; and the riddle is all the more perplexing from the fact | that this man lived in the very focus of English civil- ization, at one of its most illustrious epochs, and that he has been dead only about two centuries and a half. The exact date of Shakespeare’s going to London is not known. The probability is that he went about the year 1586, four years after his marriage, he being then twenty-two years old, and his youngest child not yet two years old. He died in 1616, and the last four or five years of his life are known to have been spent in his native village, after his retirement from the metropolis. This would make his London career cover a period of about a quarter of a century. The first notices we have of Shakespeare in London are in connection with the company of actors known, first as the Lord Chamberlain’s men, and afterwards as the King’s Players. Some account of this company therefore is the first thing in order. Strolling actors were at that time liable to be taken up as vagrants. To relieve them from this penalty the better class of actors attached themselves to the service of some nobleman, and, as his servants, they were by law free from arrest. One company, known as the Earl of Lei- cester’s Players, early acquired special distinction, and in 1574, through his influence, obtained a special charter from the Queen. The leading proprietor in this com- pany was James Burbage, a Warwickshire man. This James Burbage was, in Shakespeare’s boyhood, the man of greatest mark in the theatrical world. He was the pioneer in the building of play-houses, the first house ever built in England specially erected for theatrical purposes being that put up by him in 1577, in Shoreditch, on ground formerly belonging to Holy- well Priory. It was in the open fields on the north side of London, and just outside the city limits. This building was known simply as the Theatre. After occupying it more than twenty years as a play-house, Burbage pulled it down, carried the materials to the Old Globe Theatre, 1595. other side of London, on the south bank of the Thames, and there, in 1599, with these materials, built the play- house known as the Globe. Hehad also, some three or four years before, near the north bank of the Thames, opposite Southwark, erected still another play-house, known as the Blackfriars, being built upon a part of the foundation of the old monastery of the Black Friars, which had been demolished in the reign of Henry VIII. This James Burbage had a son Richard, who was confessedly the greatest actor of his day, and one of the greatest of all time. He was about the same age as Shakespeare, and was the leading man in the com- pany of players to which Shakespeare belonged. They played chiefly in the buildings just described, put up by the elder Burbage, namely, the Theatre, the Black- friars, the Globe. The principal actors in this com- pany were Richard Burbage, William Shakespeare, Lawrence Fletcher, Augustine Phillipps, John Heminge, XXV THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Henry Condell, William Sly, Robert Armin, and Richard Cowley. This company, varying a little from time to time as to its constituency, yet remaining sub- stantially the same, was at first under the protection of the Lord Chamberlain, and its members were known as his men or his servants. But on the acces- sion of James, 1603, he took them under his own special protection, and they were known thenceforth as the King’s Players. All of Shakespeare’s plays were brought out by this company. The Burbages, father and son, were in particular intimately associated with Shakespeare all through his theatrical career, and the younger of them is one of those affectionately remembered by Shakespeare in his will. Another man for a time of this company, though he appears afterward to have gone over to a rival company, was Thomas Greene, of great celebrity as a comic actor. He is generally believed to have been a Stratford man, and to have been directly in- strumental in introducing Shakespeare to the com- pany. Still another member of this company, John Heminge, is said to have been from Shottery, the residence of Anne Hathaway, near Stratford. He re- mained with the company to the last, and was one of the editors of the first Folio. ® s MMMM. Y ME d WME MAM ts Wy Richard Burbage. To understand the theatrical history of this period, it must be borne in mind that while both Elizabeth and James, and the court generally, looked with favor upon actors and acting, the city of London, under the influence of the Puritan element in the church, dis- countenanced stage playing, and did everything in their power to suppress it. Hence nearly all the early play-houses were built in places contiguous to the population, but outside the limits of the corporation and beyond its jurisdiction. There were three such play-houses on the north side of the city, in what was then open country, in the neighborhood of Shore- ditch. These three were: 1. The Theatre (Burbage’s already named), 2. The Curtain, 3. The Fortune. Two others, already mentioned, and belonging to the Burbages, were The Blackfriars, on the north the Bankside. The Blackfriars, according to docu- ments first brought to light by Mr. Halliwell, in 1874, was built in 1596, and the Globe in 1599. Shakespeare’s theatrical career began at the old theatre in Shore- ditch, outside of the city on the north, and continued there for the first ten or twelve years; it was then divided for a time between that theatre and the Black- friars; and finally, for the last twelve or fifteen years, was divided between the Blackfriars and the Globe. CHAPTER X. BEGINNING OF SHAKESPEARE’S CAREER, HIS RANK AS AN ACTOR — VERY RECENT DOCUMENTS ON THIS SUBJEOT —IN WHAT MANNER HIS OAREER AS A DRAMATIST BEGAN — SOCIAL HUMILIATIONS OF THE ACTORS AND THE DRAMATISTS AT THAT TIME— EVIDENCES THAT SHAKESPEARE FELT THIS KEENLY — HIS SOCIAL HABITS — ‘‘WIT-COMBATS”’ BETWEEN HIM AND BEN JONSON, AT THE MERMAID— ONE REASON WHY SUCH OBSCU- RITY EXISTS IN REGARD TO THE DATE OF THE COM- POSITION OF THE DIFFERENT PLAYS—HIS INTEREST IN PREVENTING THE PUBLICATION OF THE PLAYS — OHARACTER OF THE EARLY QUARTOS—THE TRUE EDITIO PRINOEPS. HE evidence is conclusive that Shakespeare began his theatrical career as an actor, and that he took parts both in his own plays and in others. Some of the parts taken by him, as that of the Ghost in his own Hamlet, and that of the old man Adam in As You Like It, are pretty well ascertained. It is also known that he played in Ben Jonson’s Avery Man in his Humor. The earliest authentic mention of Shakespeare as a player is in March, 1594, four years earlier than any authentic mention of him in this capacity heretofore supposed to exist. In the document just unearthed by Halliwell, and published in 1874, of the authenticity of which there has been thus far no question, Shake- speare is named as one of the Lord Chamberlain’s ser- vants who had acted two comedies before her majesty Queen Elizabeth during the preceding Christmas sea- son, that is, in December, 1593. This document, then, shows Shakespeare, at the end of seven years from the time of his supposed advent in London, to have already risen to such consideration in the theatrical world as to be one of the three most eminent actors of the day, specially invited to play before her majesty on that occasion, Kempe and Burbage, the two others associated with him, being the acknowledged sover- eigns of the stage. The document is interesting also as showing the exact amount paid for their services, viz., £20 equal to £100, or $500 now. The whole entry is worth quoting. It is in these words: ‘‘To William Kempe, William Shakespeare, and Richard Burbage, servants to the Lord Chamberlain, upon the Council’s warrant, dated at Whitehall, 15 March, 1594, for two severall comedies or interludes showed by them before her Majesty in Christmas time last past, namely, upon St. Stephen’s day and Innocent’s day, £13 6s. 8d., and by way of her majesty’s reward £6 13s. 4d., in all £20.” In regard to his ability as an actor, Chettle, writing while Shakespeare was still on the boards, 1592, tes- tifies that “he is excellent in the quality which he professeth,”’ and Aubrey, writing half a century after Shakespeare’s death (1670), says “he did act exceed- bank of the Thames, and within the corporation limits, | ingly well.” If in this respect he did not come up to and The Globe, on the south side of the Thames, in| the consummate ability of his friend, the younger the suburb known as Southwark, and sometimes as XXVl Burbage, who was indeed the Garrick of his day, he THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. — practical experience on the stage contributed largely, without doubt, to that masterly knowledge of stage- effect which is so conspicuous in his plays. There is a well-authenticated tradition that Taylor, one of the Blackfriars’ company, who acted Hamlet, was instructed in the part by Shakespeare himself; also, that Lowine, who acted Henry VIII., was like- wise instructed in it by Shakespeare; and, finally, that Betterton, who, half a century later, became famous as a personator of these two parts, was aided therein by the stage traditions in regard to the manner of presenting them introduced by Shakespeare himself. The evidence, furthermore, is conclusive that for many years Shakespeare was engaged both as a writer for the stage and as an actor. All his predecessors and most of his contemporaries were at once players and writers. Such was the case with Marlowe, Greene, Lodge, Peele, Nash, Munday, Wilson, Field, Heywood, Webster, and Ben Jonson. It was not until some time later in the history of the drama that the business of author and actor became distinct. All the early dramatists were actors, and took part in acting their own plays. It is further probable that Shakespeare began the business of dramatist in the same manner as his pre- dlecessors, namely, as a “playwright.” That is, he began, not by composing original plays, but by tinker- ing up and improving plays already extant. The drama, about the time that he began authorship, seems hardly to have been considered a part of literature. The person who prepared a play for the stage was not looked upon as an author. It was all one to the audience whether that which pleased them was orig- inal or borrowed. The actor sometimes came in for a share of personal regard, but no one ever thought of the writer. It can hardly be doubted that Shake- speare, while enjoying his theatrical success, felt keenly the humiliating social position to which his profession at this time subjected him. It is absurd to suppose that such a genius as Shakespeare’s, did not know its own value. Read the fifty-fifth sonnet: Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmear’d with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. *Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the ies of all ea {10 That wear this world out to the ending doom. Bearing in mind this his sublime consciousness of his own greatness and of the assured eternity of his lines, how infinitely touching is the pathos with which, in another sonnet (111th), he refers to the social humiliations to which his profession subjected him. O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand. The feeling thus experienced, as he looked upon the great and noble who came to his play-house merely to be amused, is not at all in conflict with the fact that he enjoyed heartily his life, such as it was, though it did not give him social intercourse with the titled ones about him. We can well believe the traditions of the merry-makings at the Falcon and the Mermaid, and of the wit-combats of which Fuller speaks, 1662, yet evidently was an actor of no mean ability, and his | Fuller, ‘‘ were the wit-combats betwixt him and Ben Jonson; which two I beheld like a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war.”. Master Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in learning; solid, but slow in his performances. Shakespeare, with the early dramatists, prepared a piece for the stage purely as a matter of business. They took,.or they made, whatever was likely to gain the end—to draw an audience. Shakespeare doubtless soon found that the less he took and the more he made, the more accept- able the preparation became to the public. Hence he passed by a natural transition from what has been technically called a “playwright,” to a writer of orig- inal plays. Another thing also is probable, and indeed is evident from recorded facts, that his plays be- came gradually so important to the company to which he belonged, that he dropped entirely the office of actor, and confined his attention exclusively to writ- ing. At what time precisely this change took place has not been ascertained. All that we know certainly is that during the early part of his theatrical career he was an actor, afterwards he was both actor and writer, while for many years before his death he was connected with the stage only as a writer. The story of his having began by holding the horses of those at- tending the theatre is now generally discredited. If the thing did occur, it must have been at the theatre, in Shoreditch, to which Shakespeare was first attached. As this theatre was out in the open fields, many of the play-goers coming from the city would reach the place on horse-back, and so the holding of the horses would become a considerable business. The date of the composition of the several plays is involved in great obscurity. A discussion of the sub- ject would involve many dry details quite unsuited to a sketch like this. One general remark, however, may be made, bearing upon this point. It is doubtful whether any one of the plays was published under the author’s own inspection and authority. It was to the interest of Shakespeare and his company to keep the plays in manuscript in the theatre, as the main part of their stock in trade. The printing of them for persons to read lessened their value as a means of attracting people to the play-house. The fact, there- fore, of the plays not coming out during the author’s life, and under his own direction, is proof rather of his thrift, than of the neglect and reckless indifference to which it has been generally ascribed. In 1623, seven years after his death, two of his friends and fellow- actors published his plays in a large folio volume, from the original copies then in the theatre. This publica- tion is regarded as the true Editio Princeps, and as the chief authority in determining the text. A consider- able number of the plays were published separately during his life. These were printed in small 4to pam- phlets, and are known as the Early Quartos. Their publication, however, is generally believed to have been surreptitious, without the supervision or consent of the author. The fact that the plays were kept in the theatre as a part of the theatrical property has had the additional effect of making it next to impossible to fix a definite time for the composition of each. We know from a comparison of styles, as well as from contemporary rec- ords, that certain of the plays were written earlier, and others were written later. But even when a play had been once produced in the theatre, there is no proof that Shakespeare did not continue to alter and amend it from year to year. The proof indeed is just the other way, and the general conclusion now is, that all the plays were touched up from time to time, and that many of them, particularly those first written, were between Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. ‘‘ Many,” says | rewritten again and again. XXVll THE LIFE OF CHAPTER XI. RELATIONS OF SHAKESPEARE TO THE EARL OF SOUTH- AMPTON —OHARAOTER OF THIS NOBLEMAN — TRADI- ' "ION OF THE GIFT OF £1,000 — CONNECTION OF THE DAVENANTS WITH THE STORY — THEIR SPECIAL MEANS OF KNOWLEDGE ON THE SUBJECT. HE first works of Shakespeare published, and the only ones certainly known to have been published under his own supervision and authority, were the Venus and Adonis, 1598, and the Luerece, 1594, Shake- speare at this latter date being thirty years old. Both poems are dedicated to a youthful admirer of Shake- speare’s, the young earl of Southampton, then in his twenty-first year. The earl is described by his con- temporaries as a man of brilliant parts, possessed of great learning and accomplishments, and a munificent patron of letters. Testimonies to this effect in the shape of dedicatory odes and epistles are found scat- tered all through the literature of the period. The poets of the day looked up to him as the English Mecenas. Brathwayt, in the dedication of the Schol- ar’s Medley, calls him ‘ learning’s best favorite.” Flo- rio, in his World ef Words, speaks of him as one “in whose pay and patronage I have lived some years;” “To me and many more, the glorious and gracious sunshine of your honor hath infused light and life.” The form of literature to which he was especially de- voted was the drama. This we know from a contem- porary record by Rowland Whyte, who says of South- ampton and his companion Lord Rutland, ‘‘ They pass away the time in London merely in going to plays every day.” In connection with this, we may observe that his mother by a second marriage became the wife of Sir Thomas Henrage, Treasurer of the Chamber. This office brought Sir Thomas, and through him his step-son, the young earl, into intimate association with actors and dramatists. Some brief reference to the affection of this brilliant nobleman for men of letters seems necessary to explain the intimate relations which grew up between him and Shakespeare. In the dedi- cation of the Venus and Adonis, the language is that of distant but respectful compliment. The dedication of the Lucrece, only a year later, speaks unbounded admiration and affection. This change in the tone of the two documents is remarkable, and is supposed to have been caused by an extraordinary act of generos- ity on the part of the young nobleman. The tradi- tion is that the earl at one time made the poet a gift of £1,000 (equivalent to £5,000 now) to enable him to complete a “purchase which he had a mind to.” There is no inherent impossibility, and no very great improbability, in such a piece of generosity, and the tradition is clear and precise. If this thing ever did take place, its occurrence in the interval between the publication of these two documents gives special mean- ing and emphasis to both—the first dedication being that which prompted the mind of the generous young nobleman to make the gift, the second being the nat- ural outpouring of affection for so great an act of kind- ness. All this, probable as it is, we must still remember is pure conjecture. The tradition is given by Rowe, and Rowe gives it on the authority of Sir William Dave- nant, 1670, about half a century after Shakespeare’s death. Shakespeare was intimate with the Davenants, and was godfather to their son, William, the celebrated Sir William Davenant of the next generation. Shake- speare used to stop at their house, the Crown Inn, in Oxford, in his annual journeys between Stratford and London, the older Davenant, who was an innkeeper and vintner, being a great admirer and friend of the XXVill SHAKESPEARE. — poet. These facts are expressly affirmed by Anthony A. Wood, the careful antiquarian of Oxford, who him- self knew the Davenants personally. Wood says, the ‘‘mother [of Sir William] was a very beautiful woman, of a good wit and conversation;” “the father... was a very good and discreet citizen, yet an admirer and lover of plays and playmakers, especially Shake- speare, who frequented his house in his journeys be- tween Warwickshire and London.” The Davenants then must have been well acquainted with Shake- speare’s affairs, and are competent witnesses to any important facts in his history. Rowe’s statement is as follows: ‘There is one instance so singular in the munificence of this patron of Shakespeare’s, that if I had not been assured that the story was handed down by Sir William Davenant, who was probably very well acquainted with his [Shakespeare’s] affairs, I should not have ventured to have inserted; [to wit,] that my Lord Southampton at one time gave him a thousand pounds to enable him to go through with a purchase which he heard he had a mind to.” CHAPTER XII. SHAKESPEARE’S GENIUS FULLY RECOGNIZED BY HIS CON- TEMPORARIES — EVIDENCES ON THIS POINT: (@) EX- TRAORDINARY NUMBER OF EDITIONS OF HIS WORKS PUBLISHED DURING HIS LIFE-TIME; (0) NUMBER OF QUOTATIONS FROM HIM IN CONTEMPORARY WORKS OF ELEGANT EXTRACTS; (¢) NUMBER AND EXTRAORDI- NARY CHARACTER OF NOTICES OF HIM BY OONTEM- PORARY WRITERS — HOW THE CURRENT NOTION ORIGI- NATED ABOUT HIS NOT BEING KNOWN OR RECOG- NIZED BY HIS CONTEMPORARIES. T has been a common opinion that Shakespeare’s genius was not recognized by his own generation ; in fact, that he lived and died comparatively unknown. That his genius is now better understood and appreci- ated than it was two hundred and fifty years ago, I admit. It is also true that he is no longer thought to have been, as the wits of Queen Anne’s day thought him, a sort of inspired idiot, abounding in genius, but wanting in art. Yet, while a broader criticism and a more extensive research have undoubtedly added to our knowledge of him, it would be a great mistake to sup- pose that he was not both well known and highly appreciated in his own day. And, first, let us see what was done in the actual publication of his works while he was still living. From 1593, when the Venus and Adonis first appeared, to 1616, the time of his death, scarcely a year passed without the appearance in print of one or more of his works, some of them reaching as high as six editions within twenty-one years. The whole number of edi- tions of separate works, copies or records of which have come down to us, was at the time of his death no less than sixty-five. Now even in this day of cheap publications and of universal rushing into print, an author who, at fifty-two, notwithstanding studious and interested endeavors on his part to keep his chief works out of the hands of the printers, should yet find on the bookseller’s catalogues more than sixty editions of one or another of them, might surely seem to be not altogether a stranger to the public. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that Tennyson and Longfellow are not better known to the book-trade than was Shake- speare, mutatis mutandis, at the time of his death. Secondly, in the books of elegant extracts published at that time, and containing selections from standard THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. — poets, Shakespeare is even thus early quoted. Thus, England’s Parnassus, or, The Choysest Flowers of our Modern Poets, 1600, has no less than ninety extracts from Shakespeare. Bel-Vedere, or Garden of the Muses, also in 1600, has several extracts from Shake- speare. appendix of new poems, ‘done by the best and chief- est of our modern writers,”—the same being chiefly Chapman, Marston, Ben Jonson, and Shakespeare. Eng- land’s Helicon, a Collection of Pastoral Poems (1614) contains three extracts from Shakespeare. This kind ' of incidental testimony it is impossible to gainsay. It is hard to conceive of a contemporary popularity more unmistakable. Thirdly, although it was not the custom then, as it is now, for everybody to gossip on paper about authors, yet let us see whether Shakespeare and his works are not in point of fact mentioned in every variety of way by those who lived at the same time with him, who were conversant with his writings, and who knew the man himself personally. I will mention only a few of the very earliest, from 1591 to 1598. The earliest of all is a passage in Spenser, not indeed naming Shakespeare, yet so evidently referring to him as to deserve citation. It is, I am aware, a matter of dispute whether the passage referred to was meant for Shakespeare, and many Shakespearians, those too of the very highest authority, reject the passage alto- gether. Yet, after considering carefully the argu- ments, for and against, I cannot resist the conviction that in penning these lines Spenser did have Shake- speare in his mind. The passage occurs in Spenser’s poem, The Tears of the Muses, 1591, Shakespeare hav- ing then been five years in London. Spenser, who during that same period had been living at Kilcolman Castle, Ireland, came in 1590 to London to attend to the printing of the first three books of the Faerie Queene, and while there was likely to learn something of the new poet, and perhaps to make his acquaint- ance. Nothing certainly could be more probable than that Spenser, during this temporary sojourn in the metropolis, should embrace the opportunity of fre- quenting the play-house, where all the wits of the day and all his friends among the nobility made daily resort. On his return to Ireland, this poem, the Tears of the Muses, was published, suggested apparently by what he had seen in London during his late visit, and bewailing what he considered the low estate of litera- ture and the arts. In the poem, each of the Nine Muses in turn makes lament over the low condition of that particular art over which she presides. Among the rest, Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, bewails the de- generate state of her branch. In this lament occur the lines referred to: And he, the man whom Nature selfe had made To mock her selfe and Truth to imitate, With kindly counter under Mimick shade, Our pleasant Willy, ah! is dead of late: With whom all joy and jolly merriment Is also deaded, and in dolour drent. After a few more lines, expressing her scorn for the baser sort of dramatists who were flooding the stage with their vile productions, she goes on to say: But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen Large streames of honnie and sweete Nectar flowe, Scorning the boldnes of such base borne men, Which dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe, Doth rather choose to sit in idle Cell, Than so himselfe to mockerie to sell. Here Thalia speaks of some dramatic writer who had raised high the expectations of the public, but who is “dead of late,” that is, who is so vexed at the ecurvility and ribaldry prevailing that he ceases writing Love's Martyr, in a new edition, 1601, has an | for the stage, resolving to sit idle for the time, rather than be mixed up with such base-born men. As there» was no other dramatic writer in 1591 to whom these lines could possibly apply, and as the phrase “ our pleasant Willy” points so clearly to William Shake- speare, it is hard to resist the conclusion that Shake- speare was meant, that he had thus, as early even as his twenty-seventh year, won emphatic recognition from the author of this Muerie Queene. Among the plays known to have been written prior to 1591, are Love's Labour’s Lost, Comedy of Errors, and Two Gen- tlemen of Verona, all in the comic vein, and all there- fore suited to bring their author under the notice of Thalia, the Muse of Comedy. Three years later, that is, in 1594, Spenser again visited London, and on returning to Ireland wrote another poem, Colin Clout’s Come Home Again, cele- brating in pastoral verse, and, as was his wont, under assumed names, the various persons he had met in and near the court. Astrophel is Sir Philip Sidney, the Shepherd of the Ocean is Sir Walter Raleigh, and so on. Among these descriptions is one generally sup- posed to refer to Shakespeare, though the reference is by no means so clear as in the former passage. The lines are the following: And there, though last not least, is AETION: A gentler shepheard may no where be found, Whose Muse, full of high thoughts invention, Doth like himselfe heroically sound. a GHEY Edward Spenser. Poets have in all ages been regarded as genus trri- tabile,— a waspish race. All the accounts, however, which we have of Shakespeare, concur in representing him as, on the contrary, a man of amiable disposition and conciliatory manners. It is not a little remarkable that all his contemporaries and those of the age imme- diately following (except one little outpouring of spleen which I shall notice presently), speak of him, when they refer to him at all, in terms not merely of admi- ration, but of tender affection,— a man not only to be reverenced, but to be loved. Milton, whose epithets are never given at random, speaks of ‘sweetest Shake- speare”” and ‘my Shakespeare.” Leonard Digges speaks of ‘our Shakespeare.” His fellow-actors, Heminge and Condell, in bringing out the first Folio, speak of ‘‘our Shakespeare.” Ben Jonson says ‘‘ Sweet xxix Swan of Avon,” ‘“‘my Shakespeare,” ‘my gentle Shake- speare.”’ Spenser, in the passage first quoted, speaks of “our pleasant Willy,” and “that same gentle spirit.” So here, when in speaking of Aetion he says, a ‘“‘ gentler shepheard may no where be found,” it seems but natural to infer that he means the same genial, love-inspiring spirit. Rakncther expression deserves notice. The Muse of Aetion, it is said, does “like himself heroically sound.” This seems to carry a plain reference to Shakespeare’s name, which in that day was often printed as two | words joined by a hyphen, Shake-speare, and as such considered significant, and played upon according to the fancy of his friends. the name into ‘‘Shake-a-Lance” and “‘Shake-a-Stage; ” Greene calls him a “Shake-scene;” Fuller refers to | the ‘‘ warlike sound of his surname, whence some may conjecture him of a military extraction,—Hasti-vibrans, or Shake-speare ;” and finally the coat-of-arms devised for him by the Herald’s office bears the crest of a fal- con brandishing a spear. These things look certainly as if Spenser was aiming at the same mark when he speaks of a poet whose Muse does like himself heroic- ally sound. Notice further the difference between the kind of praise now bestowed and that given three years before. Then the qualities spoken of were the “honey” and the ‘‘nectar,” the “joy” and the ‘‘jolly merriment.” Now, his Muse is ‘full of high thoughts’ invention.” This too is supposed to be explained by a comparison of dates. In 1591, Shakespeare had written little, if any thing, but comedy, with possibly the Venus and Adonis, and some of “his sugred sonnets among his friends.” But now, in 1594, three at least of his great tragedies had been put upon the stage, namely, Richard II., Richard I/I., and Romeo and Juliet. Well then might Spenser speak of the heroic sound of his name and of his high thoughts’ inven- tion. Shakespeare’s own admiration for the poet-lau- reate, found expression in a remarkable sonnet, pub- lished in the Passionate Pilgrim, and addressed to a friend who was equally an admirer of Dowland, a famous English musician of that day: If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me, Because thou lovest the one, and I the other. Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus’ lute, the queen of music, makes; And I in deep delight am chiefly drowned Whenas himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign ; One knight loves both, and both in thee remain. After Spenser, the next writer, chronologically, who refers to Shakespeare is Robert Greene. This occurs in a tract published in 1592. Greene was quite noto- rious in his day. He wrote chiefly for the stage, and was charged with various excesses in private life. In a fit of repentance, near the close of life, he wrote a tract called A Groat’s Worth of Wit; Bought with a Million of Repentance. It was addressed to ‘those gentlemen his quondam acquaintance who spend their wits in writing plays, and more particularly to Mar- lowe, Lodge, and Peele.” He urges these writers to cease writing for the stage; to take warning from his experience; and, if nothing else would move them, to be assured that the actors and the public were very unstable in their likes and their dislikes, and would soon abandon them for some new favorite. His words are: ‘‘Base-minded men, all three of you, if by XXX Thus Ben Jonson translates | THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. | ing Marlowe, Lodge, and Peele. my misery ye be not warned; for unto none of you, like [unto] me, sought those burrs to cleave; those puppets [the actors] I mean, that speak from our mouths, those antics garnished in our colors. Is it not strange that I, to whom they all have been be- holding; is it not like that you, to whom they all have been beholding, shall (were ye in that case that I am now) be both at once of them forsaken? Yes, trust them not; for there is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tyger’s heart wrapt in a Player’s hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you; and being an ~ absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country.” Here Greene is in ill temper with some young up- start, who, at first only a player, has presumed to write also for the stage, and who is obviously supplant- From the date, 1592, and from what we know of the other dramatic writers then living, the new “upstart” could have been none other than Shakespeare, and this inference derives additional strength from the epithet which Greene gives him, ‘tthe only Shake-scene in a country.” Thus the great dramatist, now only twenty-eight years old, and only six years in London, is already be- ginning to supersede his predecessors and contempo- raries, and to excite in consequence their jealousy and hatred. One of the epithets applied to him is es- pecially instructive —Johannes Factotum, literally, a John-do-everything, or, in good English idiom, a Jack- at-all-trades. Now the whole tenor of Shakespeare’s writings, as well as all the traditions concerning his life, go to establish the conclusion that he was remark- able for his common sense and his practical talents. His transcendent genius did not prevent his attending to ordinary business in an ordinary way—did not hinder him from being shrewd at a bargain and thrifty in the management of affairs. It is easy to see that these qualities, in connection with his genius as a writer, would naturally give him in a short time the chief control of the theatre to which he was attached. The disparaging epithets of Greene mark the precise time (a critical point in the history of any rising man) when, from superior business talents as well as from superior genius, the actual management of affairs had gone into his hands, but his superiority had not yet been fully recognized. He was still one who could be taunted by his declining rivals as an ‘ upstart,”—one who imagined himself able to write as good blank verse as any of his contemporaries —one who was ‘in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a coun- try ’°—one who thought he could be writer, player, manager, and what not — in fact, a very and “ absolute Johannes Factotum.” Greene’s Groat’s Worth of Wit led incidentally this same year to a notice of Shakespeare by Henry Chet- tle, another dramatic writer of the period. Chettle had been instrumental in the publication of Greene’s pam- phlet, and finding that injustice had been done therein to some of the parties attacked, he published a tract of his own, called Hind-Hart’s Dream, intended to make reparation. In it occurs the following passage, refer- ring to Shakespeare: ‘‘ Myself have seen his demeanor no less civil than he excellent in the quality [which] he professes; besides, divers of worship have reported his uprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that approves his art.” The character which Chettle here gives of Shake- speare is precisely that already suggested, namely, that he was a man of genius, possessed of good temper. thrift, and common sense. I have dwelt a little upon these four passages, Spen- ser 1591, Greene and Chettle 1592, and Spenser agaia 1594, because they are the first of all, and because, ob- scure as they are in some respects, they yet show how early Shakespeare became a man of mark. The other instances will be quoted more briefly. This same Henry Chettle a few years later refers to Shakespeare again, under the name of Melicert, taking him to task for not sounding the praises of Elizabeth, at the time of her death. Nor doth the silver-tonged Melicert Drop from his honied muse one sable teare, To mourn her death that graced his desert, And to his laies open’d her royall eare: Shepheard, remember our Elizabeth, And sing her rape, done by that Tarquin, Death. Henry Willobie, an Oxford man, in a volume called Willobie, His Avisa, published in 1594, the very year that the Lucrece was published, thus mentions the new poem: Though Collatine have dearly bought To high renowne, a lasting life, And found — that most in vaine have sought To have —a fair and constant wife, Yet Tarquyne pluckt his glistering grape, And Shake-speare paints poore Lucrece rape. Gabriel Harvey, who figured largely in those days as a literary critic, and who was much mixed up with the affairs of Spenser and Sidney, published in 1592 four letters ‘‘ especially touching Robert Greene and other parties by him abused.” In the third letter is a para- graph addressed to one of the parties thus abused by Greene. The circumstances of the publication make it wellnigh certain that the person thus addressed was Shakespeare. The passage is so accepted by Dr. In- gleby, one of the most careful and exact of Shake- spearian scholars. Harvey’s words are: ‘‘ Good sweete Oratour, be a devine poet indeede; and use heavenly eloquence indeede; and employ thy golden talent with amounting usance indeede; and with heroicall cantoes honour right vertue, and have brave valour indeede; as noble Sir Philip Sidney, and gentle Maister Spencer have done, with immortall Fame; and I will bestow more complements of rare amplifications upon thee | then ever any bestowed uppon them; or this Tounge ever affoorded.” Six years later, 1598, Harvey wrote: ‘The younger sort take much delight in Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis ; but his Lucrece, and his tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmarke, have it in them to please the wiser sort. Drayton, in his Matilda, also of 1594, gives the fol- lowing allusion to the new poem: Lucrece, of whom proud Rome hath boasted long, Lately reviv’d to live another age, And here arriv’d to tell of Tarquin’s wrong, Her chaste denial, and the tyrant’s rage, Acting her paous on our stately stage, She is remember’d, all forgetting me, Yet I as fair and chaste as ere was she. In a work called Polimanteia, 1595, the following expression occurs: ‘All praise the Luerece of sweet Shakespeare.” The keturn from Parnassus, a play acted by the stu- dents of Cambridge, 1606, contains remarks on sev- eral contemporary poets -— Spenser, Constable, Lodge, Daniel, Watson, Drayton, Davis, Marston, Marlowe, Shakespeare, and Churchyard. Of Shakespeare the fol- lowing is said: Who loves Adonis’ love or Lucrece’ rape, His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life; Could but a graver subject him content, Without love’s foolish, lazy languishment. In the prose part of the play, the following dialogue occurs between the actors, Kemp and Burbage. THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. “Kemp. Why, here’s our fellow Shakespeare puts them all downe— aye, and Ben Jonson, too. O! that Ben Jonson is a pestilent fellow; he brought up Hor ace, giving the poets a pill; but our fellow Shake- speare hath given him a purge that made him beray his credit. ‘* Burbage. Its a shrewd fellow, indeed.” John Weever, in his Book of Epigrams, composed in 1595, has a sonnet addressed ; Ad Gulielmum Shakespeare. Honie-tong’d Shakespeare, when I saw thine issue, I swore Apollo got them, and none other, Their rosie-tainted features cloth’d in tissue, Some heaven-born goddesse said to be their mother. Rose-checkt Adonis with his amber tresses, Faire fire-hot Venus charming him to love her; Chaste Lucretia, virgine-like her dresses, Prowd lust-stung Zarquine, seeking still to prove her; Romea, Richard, more whose names I know not, Their sugred tongues and WANES inden ae beauty Say they are saints, althogh that Sts they shew mot, For thousands vowe to them subjective dutie: They burn in love, thy childré, Shakespear hat thé, Go, wo thy Muse! more Nymphish brood beget them. These various extracts, 1 may remark in passing, are quoted, not for their value as poetry, but for their value as evidence, and in this respect there seems no possibil- ity of gainsaying their force. In 1598, Richard Barnefield writes: “And Shakespeare, thou whose hony-flowing Vaine (Pleasing the world) thy praises doth obtaine, Whose Venus and whose Lucrece (sweete and chaste) Thy name in fame’s immortall Booke have plac’t, Live ever you, at least in Fame live ever; Well may the Bodye dye; but Fame dies never.” In this same year are other incidental notices, either of Shakespeare himself, or of some of his writings. But I must omit these notices in order to dwell more at length upon the most important of all, the testi- mony of Francis Meres. Meres was a clergyman, ‘Master of Arts in both universities,” ‘‘an approved good scholar,” and a compiler of school-books. His testimony is the more valuable both because of its ful- ness and explicitness, and because, from his very occu- pation as a compiler, he would be more likely than almost any other kind of writer to be a reflector and representative of public opinion. Meres’s book, called Palladis Tamia, or Wit’s Treasury, was published in 1598. It was a text-book for schools, giving a brief account of the chief English poets, comparing them with the corresponding Greek, Latin, and Italian poets. In this work, after enumerating the great tragic poets of Greece and Rome, Meres says we have in English Marlowe, Peele, Watson, Kyd, Shakespeare, Drayton, Decker, Ben Jonson (the names are given in chrono- logical order). Again, in like manner, our writers of comedy are given — Lily, Lodge, Gascoyne, Greene, Shakespeare, Nash, Heywood, etc. After quoting the Greek and Latin poets who had excelled in lyric po- etry, he says, the best among our lyric poets are Spen- ser, Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare, etc. In like manner, those famous for elegy are Surrey, Wyatt, Sidney, Raleigh, Dyer, Spenser, Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare, and so on. Referring to the evegi monumentum of Horace, he says, we have in English like enduring monuments in the works of Sidney, Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare. He even quotes Shakespeare as one ot those by whom the language had been improved: “The English tongue is mightily enriched and gor- geouslie invested in rare ornaments and resplendent (h)abiliments by sir Philip Sidney, Spencer, Daniel, Drayton, Warner, Shakespeare, Marlow, and Chap- man.” Some of Meres’s particular expressions are re- markable. ‘As the soule of Euphorbus was thought to live in Pythagoras, so the sweete, wittie soule of XXXl THE LIFE OF THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Ovid lives in mellifluous and hony-tongued fabs /atite Toutes att cama ¥éasd (tion ycknniseeinanalee a ata speare ; witnes his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among his private friends, &e.” “As Epius Stolo said, that the Muses would speak with Plautus’ tongue, if they would speak Latin; so I say, that the Muses would speak with Shakespeare’ 8 fine-filed phrase, if they would speake English.” “As Plautus and Seneca are accounted the best for Comedy and Tragedy among the Latines, so Shake- speare among y* English is the most excellent in both kinds for the stage: for Comedy, witness his G'étlemé oF Verona, his Errors, his Love's labor's lost, his Love's labour’s wonne, his Midsummers-night dreame, and his Merchant of Venice; for Tragedy, his Richard the 2, Richard the 3, Henry the 4, King John, Titus Andron- icus, and his Romeo and Juliet.” Here, then, in 1598, we have Shakespeare, after a career of only twelve years in the metropolis, quoted publicly in a text-book as among the great English authors whose works alone are a monument “ ere pe- rennius ;”’ his name placed conspicuously in four suc- cessive lists of writers who have distinguished them- selves severally i in Comic, Tragic, Lyric, and Elegiac poetry, and in still another list of those who by “the Ben Jonson, (From an old and rare print.) elegance of their writings have enriched and beautified the language, his name, “too, occurring in these various eulogies more frequently than that of any other English writer, even Spenser and Drayton, who, in this respect come next, standing at considerable distance away; and, lastly, we find quoted by name, besides the Venus and Adonis, the Lucrece, the Sonnets, no less than twelve of his great dramas, the whole coupled with the significant judgment of the critic (after naming all the great lights of English literature down to that day, except Chaucer) “that the sweet witty soul of Ovid seemed to live in mellifluous honey-tongued Shakespeare, and that if the Muses should ever deign to speak English, they would speak with Shakespeare’s tine-filed phrase, y To say, after this, that Shakespeare was not known or recognized in his own day, is as absurd asit would be to say the same of Spenser, Sydney, Raleigh, and Ben Jonson. What admirer of Shakespeare even now eould well speak of him in higher terms of praise than XXX1i did this Francis Meres in 1598? All this, too, be it remembered, when he was, as it were, only at the be- ginning of his car eer, and with eighteen years of the most productive and most conspicuous part of his life still before him. Was either Longfellow or Tennyson, with all the prestige of university honors and influence, and with all the machinery of modern book- makin and advertising, better known or more fully recognize at the age of thirty-eight than was Shakespeare at that age? Could either of them at that age have been ranked as best of English writers, in each of the four classes of Lyric, Elegiac, Comic, and Tragic verse ?—or, in each of these styles, have been safely placed in com- parison with the greatest of Grecian and Roman wri- ters? Ben Jonson, who was as competent to speak of Shakespeare as would be Longfellow to speak of Ten- nyson,—even more competent, for Jonson and Shake- speare were intimately acquainted personally, wrote for the same stage, lived in the same city, dined at the same tavern, where they had those famous “ wit-com- bats” of which Fuller speaks—Jonson, in the lines prefixed to the first Folio, speaks of Shakespeare in terms, not only of the createst affection, but of the most exalted eulogy,—speaks not only of his unpar- alleled genius, but of his consummate art; and extols him as surpassing, not only Chaucer, Spenser, Marlowe, and all other English writers, but even the ancients whom Ben worshipped, — surpassing even Aristoph- anes, Terence, and Plautus in comedy, Aéschylus, Eu- ripides, and Sophocles i in tragedy! The strange hallucination that Shakespeare was un- known among his contemporaries may have come in this way. Soon after his death, all stage-plays were at a discount under the sway of the Puritans. On the overthrow of the Commonwealth and the i incoming of the Stuarts, French notions of taste were in the as- cendant. The stage was indeed revived, but it was that of France, not the good old English drama. Then again with William of Orange and Queen Anne came the reign of Classicism. And so, for one cause and another, for a full century after the close of the great Elizabethan period, Shakespeare, it is admitted, was under a cloud. No more thorough evidence of this can be given than that, even so late as 1798, Steevens, one of the great Shakespearian editors of the last century, could write of the Sugared Sonnets, whose praises the men of Shakespeare’s own day could never tire of sound- ing, that it was not within the omnipotence of an Act of Parliament to compel people to read them, and he actually refused to print them in his extended edition of Shakespeare’s works, regarding those wonderful lyrics as so much worthless rubbish, and alludes to them in the following quaint language : “We have not reprinted the Sonnets, etc., because the strongest Act of Parliament that could be fr amed would fail to com- pel readers into their service.’ In his own day, however, Shakespeare was the ac- knowledged sun of the literary firmament. We of the present century have but revived and raised some- what the estimate in which the English people held him two hundred and fifty years ago, Before dismissing this topic, it is worth while to no- tice, in these many references to Shakespeare by his contemporaries, how uniformly he is mentioned in terms of affection. This would seem, as before ob- served, to indicate the possession on his part of an amiable and obliging disposition, and gives plausibility to the tradition handed down by Aubrey, showing the origin of the friendship between Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. ‘His acquaintance with Ben Jonson,” says Aubrey, ‘began with a remarkable piece of humanity and good nature. Mr. Jonson, who was at that time — —— altogether unknown to the world, had offer’d one of his plays to the players, in order to have it acted: and the persons into whose hands it was put, after having turn’d it carelessly and superciliously over, were just upon returning it to him with an ill-natur’d answer, that it would be of no service to their com- pany, when Shakespear luckily cast his eye upon it, and found something so well in it, as to engage him first to read it through, and afterwards to recommend Mr. Jonson and his writings to the publick.” We no longer ‘‘damn him with faint praise,” after | the fashion of the time of Alex. Pope, nor give him half-hearted, patronizing commendations, after the fashion of the time of Dr. Sam. Johnson, but rather, like the renowned scholar and dramatist of Shake- speare’s own day, look up to him with admiring, almost adoring wonder, as the most exalted of the Dit Majores of the dramatic art, the very Jupiter Olympus of the poetic pantheon, in whose presence the greatest even of the great Greek and Roman masters are content to stand at a respectful distance! Such was the trumpet- note of praise sounded by Rare Ben Jonson, in Shake- speare’s own day, two centuries and a half ago. Have we even at this day gone much beyond it? I have not thus far referred to the Shakespeare-Ba- con theory. The whole question seems to me to be contained in a nutshell. Stripped of verbiage, it is simply this: could the Creator who gave the world Dante and Homer have made a man of equal or even greater genius in Stratford-upon-Avon? Granted the genius, and all the other conditions of the problem are easy enough. Whoever had the genius to conceive these plays, would, in Shakespeare’s surroundings, have had all the needed opportunities for educa- tion and acquired knowledge exhibited in the plays. The advocates of the Bacon theory quietly assume, in the face of ail the lately accumulated evidence to the contrary, that Shakespeare was without edu- cation and without the means of acquiring knowledge. They go back to the old exploded notion of Queen Anne’s day, that Shakespeare was a man of clown- ish ignorance, and that the plays, if by him, were the product of an inspired idiot. I could understand the argument, if applied to a man in the condition of John Bunyan. But Shakespeare wasa man of letters. He had ample means of being such, and he was ac- cepted as such by the men of letters with whom he lived in familiar, daily intercourse. Besides, it is little less than monstrous to suppose that the greatest poetry of all time, and such an immense body of it, was the product of one whose acknowledged writings, enor- mous likewise in quantity, show no eyidence of spe- cial poetic gifts. Bacon’s genius lay in the domain of science and philosophy, not of song, the few poor spec- imens of verse he has given only showing how much he was out of his element in that species of composi- tion. We might as well suppose Aristotle capable of writing the Jliad, Wickclitfe the Canterbury Tales, John Hampden the Paradise Lost, or John Stuart Mill the Jdylis of the King, as suspect the author of the Nooum Organum capable of the Midsummer-Night’s Dream, Lear, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, and Macbeth. If these wondrous creations were not by the Bard of Avon, assuredly they were not by the author of Jn- stauratio Magna and De Augmentis Scientiarum. fii Bialypre Shakespeare’s Signature. j THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CHAPTER XIM. RELATIONS OF SHAKESPEARE AND HIS COMPANY TO QUEEN ELIZABETH AND KING JAMES. Ee company to which Shakespeare belonged was under the patronage of Hunsdon, the Lord Cham- berlain, a kinsman and favorite of Queen’ Elizabeth, who had given the Lord Chamberlain use of the splen- did palace of Somerset House, in which palace, it can hardly be doubted, the Chamberlain’s company often played for the amusement of the Queen and Court. Shakespeare’s plays, and Shakespeare himself, were well known to Queen Elizabeth. Indeed, one of the best authenticated traditions in regard to him is that the comedy of the Merry Wives of Windsor was writ- ten at her express suggestion. The refraining of Shakespeare from adulation, considering how grateful it was to the ears of the royal maids, speaks also trumpet-tongued for his manly independence. Blue eyes, blonde complexion, and golden hair, all pre- dicable of Elizabeth herself, had become, by a sort of legal presumption, the only types of female love- liness. Yet in the face of this, the dramatist has the courage, perhaps, considering the imperious tem- per of the Queen, we might call it the audacity, to admire a regular brunette: He thus writes to some sweetheart : Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the East, Nor that full star that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober West, As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O, let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black And ali they foul that thy complexion lack. Sonnet cxxxii. Spenser, or Sidney, or Raleigh, would as soon have cut off his right hand as to express admiration for such a woman. Shakespeare, in this as in many other matters, was wiser than his time; he well knew that in the age to come his one delicate allusion to the Maiden Queen, in the passage in Midsummer’s-Night’s Dream, already quoted, would be counted of greater worth than all the open flatteries poured out by his contemporaries with such lavish profusion. Elizabeth was fond of theatrical exhibitions, and it was probably in consequence of this inclination of hers that the play-houses, which at different times, under the influence of the Puritan party, were ordered to be closed by the authorities of the city of London, were yet enabled to continue their performances, with little interruption, to the close of her reign. On the accession of James, the Puritan party re- newed their efforts to suppress the play-houses, and at first met with some success; but soon after reaching London, the new monarch changed his mind and took the Lord Chamberlain’s Players (Shakespeare’s com- pany) under his own protection, allowing them hence- forth to be called the King’s Players, and giving them a royal license with special privileges. The date ot this license is 1603, and the name of the players, as given in it, are Fletcher, Shakespeare, Burbage, Phil- lipps, Heminge, Condell, Sly, Armin, Cowley, — nine, Shakespeare being second on the list. We note also, that in a list of the comedians who represented the dramatis persone at the performance of Ben Jonson’s Every Man in His Humor, at the Blackfriars, in 1598, Shakespeare’s name heads the list. xxxiil THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. The first occasion, apparently, on which this com- pany played before King James was when the Ear! of Pembroke, Dec. 2d, 1603, gave, at his seat at Wilton, a great entertainment to the King. An entry of the fiscal accounts of that date show that £30 (= £150) was paid on that occasion to John Heminge ‘on behalf of his Majesty’s Players of the Globe,” to perform at the festival before the King; and we know from another source that both Pembroke, who gave the entertainment, and his brother, the Earl of Montgom- ery, were great admirers and favorers of Shakespeare. Ben Jonson speaks expressly of the favor with which both Elizabeth and James regarded Shake- speare: “Those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza and our James.” There are two traditions on this subject which it may be well to notice here. The first is that on one occasion, during the progress of the play,* her Majesty purposely dropped her glove in such a way as to oblige the poet to stop his acting and pick it up, — which he did, saying (as a king, in character), * And though now bent on this high embassy, Yet stoop we to take up our cowsin’s glove.’ The other tradition, pretty well authenticated, is that ‘‘ King James I. was pleased with his own hand to write an amicable letter to Mr. Shakespeare.” John Davies, of Hereford, a contemporary poet, seems to have thought the dramatist not unworthy of such royal companionship.. In a poem, The Scourge of Folly, 1607, Davies says: > To our English Terence, Mr. Will. Shakespeare. Some say, good Will, which I, in sport, do sing, Hadst thou not plaid some kingly parts in sportt Thou hadst bina companion fora king, And beene a king among the meaner sort: Some others raile; but, raile as they thinke fit, Thou hast no rayling, but a raigning wit: And honesty thou sow’st, which they do reape, So, to increase their stocke, which they do keep. CHAPTER XIV. SHAKESPEARE’S PEOUNIARY AFFAIRS — HIS EXTRAORDI- NARY BUSINESS THRIFT— ACCUMULATION OF PROP- ERTY AT STRATFORD — AMBITION TO BE A RETIRED XOUNTRY GENTLEMAN —EVIDENOES OF HIS TAOT IN BUSINESS MANAGEMENT — EVIDENCES OF HI8 KINDLY DISPOSITION AND CONCILIATORY MANNERS. HERE are other evidences of Shakespeare’s pros- perity besides those drawn from the annals of the Blackfriars and the Globe. In 1596, John Shakespeare and wife recovered by law, evidently by the aid of mo- ney received from London, the estate of Asbies, the marriage portion of William’s mother, which had been alienated during the period of the father’s pecuniary misfortunes. In 1596, again, the grant of arms to John Shakespeare by the herald’s office was consum- mated evidently through influence put forth in London. In 1597, the poet bought the principal dwelling- house in Stratford, an old mansion formerly belonging to the Clopton family, and called the Great House. Shakespeare, on acquiring this property, fitted it up for his own residence, and changed its name to the New Place. *The royal party in those days sat upon the stage, near where our proscenium boxes now are. + Had you not been an actor. XXXIV From a document dated 24 Jan., 1597-8, we learn that Shakespeare’s influence with Lord Treasurer Bur- leigh is invoked by the Stratford burghers, to aid them _in getting from the government some abatement of taxes, as well as a portion of the government grant for the relief of certain cities and towns that had suffered by the plague or by fire. From the same document we learn that ‘the is willing to disburse some money on some odd yard land or other at Shot- tery,” the birthplace and early home of his youthful sweetheart, Anne Hathaway. In Feb., 1598, in an inventory of corn and malt in Stratford, taken in apprehension of scarcity, William Shakespeare is entered as possessing ten quarters, being the third largest holder in his ward. In this year also we find him selling a load of stone to the corporation of Stratford. In October of the same year he is assessed in the parish of St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate, showing him to be a property holder in London, his rates being 13s. 4d. In this same month, too, Richard Quiney of Stratford, [father of the Quiney who afterwards mar- ried Shakespeare’s youngest daughter, ] writes to his “loving good friend and countryman, Mr. William Shakespeare,” asking the loan of £30,—showing that the poet was not only a property holder but a money- lender. Four years later, 1602, Shakespeare, for and in consideration of the sum of £320 of current Eng- lish money, purchased 107 acres of arable land in the parish of old Stratford, the negotiation being con- ducted by his brother Gilbert. Later in the same year he bought a house in Walker Street, near New Place, Stratford; and later still, for the sum of £60 ($1500), ‘‘one messuage, two orchards, two gardens, and two barns, with their appurtenances.” Three years later, 1605, he made his largest purchase, buy- ing the unexpired lease of a portion of the tithes of Stratford, Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe, for the sum of £440. Shakespeare’s annual income from these tithes, as we learn from another document, was £120 (7. e. $3000 now). Later still, 1612, he bought a house, with ground attached, near the Blackfriars Theatre, London, for the sum of £140. We find him also, 1604, bringing an action against Philip Rogers, in the Court of Stratford, for £1 15s. 10d. being the price of malt sold to him at different times; and, again, 1609, instituting process for £6 debt and 24s. damages and costs, against John Addenbrock of Stratford, — all these things showing clearly that ‘“ poetry and act- ing” did not make the man of genius negligent in matters of business. Now, putting together these various facts, we find that the dramatist was steadily advancing in fortune as well as in fame, and that, at the end of twenty years from the time of his going to London, he had, by asteady pursuit of his profession, risen to be a man of mark in the theatrical world. Every step in his history, so far as we are able to trace it, shows that he gained his success, not by sudden and capricious flights of genius, but by hard work and persevering industry. As his writings show him to have been one of the greatest of geniuses, so his life shows him to have been one of the most industrious and methodical of workers. He chose one profession; he pursued it without intermission for a period of thirty years;. he pursued it in connection with the same company; he pursued itin the same place. He rose, not by a bound, in consequence of some particular performance dashed off in a heat and a hurry, which is the vulgar idea of genius, but step by step, year by year, slowly, steadily, surely, triumphantly. He produced, in the twenty- five years devoted mainly to authorship, no less than thirty-seven great plays, or an average of one and a half plays a year, the latest plays ever the best, each THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE succeeding year showing a higher style of workman- ship, an ever-growing productiveness and power. He is another proof, if any were needed, that one would not go far astray in defining genius to be an enormous capacity for labor, or, as Longfellow puts it, ‘the in- finite capacity of taking trouble.” CHAPTER XV. PROBABLE PERIOD OF HIS WITHDRAWAL FROM THE STAGE AND FROM LONDON —STATE OF HIS AFFAIRS AND OF HIS FAMILY AT THE TIME OF HIS RETIREMENT. ib is not certainly known at what time Shakespeare ceaséd to appear on the stage as an actor. The year 1604, however, is generally regarded as the prob- able time. The growing importance and popularity of his plays and his continued increase in wealth make it improbable that he continued to act later than the date named. The last record of his name in the com- pany of the King’s Players is on April 9, 1604, when he stands second on the list, the only one above him being Burbage, who had for a long time stood at the head of his profession as an actor. The general belief is that Shakespeare ceased to appear as a player soon after this, in other words, when he was forty years old, and had been eighteen years in London. This may be considered as the culminating point in his personal history. I have already expressed the opinion that Shake- speare possessed an unusual degree of common sense, that he was amiable, conciliatory, and prudent; in short, that he had that class of qualities which fit a man for business, while they are vulgarly thought to be incompatible with genius. This is a class of quali- ties which it is difficult to show. Of indiscretion the proofs are generally positive and tangible. But pru- dence and discretion in the managoment of affairs must be established by negative evidence. It is cer- tainiy, however, no unmeaning circumstance that dur- ing the whole period that Shakespeare exercised a controlling influence in the theatrical company, its affairs were managed, not only with thrift, but with- out those quarrels and jars for which the profession in all ages has been notorious, and also without those causes of offence which the other theatres were per- petually giving to particular individuals or classes, civil, political, or religious. It is noticeable also that almost immediately after Shakespeare’s withdrawal from the management, the company were beset with difficulties, and numerous complaints were lodged against them for offences against morals, manners, or taste. Thus, December, 1604, John Chamberlain writes of a certain tragedy by the King’s Players, in which kings and princes are brought upon the stage, ‘‘ I hear that some great councillors are much displeased with it, and so it is thought it shall be forbidden.” Again, 1605, the Mayor of London complains that “‘ Kempe, Armyn, and others, at the Blackfriars, have not for- borne to bring upon their stage one or more of the worshipful Aldermen of the City of London, to their great scandal, and the lessening of their authority.” Again, in 1606, it is complained that they brought upon the stage the Queen of France in a manner very offensive to the French ambassador; also, ‘‘ They brought forward their own king [James] and all his favorites in a very strange fashion; they made him curse and swear, because he had been robbed of a bird, and beat a gentleman because he had called off the hounds from the scent. They represent him as drunk every day.” In consequence of these irregu- larities, three of the players were arrested, and the performances were prohibited. These indiscretions and difficulties among the King’s Players, occurring in quick succession after Shakespeare had ceased to be of the company, speak trumpet-tongued of those which did not occur during the eighteen years that he was in the management. dah Sah iM i Hi aT! ta James I. of England and VI. of Scotland. After ceasing to be an actor, Shakespeare’s connec- tion with the stage was that only of a writer of plays, and this connection he continued to tke end of his life. This, however, did not necessarily require his residence in London. Even while living in London, he was wort, according to Aubrey, “to go to his native county once a year.” Various documents show that he early con- templated the project, which he finally executed, of retiring from London, to spend the close of life in his native village. We have already seen how regularly, from year to year, he invested in and around Strat- ford the money accumulated from his professional labors. At least seven years before he ceased being an actor, and fifteen years before retiring from London, he had become a property-holder in his native town. The village tradition, in the generation after his death, was that Shakespeare, ‘“‘in his elder days, lived at Stratford, and supplied the stage with two plays every year, and for it had an allowance so large that he spent at the rate of £1,000 a year.” This, doubtless, is an exaggeration, certainly as to the amount of money spent. At the same time, the tradition obvi- ously had some foundation in truth. He had already, some years before, bought the largest and finest resi- dence in Stratford, that built by Sir Hugh Clopton in the reign of Henry VII., and known as ‘‘ The Great House,” and afterwards as ‘‘The New Place;” and there is good reason for believing that his style of living there was that of a ‘fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time.” The time when Shakespeare retired entirely from London is not known. The most probable conjecture is that which places it in 1612, when he was forty- eight years old, and after a city life of twenty-six years. His father, mother, and two younger brothers XXXV THE LIFE OF were now dead. Gilbert, however, the brother next | younger than William, was still living. His sister Joan had been married [to a Mr. Hart, of Stratford] and was also still living, as were also her husband and several children. His wife also, now fifty-six years old, was still living. His oldest daughter, Susanna, had been married some five years before to an eminent physician of Stratford, Dr. John Hall, and had one child four years old. His youngest daughter, not long after to be married to Thomas Quiney, vintner and wine merchant of Stratford, was still at home. It is not at all unlikely that both daughters, with the son- in-law and the grandchild, all lived together in the Great House, and that the other house belonging to him in the village was occupied by his brother Gilbert, who had looked after the poet’s property during his absence in London. When, therefore, the great dramatist retired from the metropolis, crowned with honor and laden with wealth, he was not in the condition of most even suc- cessful adventurers, who after a life of distant toil and struggle seek to spend its close among the green fields which had gladdened their eyes in childhood. They return ordinarily too late, when their own faculties Chancel of Stratford Church, With Shakespeare's Tomb and Bust. === . ——— of enjoyment are exhausted, and most of the friends | son. of childhood are gone. Shakespeare, in 1612, was still in the prime of life and in the full vigor of his facul- ties. He had about him a large family circle, and children and children’s children were around his hearth-stone. The popular tradition, minute docu- mentary evidence, his whole recorded career, his whole character, go to show that his last days were eminently peaceful and serene. The thought con- tained in the 146th Sonnet, the nearest approach we have in any of his writings to an expression of his own personal feelings on the subject of religion, might well befit this period of his life, though written some years earlier: Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Leagued with these powers that thee aray, Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end? XXXVvl SHAKESPEARE. CHAPTER XVI. A SERENE SUNSET—THE PORTRAITS OF SHAKESPEARE, cree ria died, after a short illness, April 23, 1616, aged exactly fifty-two. During the quarter of a century that he had been embarked upon the great ocean of metropolitan life, he had no doubt often been vexed and agitated. His profession was one peculiarly fitted to produce disquiet and perturbation. But agi- tation, while it upturns and dislodges the feeble plant, inakes the hardy to send its roots more deeply and firmly into the soil. The soul that is well balanced acquires Only additional composure and self-possession from conflict. The conflict of life in which Shake- speare had been engaged had not only been eminently successful as to all external circumstances and rela- tions, but had left him calm, contented, and peaceful within. From a meridian of intense activity and splendor, he went, like Chaucer before him, gracefully and composedly to his long repose: So fades a summer’s cloud away, So sinks the gale when storms are o’er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore. Of the portraits of Shakespeare there are three at least which have good evidence of being taken from life. These are the Stratford bust, the Droeshout engraving, and the oil painting known as the Chandos portrait. The bust was made apparently from a cast of the features taken after death, and was executed soon after that event; how soon we do not know, but certainly before 1628, for it is referred to in the First Folio, published in that year. Shake- speare is buried in the church of Stratford-upon- Avon, near the north end of the chancel, and there is a slab over his tomb, with the quaint inscription so often quoted, and said to have been written by Shakespeare himself: Good frend, for Jesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare: Blese be ye man yt spares thes stones, And curst be he yt moves my bones. To the right and left of him in the chancel, are the tombs of several other members of his family: his wife, his oldest daughter Susanna, his son-in- law, Dr. Hall, and Thomas Nash, who married his grand-daughter Elizabeth. On the north wall of the chancel, and facing these tombs, and at an elevation of a little more than five feet, is an ornamental niche or frame-work of stone, con- taining the bust already mentioned, nearly life- size and extending down to the middle of the per- The poet is represented sitting, as if in the act of composition, his hands resting on a cushion, one holding a pen, the other a sheet of paper, while his eyes are looking, not at his work, but straight forward towards the spectator. The hands and face are of flesh color, the eyes a light hazel, the hair and beard auburn; the doublet or cloak was scarlet, and covered with a loose black gown without sleeves; the upper part of the cushion was green, the under part crimson, and the tassels gilt. This Stratford bust is of great value, as having been made so early, and as having in all probability been cut from some authentic like- ness. Asa work of art, however, it is open to obvi- ous criticisms. The skull has the smoothness and roundness of a boy’s marble, and about as much in- dividuality of expression. The eyes and eyebrows are unduly contracted, the nose has evidently been short- ened by an accident of the chisel, the cheeks are puffy and spiritless, the moustaches are curled up in a manner never found except in some city exquisite, the collar THE LIFK OF SHAKESPEARE. looks like two pieces of block-tin bent over, and finally the expression of the eyes, so far as they have any ex- pression, is simply that of easy, well-conditioned good nature, not overburdened with sense or intellect. In conjunction with this bust should be taken the picture lately discovered, and known as the Stratford portrait. It is the property of the town, and is ex- hibited among the other curiosities at the Shake- speare House. No one who has seen the bust can look upon the pic- ture without be- ing satisfied at the first glance that the two are con- nected. But was the picture made from the bust, or the bust from the picture? Strat- ford people strongly insist on the latter, believ- ing firmly that the picture was taken from life, and was the orig- inal of the bust. Critics and scholars outside of Stratford take, for the most part, the opposite view. Whichever theory is true, the picture without doubt is of great value, and is worthily placed for perpetual keeping in the same town with the bust to which it is 80 closely connected. Next to the Stratford bust, in the matter of authen- ticity as a portrait of Shakespeare, is the engraving by Martin Droeshout prefixed to the first folio edition of the plays, that of 1623, and generally known as the Droeshout portrait. What portrait was used by him in making this engraving of Shakespeare is entirely a matter of conjecture. The probability is that it was some coarse daub by the actor Burbage, who had some pretensions as a painter, and who would be very likely to make a picture of his distinguished fellow-actor. If such a picture were hanging somewhere about the theatre, nothing would be more natural than for the actors, Heminge and Condell, in bringing out an edi- tion of thei friend’s plays, to use for the engraving this picture with which they were familiar. All this, however, is pure conjecture. What more concerns us is to know that Ben Jonson has testified in the strong- est manner to the correctness of the likeness. His words, printed on the page facing the engraving, are as follows: This Figure, that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakespeare cut; Wherein the Grauer had a strife with Nature, to out-doo the life; O, could he but haue drawne his wit As well in brasse, as he hath hit His face; the Print would then surpasse All, that was ever writ in brasse. But, since he cannot, Reader, looke Not on his Picture, but his Booke. The Stratford Bust. That the original from which the engraving was made must have been poor and bald as a work of art is mani- fest on the slightest inspection. This, however, is by no means incompatible with its having been a faithful likeness. The work of the engraver corresponds in this respect to the work of the painter. The engrav- ing is to the last degree hard and stiff; it evidently is the work of one whose aim was to make a likeness rather than a work of art. In comparing the face and head thus presented with those of the bust, we observe that while there are great differences, both in detail and in the general im- pression, it is easy to see the same man underlying both. There is the great distance between the eyes and the amplitude of forehead, so noticeable in all the likenesses. The flesh of the face is not so full and puffy as in the bust. The nose, not chopped off as in the bust, is however as straight as a stick, instead of having that delicate aquiline formation observable in one portrait which I shall show you. The beard is shaven from the chin, but a few hairs are sprouting on the under lip, and there is a very light moustache. The forehead is high and bold, as in all the portraits, and the hair hangs in long, smooth locks over the ears and the back of the head. The costume is evidently some theatrical display put on for the occasion and smacking very much of the stage-tailor. There is a doublet buttoned up to the chin, and a plaited lawn ruff standing out all round in a most uncomfortable and ungraceful position, and apparently stiffened in the edges and elsewhere with wire. One feature, the most noticeable of all, is the projection of the fore- head. In all the other likenesses, without exception, the forehead, with its noble expanse, recedes gradually and evenly. But in the Droeshout engraving, the fore- head is like some jutting cliff, projecting over, almost overhanging, the brow, in a way that is hardly less than monstrous. This misshapen character of the forehead may without difficulty be accepted, not as a part of the likeness of the poet, but as part of the unskilful etch- ing of the engraver. It certainly looks not unlike a huge goitre transferred from the throat to the brow. Of the painted likenesses of Shakespeare none ranks so high as that known as the Chandos portrait. The his- tory of the picture is tolerably complete. It belonged originally to John Taylor, painter, brother of Joseph Taylor, a player in Shakespeare’s company. It was left by will by Taylor to Sir William Davenant. From Davenant it passed in 1668 to John Otway, from him to Betterton the actor, from Betterton to Mrs. Barry, from Mrs. Barry, through two other hands, to the Duke of Chandos, from whom it takes its name. It was finally bought in 1848, at public sale, by the Earl of Ellesmere, and by him presented in 1856 to the Na- The Chandos Portrait. tional Portrait Gallery, where it now is. Its authen- ticity is undoubted, though it bears evident signs of having been touched up and tampered with. The pic- ture is of life size, in oil, on canvas. The nose is straight and long, as in the Droeshout engraving, but is thinner, and more delicately formed. There is not the same distance between the eyes, nor the same XXXVii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. breadth of forehead, that is to be seen in the Droes- hout, though the forehead is still ample and strikingly noble. There is more general softness than in any of the other portraits. The picture is decidedly artistic, and the artist apparently, to some extent, sacrificed literal likeness to artistic effect. The complexion is dark; there is a pinkishness of color about the eyelids ; the lips are inclined to be full and sensuous; the ear that is visible is tricked out with a ring; the hair, a dark auburn, that in the Droeshout is plaited and smoothed down, hangs here in easy, unstudied profu- sion on the sides and back of the head, while most of the lower part of the face is covered with a soft beard of the same color. No lines of deep thought are in the face, no furrows on the brow. ‘There is an equal show of softness, almost of effeminacy, in the cos- tume. The dress, so far as it can be made out, is of black satin, and the collar is of fine plain lawn, folding over easily but simply. The Droeshout Portrait. At the first glance, on looking at the Chandos por- trait and then at the Droeshout, one can hardly believe them to be representations of the same person. Yet, on placing them side by side, and deliberately tracing the lines of each, one after the other, the substantial identity of the two is clearly established. In addition to the three portraits which I have named, to wit, the Stratford bust, the Droeshout en- graving, and the Chandos painting, there are many others of varying authority and celebrity. Of these I shall mention but two, the Terra-Cotta bust, and the German Death-Mask. In 1845, in tearing down an old tea-warehouse in London, the foundations were laid bare of the famous Duke’s theatre, built by Sir William Davenant, in 1662, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Among the curious articles thus brought to light was a beautiful terra-cotta bust, which on examination proved to be beyond question a likeness of Shakespeare, yet having a character of its own quite independent of all the other acknowledged likenesses, and carrying us back to within at least forty-six years from the time of his death. This bust, after having been for some years in possession of its finders, Mr. Clift and his distinguished son-in-law, XXXVIil Prof. Owen, of the British Museum, was finally bought by the Duke of Devonshire, and by him presented to the Garrick Club of London, in whose possession it now is. The work is highly artistic in its style, in the position of the head and person, and in the character and arrangement of the costume. It has the refine- ment of the Chandos painting without its effeminacy, is more intellectual than the Stratford bust, but not so massive or robust as the Droeshout engraving. It remains to say a few words of the German Death- Mask. The history of its discovery, which is some- what curious, will be given as briefly as possible. Count Francis von Kesselstadt, who died at Mayence, in 1843, the last of his line, had a valuable collection of curiosities and works of art, which had been for several generations in possession of the family, and which at his death were sold at auction in Mayence. Among the articles then sold was a small oil painting, which is known to have been in the possession of the family for more than a century, and which in the family traditions was invariably regarded and spoken of as a portrait of Shakespeare. It bore indeed an inscription to that effect, Den Traditionen nach, Shake- speare. The picture came, in 1847, into the possession of Ludwig Becker, court painter of Darmstadt, and after his death into the hands of his brother, the pres- ent possessor, Dr. Ernest Becker, private secretary of the Princess Alice of Darmstadt. It represents its subject as lying in state after death, on a bier, with a wreath round the head, covering in part the baldness of the crown, and with a candlestick, and the date 1637, dimly seen in the background. From certain peculiarities in its appearance, Mr. Becker and other artists and antiquarians who were consulted, came to the conclusion that it had been painted from a death- mask, and he accordingly set about making inquiries on the subject. He first found that a plaster of Paris cast of some kind had been in the possession of the Kesselstadt family, but that on account of its melan- choly appearance, it had received little consideration, and what had become of it no one seemed to know. After two years of fruitless search, he at length, in 1849, found the lost relic in a broker’s shop in Mayence, among rags and articles of the meanest description. What maintenance he from his friends receives, Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. To-morrow be in readiness to go: Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. Pro. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided : Please you, deliberate a day or two. {thee: Ant. Look, what thou want’st shall be sent after No more of stay! to-morrow thou must go. Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ’d To hasten on his expedition. [Exeunt Ant. and Pan. Pro. Thus have I shunn’d the fire for fear of burning, And drench’d me in the sea, where I am drown’d. I fear’d to show my father Julia’s letter, Lest he should take exceptions to my love; ACT II. PA And with the vantage of mine own excuse Hath he excepted most against my love. O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away! TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE I. Re-enter Panthino. Pan. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you: He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go. Pro. Why, this it is; my heart accords thereto, And yet a thousand times it answers ‘no.’ [Exeunt. CEO RL. SCENE I.— Milan. The Duke's palace. Enter Valentine and Speed. Speed. Sir, your glove. . Val. Not mine; my gloves are on. Speed. Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one. Val. Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it’s mine: Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! Ah, Silvia, Silvia! Speed. Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia! Val. How now, sirrah ? Speed. She is not within hearing, sir. al. Why, sir, who bade you call her ? Speed. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. Val. Well, you’ll still be too forward. [slow. Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being too Val. Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam Speed. She that your worship loves ? Val. Why, how know you that I am in love ? Speed. Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malecontent ; to relish a love-song, likea robin-redbreast ; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his A BC; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; | to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; | when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money: and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, : that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master. Val. Are all these things perceived in me? Speed. They are all perceived without ye. ~ Val. Without me? they cannot. Speed. Without you? nay, that’s certain, for, without you were so simple, none else would: but you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady. Val. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? Speed. She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper ? Val. Hast thou observed that ? even she, I mean. Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet knowest her not ? Speed. Is she not hard-favoured, sir ? al. Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured. Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. Val. What dost thou know ? (favoured. Speed. That she is not so fair as, of you, well- Val. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite. Speed. That’s because the one is painted and the other out of all count. Val. How painted ? and how out of count? Speed. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty. [beauty. Val. How esteemest thou me? I account of her [Silvia ? | Speed. You never saw her since she was deformed. Val. How long hath she been deformed ? Speed. Ever since you loved her. Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful. Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. Val. Why ? Speed. Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered ! Val. What should I see then ? Speed. Your own present folly and her passing deformity : for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose, and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose. Val. Belike, boy, then, you are in love: for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes. Speed, True, sir; 1 was in love, with my bed: I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. Speed. I would you were set, so your affection would cease. . Val. Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves. Speed. And have you ? Val. I have. Speed. Are they not lamely writ ? Val. No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace! here she comes. Speed. [ Aside] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! Now will he interpret to her. Enter Silvia. Val. Madam and mistress, a thousand good-mor- rows. [lion of manners. Speed. [ Aside] O, give ye good even! here’s a mil- Sil. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thou- sand. [she gives it him. Speed. [Aside] He should give her interest, and Val. As you enjoin’d me, I have writ your letter Unto the secret nameless friend of yours; Which I was much unwilling to proceed in But for my duty to your ladyship. [done. Sil. I thank you, gentle servant: ’tis very clerkly Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; For being ignorant to whom it goes I writ at random, very doubtfully. [pains ? Sil. Perchance you think too much of so much Val. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, Please you command, a thousand times as much ; And yet — Sil. A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel ; And yet I will not name it; and yet I care not; And yet take this again; and yet I thank you, Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. Speed. Herane And yet you will; and yet ant e It} Val. What means your ladyship ? do you not like Sil. Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly writ ; But since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them. Val. Madam, they are for you. Sil. Ay, ay: you writ them, sir, at my request ; 2 ACT If. But I will none of them; they are for you; I would have had them writ more movingly. Val. Please you, Ill write your ladyship another. Sil. And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over, And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. Val. If it please me, madam, what then ? Sil. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour: | [ Hxit. And so, good-morrow, servant. Speed. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple! [suitor, My master sues to her, and she hath taught her He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device! was there ever heard a better, That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter ? Val. How now, sir ? what are you reasoning with yourself ? Speed. Nay, I was rhyming: ’tis you that have the reason. Val. To do what ? Speed. To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia. Val. To whom ? Speed. To yourself: why, she wooes you by a al. What figure ? [figure. | Speed. By a letter, I should say. Val. Why, she hath not writ to me ? Speed. What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the | Val. No, believe me. [jest ? Speed. No believing you, indeed, sir. But did | you perceive her earnest ? Val. She gave me none, except an angry word. Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter. al. That’s the letter I writ to her friend. Speed. And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end. Val. I would it were no worse. Speed. I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well: For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty, | Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply ; Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover, [her lover. Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time. Val. I have dined. Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the cha- meleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress; be moved, be moved. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II. — Verona. Enter Proteus and Julia. Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia. Jul. I must, where is no remedy. Pro. When possibly I ean, I will return. Jul. If you turn not, you will return the sooner. Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake. [Giving a ring. Pro. Why, then, we ’ll make exchange; here, take you this. Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy ; And when that hour o’erslips me in the day Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, The next ensuing hour some foul mischance Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness ! My father stays my coming; answer not; The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears; That tide will stay me longer than I should. Julia, farewell! [Haxit Julia. What, gone without a word ? Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak ; Yor truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. | oO anew Julia’s house. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE IV. Enter Panthino. Pan. Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for. Pro. Go; I come, I come. Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. | Exeunt. SCENH III. — The same. A street. Enter Launce, leading a dog. Launce. Nay, ’t will be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. Ihave received my proportion, like the pro- digious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial’s court. I think Crab my dog be the sour- est-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear: he is a stone, a very pebble-stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have wept to have seen our parting ; why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I ll show you the man- ner of it. This shoe is my father: no, this left shoe is my father: no, no, this left shoe is my mother: ' nay, that cannot be so neither: yes, it is so, it is so, | 1t hath the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in it, is my mother, and this my father; a vengeance on ’t! there ’tis: now, sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: Lam the dog: no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog— Oh! the dog is me, and I am myself; ay,so, so. Now come I to my father; Father, your blessing: now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping: now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother: O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; why, there ’tis; here’s my mother’s breath up and down. Now come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears. Enter Panthino. Pan. Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped and thou art to post after with oars. What’s the matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! youll lose the tide, if you tarry any longer. | Launce. It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied. Pan. What’s the unkindest tide ? Launce. Why, he that’s tied here, Crab, my dog. Pan. Tut, man, I mean thou lt lose the flood, and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy ser- vice, — Why dost thou stop my mouth ? Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. Pan. Where should I lose my tongue ? Launce. In thy tale. : Pan. In thy tail! Launce. Lose the tide, and the voyage and the master, and the service, and the tied! hy, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs. [{thee. Pan. Come, come away, man; I was sent to call Launce. Sir, call me what thou darest. Pan. Wilt thou go? Launce. Well, I will go. [| Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— Milan. The Duke’s palace. Enter Silvia, Valentine, Thurio, and Speed. Sil. Servant! Val. Mistress ? ACT II. Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. Val. Ay, boy, it’s for love. Sneed. Not of you. al. Of my mistress, then. Speed. *T’ were good you knocked him. Sil. Servant, you are sad. Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. . Seem you that you are not ? . Haply I do. . So do counterfeits. . So do you. . What seem I that I am not? . Wise. . What instance of the contrary ? . Your folly. ' . And how quote you my folly ? . I quote it in your jerkin. . My jerkin is a doublet. . Well, then, [ll double your folly. Thu.. How ? [colour ? Sil. What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon. Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air. Val. You have said, sir. [ Exit. Val. I know it well, sir; you always end ere you Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off. Val. ’T is indeed, madam; we thank the giver. Sil. Who is that, servant ? Val. Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company. Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt. Val. I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer ot words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, for it appears, by their bare liveries, that they live by your bare words. [father. Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more: here comes my Enter Duke. Duke. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. Sir Valentine, your father’s in good health: What say you toa letter from your friends Of much good news ? Val. My lord, I will be thankful To any happy messenger from thence. Duke. Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman ? Val. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman To be of worth and worthy estimation And not without desert so well reputed. Duke. Hath he not a son ? Val. Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves The honour and regard of such a father. Duke. You know him well ? Val. I know him as myself; for from our infancy We have conversed and spent our hours together: And though myself have been an idle truant, Omitting the sweet benefit of time To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that’s his name, Made use and fair advantage of his days; His years but young, but his experience old; His head unmellow’d, but his judgment ripe; And, in a word, for far behind his worth Comes all the praises that I now bestow, He is complete in feature and in mind With all good grace to grace a gentleman. Duke. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, He is as worthy for an empress’ love As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor. Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me, With commendation from great potentates ; THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. Go with me. I ll leave you to confer of SCENE IV. And here he means to spend his time awhile: I think ’tis no unwelcome news to you. Val. Should I have wish’d a thing, it had been he. Duke. Welcome him then according to his worth. Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio; For Valentine, I need not cite him to it: I will send him hither to you presently. [ Hxit. Val. This is the gentleman I told your ladyship Had come along with me, but that his mistress Did hold his eyes lock’d in her crystal looks. Sil. Belike that now she hath enfranchised them Upon some other pawn for fealty. (still. Val. Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners Sil. Nay, then he should be blind; and, being blind, How could he see his way to seek out you? Val. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes. Thu. They say that Love hath not an eye at all. Val. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself: Upon a homely object Love can wink. [tleman. Sil. Have done, have done; here comes the gen- Enter Proteus. [Hit Thurio. Val. Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech Confirm his welcome with some special favour. [you, Sil. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, If this be he you oft have wish’d to hear from. Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. [begin. | Val. Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. Sil. Too low a mistress for so high a servant. Pro. Not so, sweet lady: but too mean a servant | To have a look of such a worthy mistress. Val. Leave off discourse of disability : Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. Pro. My duty will I boast of: nothing else. Sil, And duty never yet did want his meed: Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. Pro, I'll die on him that says so but yourself. Sil. That you are welcome ? Pro. That you are worthless. Re-enter Thurio. Thu. Madam, my lord your father would speak with you. Sil. I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio, Once more, new servant, welcome: home affairs ; When you have done, we look to hear from you. Pro. We’ll both attend upon your ladyship. [Exeunt Silvia and Thurio. Val. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came ? [commended. Pro. Your friends are well and have them much Val. And how do yours ? Pro. I left them all in health. “ie HOW does your lady ? and how thrives your ove? Pro. My tales of love were wont to weary you; I know you joy not in a love-discourse. Val. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter’d now: I have done penance for contemning Love, Whose high imperious thoughts have punish’d me With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs; For in revenge of my contempt of love, Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes And made them watchers of mine own heart’s sor- O gentle Proteus, Love ’s a mighty lord [row. And hath so humbled me as I confess There is no woe to his correction Nor to his service no such joy on earth. Now no discourse, except it be of love; Now can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep, Upon the very naked name of love. Pro. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye. Was this the idol that you worship so? 5 Val. Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint ? Pro. No; but she is an earthly paragon. 25 ACT II. Val. Call her divine. TO. I will not flatter her. Val. O, flatter me; for love delights in praises. Pro. When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills, And I must minister the like to you. Val. Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, | Yet let her be a principality, Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. Pro. Except my mistress. Val. Sweet, except not any; Except thou wilt except against my love. Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own ? Val. And I will help thee to prefer her too: She shall be dignified with this high honour— To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss And, of so great a favour growing proud, Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower And make rough winter everlastingly. Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? Val. Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone. . Pro, Then let her alone. fown, Val. Not for the world: why, man, she is mine And IL as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar and the rocks pure gold. Forgive me that I do not dream on thee, Because thou see’st me dote upon my love. My foolish rival, that her father likes Only for his possessions are so huge, Is gone with her along, and I must after, For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy. Pro. But she loves you ? [marriage-hour, Val. Ay, and we are betroth’d: nay, more, our With all the cunning manner of our flight, Determined of; how I must climb her window, The ladder made of cords, and all the means Plotted and ’greed on for my happiness. Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. Pro. Go on before; I shall inquire you forth: I must unto the road, to disembark Some necessaries that I needs must use, And then I ll presently attend you. Val.. Will you make haste ? Pro. 1 will. [ Exit Valentine. Even as one heat another heat expels, Or as one nail by strength drives out another, So the remembrance of my former love Is by a newer object quite forgotten. Is it mine, or Valentine’s praise, Her true perfection, or my false transgression, That makes me reasonless to reason thus ? She is fair; and so is Julia that I love— That I did love, for now my love is thaw’d; Which, like a waxen image ’gainst a fire, Bears no impression of the thing it was. Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, And that I love him not as I was wont. O, but I love his lady too too much, And that’s the reason I love him so little. How shall I dote on her with more advice, That thus without advice begin to love her! ’T is but her picture I have yet beheld, And that hath dazzled my reason’s light ; But when I look on her perfections, There is no reason but I shall be blind. If I can check my erring love, I will; If not, to compass her I ll use my skill. SCENE V.—The same. A street. Enter Speed and Launce severally. Speed. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan! [ Exit. 24 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. sceyeE vi. | Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hanged, nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say ‘ Welcome! ’ Speed. Come on, you madcap, I ’ll to the alehouse with you presently ; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia ? Launce. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. . Speed. But shall she marry him ? aunce. No. Speed. How then ? shall he marry her ? Launce. No, neither. Speed. What, are they broken ? aunce. No, they are both as whole as a fish. [them ? Speed. Why, then, how stands the matter with Launce. Marry, thus; when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. [not. Speed. What an ass art thou! I understand thee Launce. What a block art thou, that thou canst not! My staff understands me. Speed. What thou sayest ? Launce. Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I ‘Il but lean, and my staff understands me. Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. [one. Launce. Why, stand-under and under-stand 1s all Speed. But tell me true, will ’t-be a match ? Launce. Ask my dog: if hesay ay, it will; if hesay no, it will: if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. Speed. The conclusion is then that it will. Launce. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable. Speed. "Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how sayest thou, that my master is become a notable Launce. I never knew him otherwise. [lover ? Speed. Than how ? [to be. Launce. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me. [thy master. Launce. Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. Launce. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. Speed. Why ? Launce. Because thou hast not so much charity in bos as to go to the ale witha Christian. Wilt thou Ot Speed. At thy service. [ Hxeunt. SCENE VI.— The same. The Duke’s palace. Enter Proteus. Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn ; -| To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn ; And even that power which gave me first my oath Provokes me to this threefold perjury ; Love bade me swear and Love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn’d, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it! At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken, And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad, Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr’d With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose and Valentine I lose: If I keep them, I needs must lose myself: If I lose them, thus find I by their loss AOT ITT. For Valentine myself, for Julia Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend, For love is still most precious in itself; And Silvia — witness Heaven, that made her fair !— Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that Julia is alive, Remembering that my love to her is dead; And Valentine Ill hold an enemy, Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. I cannot now prove constant to myself, Without some treachery used to Valentine. This night he meaneth with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber-window, Myself in counsel, his competitor. Now presently I ll give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended flight ; Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine; For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter ; But, Valentine being gone, I ’ll quickly cross By some sly trick blunt Thurio’s dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift! [Ezvit. SCENE VII.— Verona. Enter Julia and Lucetta. Jul. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And even in kind love I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character’d and engraved, To lesson me and tell me some good mean How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. Luc. Alas, the way is wearisome and long! Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; Much less shall she that hath Love’s wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. Luc. Better forbear till Proteus make return. Jul. O, know’st thou not his looks are my soul’s Pity the dearth that I have pined in, [food ? By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. Luc. I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, But qualify the fire’s extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. Jul. The more thou damm/’st it up, the more it The current that with gentle murmur glides, [burns. Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamell’d stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage, And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport to the wild ocean. Then let me go and hinder not my course: Julia’s house. eS CUA SCENE I.— Milan. The Duke’s palace. Enter Duke, Thurio, and Proteus. Duke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; We have some secrets to confer about. [Exit Thu. Now, tell me, Proteus, what ’s your will with me. Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would dis- The law of friendship bids me to conceal: [cover But when I call to mind your gracious favours Done to me, undeserving as I am, My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me. Dae a OG NE DE MON ORY VER OWN A. SCENE I. Ill be as patient as a gentle stream And make a pastime of each weary step, Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there Ill rest, as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium. Inc. But in what habit will you go along ? Jul. Not like a woman; for I would prevent The loose encounters of lascivious men: Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. Tuc. Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair. Jul. No, girl; Ill knit it up in silken strings With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots. To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. [breeches ? Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make your Jul. That fits as well as ‘ Tell me, good my lord, What compass will you wear your farthingale ?’ Why even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta. Luc. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. Jul. Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour’d. Luc. A round hose, madam, now’s not worth a Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. [pin. Jul. Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have What thou thinkest meet and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey ? I fear me, it will make me scandalized. Ine. If youthink so, thenstay at homeand gonot. Jul. Nay, that I will not. Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey when you come, No matter who’s displeased when you are gone: I fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal. Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears And instances of infinite of love Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. Jul. Base men, that use them to so base effect ! But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth; His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. Luc. Pray heaven. he prove so, when you come to him! [wrong Jul. Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that To bear a hard opinion of his truth: Only deserve my love by loving him; And presently go with me to my chamber, To take a note of what I stand in need of, To furnish me upon my longing journey. All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, My goods, my lands, my reputation ; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. Come, answer not, but to it presently! I am impatient of my tarriance. | Exeunt. 16 1 Bs Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, This night intends to steal away your daughter: Myself am one made privy to the plot. I know you have determined to bestow her On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ; And should she thus be stol’n away from you, It would be much vexation to your age. Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows which would press you down. Being unprevented, to your timeless graye. ACT III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE I. Duke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care; Which to requite, command me while L live, This love of theirs myself have often seen, Haply when they have judged me fast asleep, And oftentimes have purposed to forbid Sir Valentine her company and my court: But fearing lest my jealous aim might err And so unworthily disgrace the man, A rashness that I ever yet have shunn’d, I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, [ nightly lodge her in an upper tower, The key whereof myself have ever kept; And thence she cannot be convey’d away. Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean How he her chamber-window will ascend And with a corded ladder fetch her down; For which the youthful lover now is gone And this way comes he with it presently ; Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly That my discovery be not aimed at; For love of you, not hate unto my friend, Hath made me publisher of this pretence. Duke. Upon mine honour, he shall never know That 1 had any light from thee of this. Pro. Adieu, my Lord; Sir Valentine is coming. Enter Valentine. oy Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast ? Val. Please it your grace, there is a messenger That stays to bear my letters to my friends, And I am going to deliver them. Duke. Be they of much import ? Val. The tenour of them doth but signify My health and happy being at your court. Duke. Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile; I am to break with thee of some affairs That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. *T is not unknown to thee that I have sought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. Val. Lois it well, my Lord; and, sure, the match Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman | | ‘My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly, Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter: Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him? [ward, Duke. No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, fro- Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty, Neither regarding that she is my child Nor fearing me as if I were her father; And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her; And, where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherish’d by her child-like duty, I now am full resolved to take a wife And turn her out to who will take her in: Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower; For me and my possessions she esteems not. [this ? Val. What would your Grace have me to do in Duke. There is a lady in Verona here Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy And nought esteems my aged eloquence: Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor — For long agone I have forgot to court; Besides, the fashion of the time is changed — How and which way I may bestow myself To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words: Dumb jewels often in their silent kind More than quick words do move a woman’s mind. Duke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. If she do frown, ’tis not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in you: If she do chide, ‘tis not to have you gone; For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say ; For ‘ get you gone,’ she doth not mean ‘ away!’ Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. Duke. But she I mean is promised by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth, And kept severely from resort of men, That no man hath access by day to her. Val. Why, then, I would resort to her by night. Duke. Ay, but the doors be lock’d and keys kept That no man hath recourse to her by night. [safe Val. What lets but one may enter at her window 2 Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, And built so shelving that one cannot climb it Without apparent hazard of his life. Val. Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords, To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, W ould serve to scale another Hero’s tower, So bold Leander would adventure it. Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, Advise me where I may have such a ladder. [that. Val. When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me Duke. This very night; for Love is like a child, That longs for everything that he can come by. Val. By seven o’clock Ill get you such a ladder. Duke. But, hark thee; I will go to her alone: How shall I best convey the ladder thither ? Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length. Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn ? Val. Ay, my good lord. Duke. Then let me see thy cloak: Tl get me one of such another length. Val. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. Duke. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak ” | I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. What letter is this same? What’s here? ‘To Silvia’! . And here an engine fit for my proceeding. Ill be so bold to break the seal for once. {[Reads. And slaves they are to me that send them flying: O, could their master come and go as lightly, ee ose lodge where senseless they are ying! My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them ; While I, their king, that hither them importune, Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless’d them, Because myself do want my servants’ fortune: I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they should harbour where their lord would What ’s here ? {be.’ ‘Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.’ ’T is so; and here ’s the ladder for the purpose. | Why, Phaethon, —for thou art Merops’ son,— | Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car And with thy daring folly burn the world ? Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee ? Go, base intruder! overweening slave! Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates, And think my patience, more than thy desert, Is privilege for thy departure hence: Thank me for this more than for all the favours Which all too much I have bestow’d on thee. But if thou linger in my territories Longer than swiftest expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court, Val. A woman sometimes scorns what best con- | By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love Send her another; never give her o’er; [tents her. | I ever bore my daughter or thyself. For scorn at first makes atter-love the more. 26 | Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse; AO BLT. But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence. | Hit. Val. And why not death rather than living tor- To die is to be banish’d from myself; {ment ? And Silvia is myself: banish’d from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment! _ What light is light, if Silvia be not seen ? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by ? Unless it be to think that she is by And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale ; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon; she is my essence, and I leave to be, {f I be not by her fair influence Foster’d, illumined, cherish’d, kept alive. I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom: ‘arry I here, I but attend on death: But, fly I hence, I fly away from life. Enter Proteus and Launce. Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. Launce. Soho, soho! Pro. What seest thou ? Launce. Him we go to find: there’s not a hair on’s head but ’tis a Valentine. ro. Valentine? shen. . Who then ? his spirit ? . Neither. . What then ? . Nothing. Launce. Can nothing speak ? Pro. Who wouldst thou strike ? Launce. Nothing. Pro. Villain, forbear. Launce. Why, sir, [’ll strike nothing: I pray [strike ? Master, shall I ou,— oy Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, Val. My ears are stopt and cannot hear good news, So much of bad already hath possess’d them. Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, For they are harsh, untuneable and bad. Val. Is Silvia dead ? Pro. No, Valentine. Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia. Hath she forsworn me? Pro. No, Valentine. Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. What is your news ? Launce. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished. [news ! — Pro. That thou art banished—O, that’s the From hence, from Silvia and from me thy friend. Val. O, I have fed upon this woe already, And now excess of it will make me surfeit. Doth Silvia know that I am banished ? Pro. Ay, ay; and she hath offer’d to the doom — Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force — A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears: Those at her father’s churlish feet she tender’d ; With them, upon her knees, her humble self; Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became As if but now they waxed pale for woe: [them But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire ; But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die. Besides, her intercession chafed him so, When she for thy repeal was suppliant, That to close prison he commanded her, With many bitter threats of biding there. [speak’st Val. No more; unless the next word that thou Have some malignant power upon my life: If so, 1 pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, As ending anthem of my endless dolour. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE I. Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lament’st. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love: Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that [a word. | And manage it against despairing thoughts. Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence; Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver’d Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. The time now serves not to expostulate: Come, I ll convey thee through the city-gate ; And, ere I part with thee, confer at large Of all that may concern thy love-affairs. As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself, Regard thy danger, and along with me! [boy, Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate. Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come,Valentine. Val. O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine! | [Exeunt Val. and Pro. | Launce. I am but a fool, look you; and yet I | have the wit to think my master is a kind of a | knave: but that’s all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluek that from me; nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tisa woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis a milkmaid; yet ’tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet ’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel; which is much in a bare Christian. [Pulling out a paper.} Here is the cate-log of her condition. ‘ Imprimis: She can fetch and carry.’ Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; | therefore is she better than a jade. ‘Item: She can milk;’ look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. Enter Speed. Speed. How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership ? [sea. Launce. With my master’s ship? why, it is at Speed. Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper ? Launce. The blackest news that ever thou heardest. Speed. Why, man, how black ? Launce. Why, as black as ink. Speed. Let me read them. [read. Launce. Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not Speed. Thou liest; I can. [thee ? Launce. I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. Launce. O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grandmother: this proves that thou canst not read. Speed. Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper. Launce. There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed! Speed. [Reads] ‘ Imprimis: She can milk.’ aunce. Ay, that she can. Speed. ‘Item: She brews good ale.’ Launce. And thereof comes the proverb: ‘ Bless- ing of your heart, you brew good ale.’ Speed. ‘Item: She can sew.’ aunce. That ’s as much as to say, Can she so? Speed. ‘Item: She can knit.’ aunce. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock ? Speed. ‘Item: She can wash and scour.’ aunce. A special virtue; for then she need not be washed and scoured. Speed. ‘Item: She can spin.’ Launce. Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living. Speed. ‘Item: She hath many nameless virtues.’ Launce. That ’s as much as to say, bastard vir- 27 ACT? TITS tues; that, indeed, know not their fathers and there- fore have no names. Speed. ‘ Here follow her vices.’ Launce. Close at the heels of her virtues. Speed. ‘Item: She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect of her breath.’ Launce. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on. Speed. ‘Item: She hath a sweet mouth.’ Launce. That makes amends for her sour breath. Speed. ‘Item: She doth talk in her sleep.’ Launce. It’s no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. Speed. ‘Item: She is slow in words.’ Launce. O villain, that set this down among her vices! To beslow in words isa woman’s only virtue: I pray thee, out with ’t, and place it for her chief Speed. ‘Item: She is proud.’ [virtue. aunce. Out with that too; it was Eve’s legacy, and cannot be ta’en from her. Speed. ‘Item: She hath no teeth.’ [crusts. Launce. I care not for that neither, because I love Speed. ‘Item: She is curst.’ Launce. Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. Speed. ‘Item: She will often praise her liquor.’ Launce. If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will; for good things should be praised. Speed. ‘Item: She is too liberal.’ aunce. Of her tongue she cannot, for that ’s writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that Ill keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed. Speed. ‘Item: She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.’ Launce. Stop there; I’ll have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. Boal ‘Item: She hath more hair than wit,’— aunce. More hair than wit? It may be; I’ll prove it. The cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What’s next ? Speed. ‘And more faults than hairs,’— aunce. That ’s monstrous: O, that that were out ! Speed. ‘And more wealth than faults.’ aunce. Why, that word makes the faults gra- cious. Well, l’ll have her: and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible,— Speed. What then ? Launce. Why, then will I tell thee—that thy master stays for thee at the North-gate. Speed. For me? Launce. For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath stayed for a better man than thee. pee: And must I go to him ? aunce. Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn. Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner ? pox of your love-letters ! [ Hit. Launce. Now will he be swinged for reading my letter; an unmannerly slave, that will thrust him- self into secrets! Ill after, to rejoice in the boy’s correction. [ Exit. SCENE II.— The same. The Duke’s palace. Enter Duke and Thurio. Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love Now Valentine is banish’d from her sight. [you, Thu. Since his exile she hath despised me most, Forsworn my company and rail’d at me, That I am desperate of obtaining her. Duke. This weak impress of love is as a figure Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s heat Dissolves to water and doth lose his form. 28 A little time will melt her frozen thoughts And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. Enter Proteus. How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman According to our proclamation gone ? Pro. Gone, my good lord. Duke. My daughter takes his going grievously. Pro. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. Duke. So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so. Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee — For thou hast shown some sign of good desert — Makes me the better to confer with thee. Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to your grace Let me not live to look upon your grace. Duke. Thou know’st how willingly I would effect The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter. Pro. I do, my lord. Duke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant How she opposes her against my will. Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. Duke. Ay, and perversely she persevyers so. What might we do to make the girl forget The love of Valentine and love Sir Thurio ? Pro. The best way is to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice and poor descent, Three things that women highly hold in hate. Duke. Ay, but she 711 think that it is spoke in hate. Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it: Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. Duke. Then you must undertake to slander him. Pro. And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do: *T is an ill office for a gentleman, Especially against his very friend. fhim, Duke. Where your good word cannot advantage Your slander never can endamage him; Therefore the office is indifferent, Being entreated to it by your friend. Pro. You have prevail’d, my lord: if I ean do it By ought that I can speak in his dispraise, She shall not long continue love to him. But say this weed her love from Valentine, It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. Thu. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, Lest it should ravel and be good to none, You must provide to bottom it on me; Which must be done by praising me as much As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. [kind, Duke. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this Because we know, on Valentine’s report, You are already Love’s firm votary And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. Upon this warrant shall you have access Where you with Silvia may confer at large; For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, And, for your friend’s sake, will be glad of you; Where you may temper her by your persuasion To hate young Valentine and love my friend. Pro. As much as I can do, I will effect: But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough; You must lay lime to tangle her desires By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. Duke. A Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. Pro. Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart: Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity: . For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews, Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, Make tigers tame and huge leviathans Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. After your dire-lamenting elegies, Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window ACT IV. PHL TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE II. [nn nn ne UE gINSISD SnREERRnRRERpennieneneeeeesemeeeeeend ——— — With some sweet concert; to their instruments Tune a deploring dump: the night’s dead silence Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. This, or else nothing, will inherit her. [love. Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been in Thu. And thy advice this night I’ ll put in practice. Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, Let us into the city presently ee To sort some gentlemen well skill’d in music. I have a sonnet that will serve the turn To give the onset to thy good advice. Duke. About it, gentlemen! Pro. We’ll wait upon your grace till after supper, And afterward determine our proceedings. Duke. Even now about it! I will pardon you. | Haeunt. th 8 aga ap SCENE I.— The frontiers of Mantua, A forest. Enter certain Outlaws. First Out. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger. Sec. Out. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with ’em. Enter Valentine and Speed. Third Out. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye: If not, we ll make you sit and rifle you. Speed. Sir, we are undone; these are the villains That all the travellers do fear so much. Val. My friends,— First Out. That ’snot so, sir: weare your enemies. Sec. Out. Peace! we’ll hear him. Third Out. Ay, by my beard, will we, for he’s a _ proper man. Val. Then know that I have little wealth to lose: A man [ am cross’d with adversity ; My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have. Sec. Out. Whither travel you? Val. To Verona. First Out. Whence came you ? Val. From Milan. Third Out. Have you long sojourned there ? Val. Somesixteen months, and longer might have If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. [stay’d, First Out. What, were you banish’d thence ? Val. I was. Sec. Out. For what offence ? [hearse : Val. For that which now torments me to re- I kill’d a man, whose death I much repent ; But yet I slew him manfully in fight, Without false vantage or base treachery. First Out. Why,ne’er repent it, if it were done so. But were you banish’d for so small a fault ? Val. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. Sec. Out. Have you the tongues ? Val. My youthful travel therein made me happy, Or else I often had been miserable. [friar, Third Out. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s fat This fellow were a king for our wild faction! First Out. Well have him. Sirs, a word. Speed. Master, be one of them; it’s an honour- able kind of thievery. Val. Peace, villain! [to ? Sec. Out. Tellus this: have you any thing to take Val. Nothing but my fortune. [tlemen, Third Out. Know, then, that some of us are gen- Such as the fury of ungovern’d youth Thrust from the company of awful men: Myself was from Verona banished For practising to steal away a lady, An heir, and near allied unto the duke. Sec. Out. And Ifrom Mantua, for a gentleman, Who, in my mood, I stabb’d unto the heart. [these. First Out. And I for such like petty crimes as But to the purpose — for we cite our faults, That they may hold excus’d our lawless lives ; And partly, seeing you are beautified With goodly shape and by your own report A linguist and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want — Sec. Out. Indeed, because you are a banish’d man, Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you: Are you content to be our general ? To make a virtue of necessity And live, as we do, in this wilderness? [consort ? Third Out. What say’st thou ? wilt thou be of our Say ay, and be the captain of us all: We ’ll do thee homage and be ruled by thee, Love thee as our commander and our king. [diest. First Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou Sec. Out. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer’d. Val. I take your offer and will live with you, Provided that you do no outrages On silly women or poor passengers. Third Out. No, we detest such vile base practices. Come, go with us, we’ll bring thee to our crews, And show thee all the treasure we have got; Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— Milan. Outside the Duke’s palace, under Silvia’s chanvber. Enter Proteus. Pro. Already have I been false to Valentine And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. Under the colour of commending him, I have access my own love to prefer: But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. When I protest true loyalty to her, She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; When to her beauty I commend my vows, She bids me think how I have been forsworn In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved: And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope, Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, The more it grows and fawneth on her still. But here comes Thurio: now must we to her win. And give some evening music to her ear. [dow, Enter Thurio and Musicians. Thu. How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept be- fore us? Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio: for you know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. Thu. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. Pro. Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence. Thu. Who? Silvia? TO. Ay, Silvia; for your sake. Thu. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen, Let’s tune, and to it lustily awhile. Enter, at a distance, Host, and Julia in boy’s clothes, Host. Now, my young guest, methinks you ’re allycholly: I pray you, why is it? Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. Host. Come, we ll have you merry: Ill bring you 29 ACT IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENEIII. where you shall hear music and see the gentleman | Return, return, and make thy love amends. that you asked for. Jul. But shall I hear him speak ? Host. Ay, that you shall. Jul. That will be music. Host. Hark, hark! Jul. Is he among these ? Host. Ay: but, peace! let ’s hear ’em. SONG. Who is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her ? Holy, fair and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. [Music plays. Is she kind as she is fair ? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness, And, being help’d, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring. Host. How now! are you sadder than you were before ? Howdo you, man ? the music likes you not. Jul. You mistake; the musician likes me not. Host. Why, my pretty youth ? Jul. He plays false, father. Flost. How? out of tune on the strings ? Jul. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings. Host. You have a quick ear. Jul. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart. Host. I perceive you delight not in music. Jul. Not a whit, when it jars so. Host. Hark, what fine change is in the music! Jul. Ay, that change is the spite. [thing ? Host. You would have them always play but one Jul. I would always have one play but one thing. But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on Often resort unto this gentlewoman ? Host. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he loved her out of all nick. Jul. Where is Launce ? Host. Gone to seek his dog; which to-morrow, by his master’s command, he must carry for a pres- ent to his lady. Jul. Peace! stand aside: the company parts. Pro. Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead That you shall say my cunning drift excels. Thu. Where meet we ? Pro} At Saint Gregory’s well. Thu. Farewell. [Hxveunt Thu. and Musicians. Enter Silvia above. Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship. Sil, I thank you for your music, gentlemen. Who is that that spake ? [truth, Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it. Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. Sil. What’s your will? Pro. That I may compass yours. Sil. You have your wish; my will is even this: That presently you hie you home to bed. Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man! Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, To be seduced by thy flattery, | That hast deceived so many with thy vows ? 30 For me, by this pale queen of night I swear, I am so far from granting thy request That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit, And by and by intend to chide myself Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady; But she is dead. Jul. [Aside] ’T were false, if I should speak it; For I am sure she is not buried. Sil. Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend Survives; to whom, thyself art witness, I am betroth’d: and art thou not ashamed To wrong him with thy importunacy ? Pro. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. Sil, And so suppose am I; for in his grave Assure thyself my love is buried. Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. Sil. Go to thy lady’s grave and call hers thence, Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. Jul. [Aside] He heard not that. Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, The picture that is hanging in your chamber; To that I ’ll speak, to that Il] sigh and weep: For since the substance of your perfect self Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; And to your shadow will I make true love. Jul. [Aside] If ’t were a substance, you would, | sure, deceive it, And make it but a shadow, as I am. Sil. I am very loath to be your idol, sir; But since your falsehood shall become you well To worship shadows and adore false shapes, Send to me in the morning and I Il send it: And so, good rest. Pyro. As wretches have o’ernight That wait for execution in the morn. ; [EKxeunt Pro. and Sil. severally. Jul. Host, will you go? Host. By my halidom, I was fast asleep. Jul. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus ? | Host. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think tis almost day. Jul. Not so; but it hath been the longest night That e’er I watch’d and the most heaviest. Exeunt. SCENE III. — The same. Enter Eglamour. Egl. This is the hour that Madam Silvia Entreated me to call and know her mind: There ’s some great matter she Id employ me in. Madam, madam! Enter Silvia above. Who ealls? Egl. Your servant and your friend ; One that attends your ladyship’s command. [row. Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good-mor. Eqgl. As many, worthy lady, to yourself: According to your ladyship’s impose, I am thus early come to know what service It is your pleasure to command me in. Sil. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman — Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not — Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish’d : Thou art not ignorant what dear good will I bear unto the banish’d Valentine, Nor how my father would enforce me marry Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors. Thyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say _No grief did ever come so near thy heart | As when thy lady and thy true love died, Upon whose grave thou vow’dst pure chastity. Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, \ To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode; bet ACT IV. And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, { do desire thy worthy company, Upon whose faith and honour I repose. Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour, But think upon my grief, a lady’s grief, And on the Justice of my flying hence, To keep me from a most unholy match, [plagues. Which heaven and fortune still rewards with I do desire thee, even from a heart As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, To bear me company and go with me: If not, to hide what I have said to thee, That Il may venture to depart alone. Egl. Madam, I pity much your grievances ; Which since I know they virtuously are placed, I give consent to go along with you, Recking as little what betideth me As much I wish all good befortune you. When will you go? Sil. This evening coming. Egil. Where shall I meet you? Sil. At Friar Patrick’s cell, Where I intend holy confession. Egl. I will not fail your ladyship. row, gentle lady. Sil. Good-morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. [ Hxeunt severally. SCENE IV.-— The same. Enter Launce, with his Dog. Launce. When a man’s servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard: one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him, even as one would say precisely, ‘thus I would teach a dog.’ I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon’s leg: O, ‘tis a foul thing when a cur cannot Keep himself in all companies! I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged for ’t; sure as I live, he had suffered for’t: you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the com- pany of three or four gentlemanlike dogs, under the duke’s table: he had not been there —bless the mark!—a pissing while, but all the chamber smelt him. ‘Out with the dog!’ says one: ‘ What cur is that?’ says another: ‘ Whip him out’ says the third: ‘Hang him up’ says the duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs: ‘ Friend,’ quoth I, ‘ you mean to whip the dog?’ ‘Ay, marry, do I,’ quoth he. *You do him the more wrong,’ quoth I; ‘’t was I did the thing you wot of.’ He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant ? Nay, 1’ll be sworn, I have sat in the stocks for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for’t. Thou thinkest not of thisnow. Nay, I remember the trick you served me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia: did not I bid thee still mark me and do as L do? when didst thou see me heave up my leg and make water against a gentlewoman’s far- thingale ? didst thou ever see me do such a trick ? Good-mor- Enter Proteus and Julia. Pro. Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well And will employ thee in some service presently. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. scene iv. Jul. In what you please: I *l] do what I ean. Pro. I hope thou wilt. [Zo Launce] How now, you whoreson peasant ! Where have you been these two days loitering ? Launce. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me. Pro. And what says she to my little jewel? Launce. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a Pro. But she received my dog ? [present. Launce. No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought him back again. Pro. What, didst thou offer her this from me? Launce. Ay, sir; the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman boys in the market-place: and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater. Pro. Go get thee hence, and find my dog again, Or ne’er return again into my sight. Away, I say! stay’st thou to vex me here ? [ Exit Launce. A slave, that still an end turns me to shame! Sebastian, I have entertained thee, Partly that I have need of such a youth That can with some discretion do my business, For ’tis no trusting to yond foolish lout, But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour, Which, if my augury deceive me not, Witness good bringing up, fortune and truth: Therefore know thou, for this I entertain thee. Go presently and take this ring with thee, Deliver it to Madam Silvia: She loved me well deliver’d it to me. Jul. It seems you loved not her, to leave her token. She is dead, belike ? (ETO. Not so; I think she lives. Jul. Alas! Pro. Why dost thou cry ‘alas’? Jul. T cannot choose But pity her. Pre Wherefore shouldst thou pity her ? Jul. Because methinks that she loved you as well As you do love your lady Silvia. She dreams on him that has forget her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. ’T is pity love should be so contrary ; And thinking on it makes me ery ‘alas!’ Pro. Well, give her that ring and therewithal This letter. That’s her chamber. Tell my lady I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, Where thou shalt find me, sad and solitary. [Mwvit. Jul. How many women would do such a message? Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain’d A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs. Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him That with his very heart despiseth me ? Because he loves her, he despiseth me; Because I love him, I must pity him. This ring I gave him when he parted from me, To bind him to remember my good will; And now am I, unhappy messenger, To plead for that which I would not obtain, To earry that which I would have refused, To praise his faith which I would have dispraise. Iam my master’s true-confirmed love; But cannot be true servant to my master, Unless I prove false traitor to myself. Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. Enter Silvia, attended. Gentlewoman, good day! f pray you, be my mean To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. | Sil. What would you with her, if that I be she ? Jul. If you be she, I do entreat your patience | To hear me speak the message I am sent on. 31 ACT V. From whom ? From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. O, he sends you for a picture. Jul. Ay, madam. Sil. Ursula, bring my picture there. Go give your master this: tell him from me, One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. Jul. Madam, please you peruse this letter.— Pardon me, madam; I have unadvised Deliver’d you a paper that I should not: This is the letter to your ladyship. Sil. I pray thee, let me look on that again. Jul. It may not be; good madam, pardon me. Sil. There, hold! T will not look upon your master’s lines: I know they are stuff’d with protestations And full of new-found oaths; which he will break As easily as I do tear his paper. Jul. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. Sil. 'The more shame for him that he sends it me; For I have heard him say a thousand times His Julia gave it him at his departure. Though his false finger have profaned the ring, Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. Jul. She thanks you. Sil. What say’st thou ? Jul. I thank you, madam, that you tender her. Poor gentlewoman! my master wrongs her much. Sil. Dost thou know her ? Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself: To think upon her woes I do protest That I have wept a hundred several times. _ [her. Sil. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook Jul. I think she doth; and that’s her cause of SOrrow. Sil. Is she not passing fair ? Jul. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is: When she did think my master loved her well, She, in my judgment, was as fair as you; But since she did neglect her looking-glass And threw her sun-expelling mask away, The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks And pinch’d the lily-tincture of her face, That now she is become as black as I. Sil. How tall was she? Jul. About my stature; for at Pentecost, Sil. Jul. Sil. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. scENE II When all our pageants of delight were play’d, Our youth got me to play the woman’s part, And I was trimm’d in Madam Julia’s gown, Which served me as fit, by all men’s judgments, As if the garment had been made for me: Therefore I know she is about my height. And at that time I made her weep agood, For I did play a lamentable part: Madam, ’t was Ariadne passioning For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight; Which I so lively acted with my tears That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead If I in thought felt not her very sorrow! Sil. She is beholding to thee, gentle youth. Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! I weep myself to think upon thy words. Here, youth, there is my purse; I give thee this For thy sweet mistress’ sake, because thou lovest her. Farewell. [Exit Silvia, with attendants. Jul. And she shall thank you for’t, if e’er you know A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful! [her. I hope my master’s suit will be but cold, Since she respects my mistress’ love so much. Alas, how love can trifle with itself! Here is her picture: let me see; I think, If I had such a tire, this face of mine Were full as lovely as is this of hers: And yet the painter flatter’d her a little, Unless I flatter with myself too much. Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow: If that be all the difference in his love, I ll get me such a colour’d periwig. Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine; Ay, but her forehead ’s low, and mine’s as high What should it be that he respects in her But I can make respective in myself, If this fond Love were not a blinded god ? Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, For ‘tis thy rival. O thou senseless form, Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss’d, loved and adored! And, were there sense in his idolatry, My substance should be statue in thy stead. I ’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake, That used me so; or else, by Jove I vow, I should have scratch’d out your unseeing eyes, To make my master out of love with thee! [#zit. AOC EN: SCENE I.— Milan. An abbey. Enter Eglamour. Kgl. The sun begins to gild the western sky ; And now it is about the very hour That Silvia, at Friar Patrick’s cell, should meet me. She will not fail, for lovers break not hours, Unless it be to come before their time; So much they spur their expedition. See where she comes. Enter Silvia. Lady, a happy evening! Sil. Amen, amen! Go on, ee eineade Out at the postern by the abbey-wall: I fear I am attended by some spies. gl. Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off ; If we recover that, we are sure enough. [Eveunt. SCENE II.— The same. Enter Thurio, Proteus, and Julia. Thu. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit ? Pro, O, sir. I find her milder than she was; oO 32 The Duke’s palace. And yet she takes exceptions at your person. Thu. What, that my leg is too long ? Pro. No; that it is too little. [rounder. Thu. 1°11 wear a boot, to make it somewhat Jul. [Aside] But love will not be spurr’d to what Thu. What says she to my face ? [it loathes. Pro. She says it is a fair one. Thu. Nay then, the wanton lies; my face is black. Pro. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is. Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes. Jul. [Aside]’T is true; such pearls as put out ladies’ For I had rather wink than look on them. [eyes: Thu. How likes she my discourse? Pro. Ul, when you talk of war. [peace ? Thu. But well, when I discourse of love and Jul. [Aside] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. Thu. What says she to my valour ? Pro. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. Jul. [Aside] She needs not, when she knows it Thu. What says she to my birth? [cowardice. Pro. That you are well derived. Jul. [Aside] True; from a gentleman to a fool. Thu. Considers she my possessions ? ACT V. Pro. O, ay; and pities them. Thu. Wherefore ? Jul. [Aside] That such an ass should owe them. Pro. That they are out by lease. Jul. Here comes the duke. Enter Duke. Duke. How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio! Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late ? Thu. Not I. Pro. IN OME. Duke. Saw you my daughter ? Pro. Neither. Duke. Why then, She ’s fled unto that peasant Valentine; And Eglamour is in her company. ’T is true; for Friar Laurence met them both, As he in penance wander’d through the forest ; Him he knew well, and guess’d that it was she, But, being mask’d, he was not sure of it; Besides, she did intend confession At Patrick’s cell this even; and there she was not ; These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, But mount you presently and meet with me Upon the rising of the mountain-foot That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled: Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. [xit. Thu. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl, That flies her fortune when it follows her. Ill after, more to be revenged on Eglamour Than for the love of reckless Silvia. { Exit. Pro. And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. [zit. Jul. And I will follow, more to cross that love Than hate for Silvia that is gone for love. [Evit. SCENE ITI.— The frontiers of Mantua. The forest. Enter Outlaws with Silvia. First Out. Come, come, Be patient; we must bring you to our captain. Sil. A thousand more mischances than this one Have learn’d me how to brook this patiently. Sec. Out. Come, bring her away. [her ? First Out. Where is the gentleman that was with Third Out. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun But Moyses and Valerius follow him. [us, Go thou with her to the west end of the wood; There is our captain: we ’ll follow him that’s fled ; The thicket is beset; he cannot ’scape. First Out. Come, I must bring you to our cap- tain’s cave: Fear not; he bears an honourable mind, And will not use a woman lawlessly. Sil. O Valentine, this I endure for thee! [ Hxewnt. SCENE IV.— Another purt of the forest. Enter Valentine. Val. How use doth breed a habit in a man! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale’s complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes. O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall And leave no memory of what it was! Repair me with thy presence, Silvia; Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain! What halloing and what stir is this to-day ? [law, These are my mates, that make their wills their Have some unhappy passenger in chase. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE IV. They love me well; yet I have much to do To keep them from uncivil outrages. Withdraw thee, Valentine: who ’$ this comes here ? Enter Proteus, Silvia, and Julia. Pro. Madam, this service I have done for you, Though you respect not aught your servant doth, To hazard life and rescue you from him _, That would have forced your honour and your love; Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look; A smaller boon than this I cannot beg And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. Val. [Aside] How like a dream is this I see and Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. [hear! Sil. O miserable, unhappy that I am! Pro. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came; But by my coming I have made you happy. Sil. By thy approach thou makest me most un- happy. [your presence. Jul. [Aside] And me, when he approacheth to Sil. Had I been seized by a hungry lion, I would have been a breakfast to the beast, Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine, Whose life ’s as tender to me as my soul! And full as much, for more there cannot be, I do detest false perjured Proteus. Therefore be gone; solicit me no more. [death, Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to Would I not undergo for one calm look! O, ’t is the curse in love, and still approved, When women cannot love where they ’re beloved ! Sil. When Proteus cannot love where he’s be- Read over Julia’s heart, thy first best love, [loved. For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths Descended into perjury, to love me. Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou ’dst two; And that’s far worse than none; better have none Than plural faith which is too much by one: Thou counterfeit to thy true friend! Pro: In love Who respects friend ? Sis All men but Proteus. Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words Can no way change you to a milder form, Ill woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end, And love you ’gainst the nature of love,—foree ye. Sil. O heaven! digi I'll force thee yield to my desire. Val. Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, Thou friend of an ill fashion! Pro. Valentine! Val. Thou common friend, that’s without faith or love, For such is a friend now; treacherous man! Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye Could have persuaded me: now I dare not say I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me. Who should be trusted, when one’s own right hand Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake. The private wound is deepest : O time most accurst *Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst | Pro. My shame and guilt confounds me. Forgive me, Valentine: if hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, I tender ’t here; I do as truly suffer As e’er I did commit. Val. Then I am paid; And once again I do receive thee honest. Who by repentance is not satisfied Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased. By penitence the Eternal’s wrath ’s appeased : And, that my love may appear plain and free, All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. 30 ¥ + A LT Ve, THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE IV. Jul. O me unhappy! [Swoons. Pro. V.ook to the boy. Val. Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what’s the matter? Look up; speak. Jul. O good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never done. Pro. Where is that ring, boy ? Jul. Here ’tis; this is it. Pro. How! let me see: Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. Jul. O, ery you mercy, sir, I have mistook: This is the ring you sent to Silvia. [depart Pro. But how camest thou by this ring? At my I gave this unto Julia. Jul. And Julia herself did give it me; And Julia herself hath brought it hither. Pro. How! Julia! Jul. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths, And entertain’d ’em deeply in her heart. How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root! O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush! Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me Such an immodest raiment, if shame live In a disguise of love: It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, [minds. Women to change their shapes than men their Pro. Than men their minds! ’tistrue. O heaven! were man But constant, he were perfect. That one error Fills him with faults; makes him run through all Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. [the sins: What is in Silvia’s face, but I may spy More fresh in Julia’s with a constant eye ? Val. Come, come, a hand from either: Let me be blest to make this happy close; *T were pity two such friends should be long foes. Pro. Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for Jul. And I mine. [ever. Enter Outlaws, with Duke and Thurio. Outlaws. A prize, a prize, a prize! [duke. Val. Forbear, forbear, I say! it is my lord the Your grace is welcome to a man disgraced, Banished Valentine. Duke. Sir Valentine! Thu. Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia ’s mine. Val. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death ; Come not within the measure of my wrath; Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands: Take but possession of her with a touch: I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I: I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not: I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. Duke. The more degenerate and base art thou, To make such means for her as thou hast done And leave her on such slight conditions. Now, by the honour of my ancestry, I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, And think thee worthy of an empress’ love: Know then, I here forget all former griefs, Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again, Plead a new state in thy unrival’d merit, To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine, Thou art a gentleman and well derived ; Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her. Val. I thank your grace; the gift hath made me I now beseech you, for your daughter’s sake, [happy. To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. Duke. I grant it, for thine own, whate’er it be. Val. These banish’d men that I have kept withal Are men endued with worthy qualities: Forgive them what they have committed here And let them be recall’d from their exile: They are reformed, civil, full of good And fit for great employment, worthylord. [thee: Duke. Thou hast prevail’d; I pardon them and Dispose of them as thou know’st their deserts. Come, let us go: we will include all jars With triumphs, mirth and rare solemnity. Val. And, as we walk along, I dare be bold With our discourse to make your grace to smile. What think you of this page, my lord? __[blushes. Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him; he Val. L warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy. Duke. What mean you by that saying ? Val. Please you, [’ll tell you as we pass along, That you will wonder what hath fortuned. Come, Proteus; ’t is your penance but to hear The story of your loves discovered : That done, our day of marriage shall be yours; One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [ Haxeunt. Valentine.—Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you, Confirm his welcome with some special favour. Silvia.—His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, - If this be he you oft have wish’d to hear from.—Acrt II., Scene iv. 84 = Sa THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. DRAMATIS PERSON. Sir John Falstaff. Fenton, a gentleman. Shallow, a country justice. Slender, cousin to Shallow. Ford, \ Page, j William Page, a boy, son to Page. Sir Hugh Evans, a Welsh parson. Doctor Caius, a French physician. Bardolph, Pistol, Nym, two gentlemen dwelling at Windsor. sharpers attending on Falstaff. Robin, page to Falstaff. Simple, servant to Slender. Rugby, servant to Doctor Caius, Host of the Garter Inn. Mistress Ford. Mistress Page. Anne Page, her daughter. Mistress Quickly, servant to Doctor Caius, Servants to Page, Ford, &c. SCENE — Windsor, and the neighborhood. [ For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLIII.] 15 DAE i SCENE I.— Windsor. Enter Justice Shallow, Slender, and Sir Hugh Evans. Shal. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star-chamber matter of it: if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire. Slen. In the county of Gloucester, justice of peace and ‘ Coram.’ Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and ‘ Custalorum.’ Slen. Ay, and ‘ Rato-lorum’ too; and a gentleman born, master parson; who writes himself ‘Armigero,’ in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, ‘Ar- migero.’ Shal. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years. Slen. All his successors gone before him hath done ’t: and all his ancestors that come after him may: they may give the dozen white luces in their Shal. It is an old coat. Hvans. The dozen white louses do become an old Before Page’s house. coat well; it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar | beast to man, and signifies love. Shal. The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an Slen. I may quarter, coz. [old coat. Shal. You may, by marrying. Hvans. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it. Shal. Not a whit. . Heans. Yes, py ’r lady; if he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures: but that is allone. If Sir John Halstaff have committed disparagements unto you, 1am of the church, and will be glad to do my be- neyolence to make atonement and compremises be- tween you. Shal. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. Hvans. It is not meet the council hear a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot: the council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. Shal. Ha! o’ my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it. Hvans. It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it: and there is also another device in my prain, [coat. | which peradventure prings goot discretions with it: there is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master Thomas Page, which is pretty virginity. Slen. Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman. Evans. It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold and silver, is her grandsire upon his death’s-bed— Got deliver to a joyful resurrec- tions !— give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old: it were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page. [pound ? Slen. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred Evans. Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny. Slen. I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts. Evans. Seven hundred pounds and possibilities is goot gifts. Shal. Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there ? Evans. Shall I tell you a lie? Ido despise a liar as I do despise one that is false, or as I despise one that is not true. The knight, Sir John, is there; and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page. Lknocks] What, hoa! Got pless your house here! Page. [Within] Who’s there? Enter Page. Evans. Here is Got’s plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow ; and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings. Page. 1 am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow. Shal. Master Page, Iam glad to see you: much good do it your good heart! I wished your veni- son better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mis- tress Page?—and I thank you always with my heart, la! with my heart. Page. Sir, I thank you. Shal. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do. Page. I am glad to see you, good Master Slender. ar ow ACT I. Slen. How does your fallow See lee Sit Pu a heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. Page. It could not be judged, sir. Slen. Youll not confess, you ’ll not confess. Shal. That he will not. "Tis your fault, ’tis your fault; ’tis a good dog. Page. NG cur, sir. Shal. Sir, he’s a good dog, there be more said? he is good and fair. John Falstaff here ? Page. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you. ‘Evans. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. Shal. He hath wronged me, Master Page. Page. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. Shal. If it be confessed, it is not redressed: not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged Ae indeed he hath ; at a word, he hath, believe me: Robert Shallow, esquire, saith, he is wronged. Puge. Here comes Sir John. Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. Fal. Now, Master Shallow, you’ll complain of me to the king ? Shal. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed ne nae and broke open my lodge. 1. But not kissed your keeper’ s daughter ? Shal. Tut, a pin! this shall be answered. Fal. I will answer it straight; I have done all That is now answered. [this. Shal. The council shall know this. Fal. ’T were better for you if it were known in counsel: you ‘ll be laughed at. Evans. Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts. Fal. Good worts! good cabbage. Slender, I broke your head: what matter have you against me ? Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you; and against your cony-catching ras- cals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. Bard. You Banbury cheese! Slen. Ay, it is no matter. Pist. How now, Mephostophilus! Slen. Ay, it is no matter. Nym. Slice, 1 say! pauca, pauca: slice! that’s my humour. [cousin ? Slen. Where’s Simple, my man? Can you tell, Evans. Peace , I pray you. Now let us understand. There is three umpires in this matter, as I under- stand; that is, Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is myself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter. Page. ‘We three, to hear it and end it between them. Evans. Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-book; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can. Fal. Pistol! Pist. He hears with ears. Evans. The tevil and his tam! what phrase is pre ‘He hears with ear’? why, it is affecta- jons. Pal. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s purse ? Slen. Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else, of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel- boards, that cost me two shil- ling and two pence a-piece of Yead Miller, by these gloves. Fal. Is this true, Pistol ? Evans. No; it is false, if it is a pick-purse. Pist. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner |! Sir John and master mine, I combat challenge of this latten bilbo. Word of denial in thy labras here! Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liest! Slen. By these gloves, then, *t was he. and a fair dog: can Is Sir THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE I. I will say ‘marry trap’ with you, if you run the ae s humour on me; that is the very note Slon. By this hat, then, he in the red face had it; for though I cannot remember what I did when you made me dr unk, yet Iam not altogether an ass. Fal. What say you, Scarlet and J ohn ? Bard. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences. Evans. It is his five senses: fie, what the igno- rance is! Bard. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cash- iered; and so conclusions passed the careires. Slen. Ay, poe spake i in Latin then too; but ’tis no matter: Ill ne’er be drunk whilst I live ag gain, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick! if I be drunk, Ill be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves. Evans. So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind. Fal. You hear all these matters denied, gentle- men; you hear it. Enter Anne Page, with wine; Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, following. Page. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we’ll drink within. [| Hxit Anne Page. Slen. O heayen! this is Mistress Anne Page. Page. How now, Mistress Ford! Fal. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met: by your leave, good mistress. [ Kisses her. Page. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner: come, gen- tlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. [ Hxeunt all except Shal., Slen., and Evans. Slen. I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here. Enter Simple. How now, Simple! where have you been? I must wait on myself, must I? You have not the Book of Riddles about you, have you? Sim. Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon All-hallowmas last, a fort- night afore Michaelmas ? Shal. Come, coz; come, coz; westayforyou. A word with you, coz: marry, this, coz: there is, as ’t were, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh here. Do you understand me ? Slen. Ay sir, you shall find me reasonable; if it be so, I shall do that that is reason. Shal. N ay, but understand me. Slen. So I do, sir. Evans. Give ear to his motions, Master Slender: I will description the matter to you, if you be ca- pacity of it. Slen. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow Says: I pray you, pardon me; he’s a justice of peace in his country, simple though I stand here. Evans. But that is not the question: the question is concerning your marriage. Shal. Ay, there’s the point, sir. Evans. Marry, is it; the very point of it; to Mis- tress Anne Page. Slen. Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonable demands. Evans. But can you affection the ’?oman? Let us command to know that of your mouth or of your lips; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth. Therefore, one can you carry your good will to the maid ? Shal. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her ? Slen. I hope, sir, I will do as it shail become one that would do reason. Evans. Nay, Got’s lords and his ladies! you must speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires Nym. Be advised, sir, and pass good humours: | towards her. 36 5: Oe ha THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE ITI. Shal. That you must. dowry, marry her? Slen. I will do a greater thing than that, upon your request, cousin, in any reason. Shal. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz: what I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid ? Slen. I willmarry her, sir, at your request: but if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another; I hope, upon familiarity will grow more contempt: but if you say, ‘ Marry her,’ I will marry her; that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely. Evans. Itisafery discretion answer; save the fall is in the ort ‘dissolutely:’ the ort is, according to our meaning, ‘resolutely :’ his meaning is good. Shal. Ay, [think my cousin meant well. Slen. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la! Shal. Here comes fair Mistress Anne. Will you, upon good Re-enter Anne Page. Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne! Anne. The dinner is on the table; my father de- sires your worship’s company. Shal. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne. Evans. Od’s plessed will! I will not be absence at the grace. [Hxeunt Shallow and Evans. Anne. Will’t please your worship to come in, sir ? Slen. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily ;.I am very well. Anne. The dinner attends you, sir. Slen. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow. [Hit Simple.] A justice of peace sometimes may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead: but what though ? yet I live like a poor gentleman born. Anne. Imay not go in without your worship: they will not sit till you come. Slen. I? faith, I’ll eat nothing; I thank you as much as though I did. Anne. I pray you, sir, walk in. Slen. I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my shin th’ other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence; three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes; and, by my troth, I cannot | abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? be there bears i’ the town: [of. Anne. I think there are, sir; I heard them talked Slen. I love the sport well; but I shall as soon | quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not ? Anne. Ay, indeed, sir. Slen. That ’s meat and drink to me,now. Ihave seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain; but, I warrant you, the women have so cried and shrieked at it, that it passed: but women, indeed, cannot abide ’em; they are very ill-favoured rough things. Re-enter Page. Page. Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we | stay for you. Slen. I ’lleat nothing, I thank you, sir. Page. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! come, come. Slen. Nay, pray you, lead the way. Page. Come on, sir. Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. Anne. Not I, sir; pray you, keep on. Slen. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la! I will not do you that wrong. Anne. I pray you, sir. Slen. Ill rather be unmannerly than troublesome. You do yourself wrong, indeed, la! [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— The same. Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. Evans. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius’ house which is the way: and there dwells one Mis- tress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer. Sim. Well, sir. tivans. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this let- ter ; for itisa ’oman that altogether ’s acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page: and the letter is, to de- sire and require her to solicit your master’s desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you, be gone: I will make an end of my dinner; there’s pippins and cheese to come. ee SCENE III.— A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol, and Robin. Fal. Mine host of the Garter! [and wisely. Host. What says my bully-rook ? speak scholarly Fal. Truly, mine host, 1 must turn away some of my followers. Host. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier: let them wag’; trot, trot. Fal. I sit at ten pounds a week. Host. Thou ’rt an emperor, Cesar, Keisar, and Pheezar. I will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall tap: said I well, bully Hector ? Fal. Do so, good mine host. Host. I have spoke; let him follow. [Jo Bard.| Let me see thee froth and lime: I am at a word; follow. [ Kaiti. Fal. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade; anold cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered serving-man a fresh tapster. Go; adieu. Bard. It isa life that I have desired: I willthrive. Pist. O base Hungarian wight! wilt thou the spigot wield ? [Exit Bardolph. Nym. He was gotten in drink: is not the a mour conceited ? Fal. Tam glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box : his thefts were too open; his filching was like an unskilful singer; he kept not time. [rest. Nym. The good humour is to steal at a minute’s Pist. ‘Convey,’ the wise it call. ‘Steal!’ foh! a fico for the phrase! Fal. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. Pist. Why, then, let kibes ensue. Fal. There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I must shift. Pist. Young ravens must have food. Fal. Which of you know Ford of this town ? Pist. I ken the wight: he is of substance good. Fal. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am Pist. Two yards, and more. [about. Fal. No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; Lam about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford’s wife: I spy entertainment in her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation: I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to ve Eneglished rightly, is, ‘I am Sir John Falstaff’s.’ Pist. He hath studied her will, and translated her will, out of honesty into English. Nym. The anchor is deep: will that humour pass ? Fal. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband’s purse: he hath a legion of angels. Pist. As many devils entertain ; and ‘ To her, boy,’ say I. [the angels. Nym. The humour rises; it is good: humour me Fal. I have writ me here a letter to her: and here another to Page’s wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious 37 ACT I. ceillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly. Pist. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. Nym. I thank thee for that humour. Fal. O, she did so course o’er my exteriors with such a greedy intention, that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass! Here’s another letter to her: she bears the purse too; she isa region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheater to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go bear thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford: we will thrive, lads, we will thrive. Pist. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, And by my side wear steel? then, Lucifer take all!’ Nym. I will run no base humour: here, take the humour-letter: I will keep the haviour of reputation. kal. [To Robin] Hold, sirrah, bear you these let- ters tightly ; Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go; Trudge, plod away o’ the hoof; seek shelter, pack | Falstaff will learn the humour of the age, French thrift, yourogues; myself and skirted page. [Hxeunt Falstaff and fobin. Pist. Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds, And high and low beguiles the rich and poor: Tester I?ll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk! Nym. I have operations which be humours of Pist. Wilt thou revenge ? [revenge. Nym. By welkin and her star! Pist. With wit or steel ? Nym. With both the humours, I: I will discuss the humour of this love to Page. Pist. And I to Ford shall eke unfold How Falstaff, varlet vile, His dove wil] prove, his gold will hold, And his soft couch defile. Nym. My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to deal with poison; I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous: that is my true humour. Pist. Thou art the Mars of malecontents: I second thee; troop on. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— A room in Doctor Caius’s house. Enter Mistress Quickly, Simple, and Rugby. Quick. What, John Rugby! I pray thee, go to the casement, and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming. If he do, i’ faith, and find any body in the house, here will be an old abusing of God’s patience and the king’s English. Rug. I’ go watch. Quick. Go; and we’ll have a posset for ’t soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire. | kait Rugby.| An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal, and, I war- rant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate: his worst fault is, that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way: but nobody but has his fault ; but let that pass. Peter Simple, you say your name is ? Sim. Ay, for fault of a better. Quick. And Master Slender ’s your master ? Sim. Ay, forsooth. 1 fae Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover’s paring-knife ? Sim. No, forsooth: he hath but a little wee face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-coloured beard. ae A softly-sprighted man, is he not ? im. Ay, forsooth: but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between this and his head; he hath fought with a warrener. Quick. How say you? O, I should remember 38 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE IV. him: does he not hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait ? Sim. Yes, indeed, does he. Quick. Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your master: Anne is a good girl, and I ghee Tte-enter Rugby. Rug. Out, alas! here comes my master. Quick. We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this closet: he will not stay long. [Shuts Simple in the closet. What, John Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master; I doubt he be not well, that he comes not home. [Singing] And down, down, adown-a, &c. Enter Doctor Caius. Caius. Vat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet un boitier vert, a box, a green-a box: do intend vat I speak ? a green-a box. Quick. Ay, forsooth; Ill fetch it you. [Aside] I am glad he went not in himself: if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad. Caius. Fe, fe, fe, fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m’en vais a la cour —la grande affaire. wick. Is it this, sir? Caius. Oui; mette le au mon pocket: depeche, quickly. Vere is dat knave Rugby? Quick. What, John Rugby! John! Ttug. Here, sir! Caius. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to the court. Rug. ’T is ready, sir, here in the porch. Caius. By my trot, I tarry too long. Od’s me! Qu’ai-j’oublie! dere is some simples in my closet, dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind. Quick. Ay me, he’ll find the young man there, and be mad! Caius. O diable, diable! vat is in my closet ? Villain! larron! [Pulling Simple out.] Rugby, my rapier ! Quick. Good master, be content. Caius. Wherefore shall I be content-a? Quick. The young man is an honest man. Caius. What shall de honest man do in my closet ? dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet. Quick. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it: he came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh. Caius. Vell. Sim. Ay, forsooth; to desire her to — Quick. Peace, I pray you. Caius. Peace-a your tongue. Speak-a your tale. Sim. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my master in the way of marriage. Quick. This is all, indeed, la! but Ill ne’er put my finger in the fire, and need not. Caius. Sir Hugh send-a you? Rugby, baille me some paper. Tarry you a little-a while. [ Writes. Quick. [Aside to Simple] Lam glad he is so quiet : if he had been throughly moved, you should have heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwith- standing, man, Ill do you your master what good I can: and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master,—I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself,— Sim. [Aside to Quickly] ’Tis a great charge to come under one body’s hand. Quick. [Aside to Simple] Are you avised o’ that ? you shall find it a great charge: and to be up early ACT .1. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE I. and down late; but notwithstanding, —to tell you in your ear; I would have no words of it,—my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page: but notwithstanding that, I know Anne’s mind,— that ’s neither here nor there. Caius. You jack’nape, give-a this letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a shallenge: I will cut his troat in de park; and I will teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good you tarry here. By gar, I will cut all his two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his dog. [Hatt Sinrple. uick. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. Caius. It is no matter-a ver dat: do not you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest ; and I have appointed mine host of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. By gar, I will myself have Anne Page. Quick. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks leave to prate: what, the good-jer ! Caius. Rugby, come to the court with me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby. [Hxeunt Caius and Rugby. Quick. You shall have An fool’s-head of your own. 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. Pent. | Within] Who’s within there? ho! © Quick. Who’s there, I trow! Come near the house, I pray you. Enter Fenton. Fent. How now, good woman! how dost thou ? Quick. The better that it pleases your good wor- ship to ask. Kent. What news ? how does pretty Mistress Anne? Quick. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it. Fent. Shall I do any good, thinkest thou? shall I not lose my suit ? Quick. Troth, sir, all isin his hands above: but notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I’ll be sworn on a book, she loves you. Have not your worship a wart above your eye? Fent. Yes, marry, have 1; what of that? Quick. Well, thereby hangs a tale: good faith, it is such another Nan; but,I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread: we had an hour’s talk of that wart. I shall never laugh but in that maid’s com- pany! But indeed she is given too much to allicholy and musing: but for you— well, go to. Fent. Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there ’s money for thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf: if thou seest her before me, commend me. Quick. Will 1? i? faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers. Fent. Well, farewell; I am in great haste now. Quick. Farewell to your worship. [Exit Fenton.] Truly, an honest gentleman: but Anne loves him not; for 1know Anne’s mind as well as another does. Out upon ’t! what have I forgot ? [ Exit. pAsale SCENE I.— Before Page’s house. Enter Mistress Page, with a letter. Mrs. Page. What, have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see. [ Reads. ‘Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason for his physician, he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I; go to then, there ’s sympathy: you are merry, so am I; ha, ha! then there’s more sympathy: you love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page,—at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice,—that I love thee. I will not say, pity me; ’t is not a soldier- like phrase; but I say, love me. By me, Thine own true knight, By day or night, Or any kind of light, With all his might For thee to fight, JOHN FALSTAFF.’ What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant! What an un- weighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked — with the devil’s name!—out of my con- versation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I say tohim? I was then frugal of my mirth: Heaven forgive me! Why, I’ll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men. How shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings. Enter Mistress Ford. Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house. Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. Mrs. Ford. Nay, Ill ne’er believe that; I have to show to the contrary. Mrs. Page. Faith, but you do, in my mind. Mrs. Ford. Well, I do then; yet I say I could show you to the contrary. O Mistress Page, give me some counsel ! : Mrs. Page. What’s the matter, woman ? Mrs. Ford. O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour! Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman! take the ee What is it? dispense with trifles; what is it: Mrs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be knighted. Mrs. Page. What? thou liest! Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack; and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. Mrs. Ford. We burn daylight; here, read, read ; perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men, as long as I have an eye to make difference of men’s liking: and yet he would not swear; praised women’s modesty ; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeli- ness, that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hun- dredth Psalm to the tune of ‘ Green Sleeves.’ What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like ? Mrs. Page. Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here ’s the twin-brother ALT Ei of thy letter: but let thine inherit first; for, I protest, mine never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names,— sure, more,—and these are of the second edition: he will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he would put us two. I had rather be a giantess, and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us? Mrs. Page. Nay, 1 know not: it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I'll en- tertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me, that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury. Mrs. Ford. ‘ Boarding,’ call you it ? to keep him above deck. Mrs. Page. So will I: if he come under my hatches, I’ll never to sea again. Let’s be revenged on him: let’s appoint him a meeting; give him a show of comfort in his suit and lead him on with a fine- baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter. Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any villany against him, that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! it would give eternal food to his jealousy. Mrs. Page. Why, look where he comes; and my | good man too: he’s as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause; and that I hope is an un- measurable distance. Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman. Mrs. Page. Let’s consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither. | They retire. Enter Ford with Pistol, and Page with Nym. Ford. Well, I hope it be not so. Pist. Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs: Sir John affects thy wife. Ford. Why, sir, my wife is not young. [poor, Pist. He wooes both high and low, both rich and Both young and old, one with another, Ford; He loves the gallimaufry: Ford, perpend. Ford. Love my wife! Pist. With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou, Like Sir Actzon he, with Ringwood at thy heels: O, odious is the name! Ford. What name, sir ? Pist. The horn, I say. Farewell. [night : Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by Take heed, ere Summer comes or cuckoo-birds do Away, Sir Corporal Nym! ing. Believe it, Page; he speaks sense. [| Heit. Ford. | Aside] I will be patient; I will find out this. Nym. {To Page|] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours: I should have borne the humoured letter to her; but I have a sword and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; there’s the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym; I speak and I avouch; ’tis true: my name is Nym and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese, and there’s the humour of it. Adieu. [ Hvit. Page. ‘The humour of it,’ quoth a’! here’s a fel- low frights English out of his wits. Ford. 1 will seek out Falstaff. [rogue. Page. I never heard such a drawling, affecting Ford. If I do find it: well. Page. I willnot believe such a Cataian, though the priest 0’ the town commended him for a true man. Ford. "Twas a good sensible fellow: well. Page. How now, Meg! Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford tier Mey Mrs. Page. Whither go you, George ? 40 I’ll be sure | THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE I. Mrs. Ford. How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy ? Ford. I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go. Mrs. Ford. Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head. Now, will you go, Mistress Page ? Mrs. Page. Have with you. Youll come to din- ner, George. [Aside to Mrs. Ford] Look who comes yonder: she shall be our messenger to this paltry knight. Mrs. Ford. [Aside to Mrs. Page] Trust me. I thought on her: she ’Il fit it. Enter Mistress Quickly. Mrs. Page. Y ouare come to see my daughter Anne? Quick. Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne ? Mrs. Page. Go in with us and see: we have an hour’s talk with you. [Exeunt Mis. Page, Mrs. Ford, and Mrs. Quickly. Page. How now, Master Ford! Ford. You heard what this knave told me, did you not ? [me ? Page. Yes: and you heard what the other told Ford. Do you think there is truth in them ? Page. Hang’em,slaves! I donot think the knight would offer it: but these that accuse him in his in- tent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service. Ford. Were they his men ? Page. Marry, were they. Ford. I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter ? Page. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage towards my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head. Ford. I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to turn them together. A man may be too confident: I would have nothing lie on my head: I cannot be thus satisfied. . Page. Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes: there is either liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily. Enter Host. How now, mine host! Host. How now, bully-rook! thou’rt a gentle- man. Cavaleiro-justice, I say! Enter Shallow. Shal. I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master Page! Master Page, will you go with us? we have sport in hand. Host. Tell him, cavaleiro-justice; tell him, bully- rook. Shal. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor. Ford. Good mine host o’ the Garter, a word with you. [Drawing him aside. Host. What sayest thou, my bully-rook ? Shal. [To Page| Will you go with us to behold it ? My merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons; and, I think, hath appointed them con- trary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. | They converse apart. Host. Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavaleire ? Ford. None, I protest: but Ill give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him and tell him my name is Brook; only for a jest. Host. My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress;—said I well? —and thy name shall be Brook. It isa merry knight. Will you go, An- ark you. | heires ? ACT II. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE II. Shal. Have with you, mine host. Page. I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier. Shal. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoc- cadoes, and I know not what: ’t is the heart, Master Page; tis here, ’tis here. I have seen the time, with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats. Host. Here, boys, here, here! shall we wag ? Page. Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight. Kxeunt Host, Shal., and Page. Ford. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily: she was in his company at Page’s house; and what they made there, I know not. Well, I will look further into ’t: and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, L lose not my labour; if she be otherwise, ’t is labour well bestowed. { Exit. SCENE II. — A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff and Pistol. Fal. L will not lend thee a penny. Pist. Why, then the world’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open. Fal. Nota penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn: I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow Nym; or else you had looked through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends, you were good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her. fan, I took ’t upon mine honour thou hadst it not. Pist. Didst not thou share ? hadst thou not fifteen pence ? Fal. Reason, you rogue, reason: thinkest thou I’ll endanger my soul gratis? Ata word, hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for you. Go. A short knife anda throng! ‘To your manor of Pickt- hatch! Go. You’ll not bear a letter for me, you rogue! you stand upon your honour! Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise: I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shufile, to hedge and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will not do it, you! Pist. L do relent: what would thou more of man ? Enter Robin. ftob. Sir, here ’s a woman would speak with you. Fal. Let her approach. Enter Mistress Quickly. Quick. Give your worship good morrow. Hal. Good morrow, good wife. Quick. Not so, an’t please your worship. Fal. Good maid, then. Quick. Ill be sworn, As my mother was, the first hour I was born. Fal. I do believe the swearer. What with me? : Quick. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or wot Fal. Two thousand, fair woman: and Ill vouch- safe thee the hearing. Quick. There is one Mistress Ford, sir: —I pray, come a little nearer this ways:—I myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius,— Fal. Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say,— Quick. Your worship says very true: I pray your worship, come a little nearer this ways. am | Fal. I warrant thee, nobody hears; mine own people, mine own people. Quick. Are they so? them his servants ! Fal. Well, Mistress Ford; what of her ? Quick. Why, sir, she’s a good creature. Lord! your worship ’s a wanton! give you and all of us, I pray! ; Fal. Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford ,— Quick. Marry, this is the short and the long of it ; you have brought her into such a canaries as ’t is wonderful. The best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary. Yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches, I warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift ; smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in such alli- gant terms; and in such wine and sugar of the best God bless them and make Lord, Well, heaven for- ' and the fairest, that would have won any woman’s heart; and, I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her: I had myself twenty angels given me this morning; but I defy all angels, in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty: and, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as Sip on a cup with the proudest of them all: and yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, pension- ers; but, I warrant you, all is one with her. Fal. But what says she to me? be brief, my good she-Mercury. Quick. Marry, she hath received your letter, for the which she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven. Fal. Ten and eleven ? Quick. Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of: Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas! the sweet woman leads an ill life with him: he’s a very jealousy man: she leads a very frampold life with him, good heart. Fal. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her; I will not fail her. Quick. Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to your worship. Mistress Page hath her hearty commendations to you too: and let me tell you in your ear, she’s as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe’er be the other: and she bade me tell your worship that her husband is seldom from home; but she hopes there will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon a man: surely I think you have charms, la; yes, in truth. Fal. Not I, I assure thee: setting the attraction of my good parts aside I have no other charms. Quick. Blessing on your heart for ’t! Fal. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford’s wife and Page’s wife acquainted each other how they love me? Quick. That were a jest indeed! they have not so little grace, I hope: that were a trick indeed! But Mistress Page would desire you to send her your little page, of all loves: her husband has a marvellous infection to the little page; and truly Master Page isan honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does: do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she will: and truly she deserves it; for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send her your page; no remedy. Fal. Why, I will. Quick. Nay, but do so, then: and, look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another’s mind, and the boy never need to under- 41 ACT Il. stand any thing; for ’tis not good that children should know any wickedness: old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world. Fal. Fare thee well: commend me to them both: there’s my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with this woman. |Hxeunt Mistress Quickly and Robin.| This news distracts me! Pist. This punk is one of Cupid’s carriers: Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights: Give fire: she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all! [ Kexit. Fal. Sayest thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I’ make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the ex- pense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say ’tis grossly done; so it be fairly done, no matter. Enter Bardolph. Bard. Sir John, there ’s one Master Brook below would fain speak with you, and be acquainted with you; and hath sent your worship a morning’s draught of sack. Fal. Brook is his name ? Bard. Ay, sir. Fal. Call him in. [Exit Bardolph.| Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o’erflow such liquor. Ah, ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page have I encom- passed you? go to; via! Re-enter Bardolph, with Ford disguised. Ford. Bless you, sir! Fal. And you, sir! Would you speak with me? Ford. I make bold to press with so little prepara- tion upon you. Fal. You’re welcome. What’s your will? Give us leave, drawer. [Hxit Bardolph. Ford. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much; my name is Brook. Fal. Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaint- ance of you. Ford. Good Sir John, I sue for yours: not to charge you; for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are: the which hath something emboldened me to this un- seasoned intrusion ; for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open. Fal. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on. Ford. 'Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me: if you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. Fal. Sir, 1 know not how I may deserve to be your porter. [hearing. Ford. 1 will tell you, sir, if you will give me the Fal. Speak, good Master Brook: I shall be glad to be your servant. Ford. Sir, I hear you are a scholar,— I will be brief with you,—and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means, as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection: but, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the reg- ister of your own; that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy it is to be such an offender. Fal. Very well, sir; proceed. Ford. There isa gentlewoman in this town; her husband’s name is Ford. Fal. Well, sir. Ford. I have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting observance; engrossed opportunities to meet her ; fee’d every slight occasion that could but nig- gardly give me sight of her; not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many 42 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE II. to know what she would have given; briefly, I have pursued her as love hath pursued me; which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none; unless ex- perience be a jewel that I have purchased at an in- finite rate, and that hath taught me to say this: ‘Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues ; Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.’ Fal. Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands ? Ford. Never. Fal. Have you importuned her to such a purpose ? Ford. Never. Fal. Of what quality was your love, then ? Ford. Like a fair house built on another man’s ground; so that I have lost my edifice by aire the place where I erected it. [me t Fal. To what purpose have you unfolded this to Ford. When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say. that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gen- tleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allowed for your many war-like, court-like, and learned preparations. Fal. O, sir! Ford. Believe it, for you knowit. There ismoney ; spend it,spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only give me so much of your time in exchange of it, as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford’s wife: use your art of wooing; win her to con- sent to you: if any man may, you May as soon as any. Fal. Would it apply well to the vehemency of your affection, that I should win what you would enjoy ? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously. Ford. O, understand my drift. She dwells so se- curely on the excellency of her honour, that the folly of my soul dares not present itself: she is too bright to be looked against. Now, could I come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commend themselves: I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage-vow, and a thousand other her de- fences, which now are too too strongly embattled against me. What say you to’t, Sir John? Fal. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as | am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford’s wife. Ford. O good sir! Fal. I say you shall. {none. Ford. Want no money, Sir John; you shall want Fal. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment ; even as you came in to me her assistant-or go-between parted from me: I say 1 shall be with her between ten and eleven ; for at that time the jealous rascally knave her husband will be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall know how I speed. Ford. 1 am blest in your acquaintance. know Ford, sir? Fal. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not: yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use her asthe key of the cuckoldly rogue’s coffer ; and there ’s my harvest-home. Ford. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him. Fal. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! LI will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my cudgel: it shall hang like a meteor o’er the Do you ACT III. cuckold’s horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come tome soonat night. Ford’s a knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, Mas- ter Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night. [ Hxit. Ford. What a damned Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy ? my wife hath sent tohim; the hour is fixed ; the match is made. Would any man have thought this ? See the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils’ additions, the names of fiends: but Cuckold! Wittol! — Cuckold! the devil himself hath not such aname. Page is an ass, a secure ass: he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous. I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitz bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling geld- ing, than my wife with herself: then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises ; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my jealousy! Eleven o’clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuck- old! cuckold! cuckold! [| Hxit. SCENH ITI.— A field near Windsor. Enter Caius and Rugby. Caius. Jack Rugby! Rug. Sir? Caius. Vat is de clock, Jack ? Rug. ’Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh prom- ised to meet. Caius. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he has pray his Pible well, dat he is no come: by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. Fiug. He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him, if he came. Caius. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him. Rug. Alas, sir, I cannot fence. Caius. Villany, take your rapier. Rug. Forbear; here’s company. Enter Host, Shallow, Slender, and Page. Host. Bless thee, bully doctor! Shal. Save you, Master Doctor Caius! Page. Now, good master doctor! Slen. Give you good morrow, sir. [for ? Caius. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come Host. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian ? is he dead, my Francisco? ha, bully! What says my Adsculapius ? my Galen ? my heart of elder? ha! is he dead, bully stale? is he dead ? THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE I. Caius. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de vorld; he is not show his face. Host. Thou art a Castalion-King-Urinal. Hector of Greece, my boy! Caius. I pray you, bear vitness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come. Shal. He is the wiser man, master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of your profes- sions. Is it not true, Master Page? Page. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a ereat fighter, though now a man of peace. Shal. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices and doctors and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page. Page. Tis true, Master Shallow. Shal. It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. Iam sworn of the peace: you have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, master doctor. [Mockwater. Host. Pardon, guest-justice. A word, Mounseur Caius. Mock-vater! vat is dat? Host. Mock-water, in our English tongue, is valour, bully. Caius. By gar, den, I have as much mock-vater as de Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog priest! by gar, me vill cut his ears. Host. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. Caius. Clapper-de-claw! vat is dat ? Host. That is, he will make thee amends. Caius. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me vill have it. Host. And I will provoke him to ’t, or let him wag. Caius. Me tank you for dat. Host. And, moreover, bully,—but first, master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaleiro Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. [ Aside to them. Page. Sir Hugh is there, is he? Host. He is there: see what humour he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well ? Shal. We will do it. Page, Shal., and Slen. Adieu, good master doctor. [Exeunt Page, Shal., and Slen. Caius. By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. Host. Let him die: sheathe thy impatience, throw cold water on thy choler: go about the fields with me through Frogmore: I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting ; and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim? said I well? . Caius. By gar, me dank you for dat: by gar, lI love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my pa- tients. Host. For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page. Said I well? Caius. By gar, ’tis good; vell said. Host. Let us wag, then. Caius. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. [Hxeunt. TaNit Ch BG ES 6 ep SCENE I.— A field near Frogmore. Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. Evans. I pray you now, good Master Slender’s serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic ? Sim. Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every way ; old Windsor way, and every way but the town way. 43 ACT III. Evans. I most fehemently desire you you will also look that way. Sim. I will, sir. [ Hxit. Evans. ’Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, and trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies Iam! I will knog his urinals about his knave’s costard when I have good opportunities for the ork. ’Pless my soul! [ Sings. To shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals ; There will me make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies. To shallow — Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry. [ Sings. Melodious birds sing madrigals — When as I sat in Pabylon— And a thousand vagram posies. To shallow, &c. Re-enter Simple. Sim. Yonder he is coming, this way, Sir Hugh. Hvans. He’s welcome. [ Sings. To shallow rivers, to whose falls — Heaven prosper the right! What weapons is he ? Sim. No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frog- more, over the stile, this way. Evans. Pray you, give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms. . Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. Shal. How now, master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. Slen. [Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page! Page. ’Save you, good Sir Hugh! Evans. ’Pless you from his mercysake,all of you! Shal. What, the sword and the word! do you study them both, master parson ? Page. And youthful still! in hose this raw rheumatic day! Evans. There is reasons and causes for it. Page. We are come to you to do a good office, master parson. Evans. Fery well: what is it ? Page. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw. Shal. I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity and learning, so wide of his own respect. Evans. What is he ? Page. 1 think you know him; Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician. Evans. Got’s will, and his passion of my heart! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. Page. Why? Evans. He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates and Galen,— and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal. Page. I warrant you, he’s the man should fight with him. Slen. [Aside] O sweet Anne Page! Shal. It appears so by his weapons. asunder: here comes Doctor Caius. your doublet and Keep them Enter Host, Caius, and Rugby. Page. Nay, good master parson, keep in your weapon. Shal. So do.you, good master doctor. Host. Disarm them, and let them question: let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English. Caius. I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear. Vherefore vill you not meet-a me? 44 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE II. ——s Evans. [Aside to Caius] Pray you, use your pa- tience: in good time. Caius. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape. Evans. [Aside to Caius] Pray you, let us not be laughing-stocks to other men’s humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends. [Aloud] I will knog your urinals about your knave’s cogscomb for missing your meetings and appointments. Caius. Diable! Jack Rugby,— mine host de Jar- teer,— have I not stay for him to kill him? have I not, at de place I did appoint ? Evans. As lam a Christians soul now, look you, this is the place appointed: I’ll be judgment by mine host of the Garter. Host. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaul, French and Welsh, sole-curer and body-curer! Caius. Ay, dat is very good; excellent. Host. Peace, I say! hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel ? Shall I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the po- tions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? no; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so. Give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places: your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow. [follow. Shal. Trust me,amadhost. Follow, gentlemen, Slen. [Aside] O sweet Anne Page! | Exeunt Shal., Slen., Page, and Host. Caius. Ha, do I perceive dat? have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha? Evans. This is well; he has made us his ylout- ing-stog. I desire you that we may be friends; and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on | this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. Caius. By gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, he de- ceive me too. Evans. Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you, follow. | Kaew nt. SCENE II1.—A street. Enter Mistress Page and Robin. Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gallant; you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master’s heels ? Rob. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf. . Mrs. Page. O, you are a flattering boy: now I see you ll be a courtier. Enter Ford. Ford. Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you? Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home ? Ford. Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry. Mrs. Page. Be sure of that,—two other husbands. Ford. Where had you this pretty weathercock ? Mrs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight’s name, sirrah ? Rob. Sir John Falstaff. Ford. Sir John Falstaff! Mrs. Page. He, he; I can never hit on’s name. There is such a league between my good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed ? Ford. Indeed she is. =————T= SSS ee Se) SSS “LH byt Ui SS Gf ets te ae ty GES z eS YS. = MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.—Act III., Scene i. ACT III. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scenE Itt. Mrs. Page. By your leave, sir: I am sick till I see her. [Hxzeunt Mrs. Page and Robin. Ford. Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile, as easy aS a cannon will shoot point- blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife’s in- clination; he gives her folly motion and advantage: and now she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the wind. And Falstaff’s boy with her! Good plots, they are laid: and our revolted wives share damna- tion together. Well; I will take him, then torture my wite, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actzon; and to these vio- lent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock heard.| The clock gives me my cue, and m assurance bids me search: there I shall find Fal- staff: I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there: I will go. Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh Evans, Caius, and Rugby. Shal., Page, &c. Well met, Master Ford. Ford. Trust me, a good knot: I have good cheer at home; and I pray you all go with me. Shal. I must excuse myself, Master Ford. Slen. And so must I, sir: we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for more money than I’l] speak of. Shal. We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer. Slen. I hope I have your good will, father Page. Page. You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you: but my wife, master doctor, is for you al- together. Caius. Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me: my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. Host. What say you to young Master Fenton ? he capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May: he will carry ’t, he will carry ’t; ’tis in his buttons; he will carry ’t. Page. Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having: he kept company with the wild prince and Poins; he is of too high a region ; he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance: if he take her, let him take her simply; the wealth IL have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way. Ford. I beseech you heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner: besides your cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you a monster. Master doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you, Sir Hugh. Shal. Well, fare you well: we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page’s. [Hxeunt Shal. and Slen. Caius. Go home, John Rugby; I come anon. [Hxit Rugby. Host. Farewell, my hearts: I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him. [/vzit. Ford. [Aside] 1 think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him; Ill make him dance. Will you go, gentles ? f All. Have with you to see this monster. [Hxeunt. SCENH III. — A room in Ford’s house. Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. Mrs. Ford. What, John! What, Robert! Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly! Is the buck- basket — Mrs. Ford. | warrant. What, Robin, I say! Enter Servants with a basket. Mrs. Page. Come, come, come. Mrs. Ford. Here, set it down. Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge; we must be brief. Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house : and when I suddenly call you, come forth)’and with- out any pause or staggering take this basket on your shoulders: that done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet-mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side. Mrs. Page. You will do it? Mrs. Ford. I ha’ told them over and over; they lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are called. [Hxeunt Servants. Mrs. Page. Here comes little Robin. Enter Robin. Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas-musket! what news with you? Rob. My master, Sir John, is come in at your back- door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company. Mrs. fie You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us: Rob. Ay, 1’ be sworn. My master knows not of your being here and hath threatened to put me into everlasting liberty if I tell you of it; for he swears he ’l] turn me away. Mrs. Page. Thou’rt a good boy: this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I’l go hide me. Mrs. Ford. Doso. Go tell thy master I am alone. [Hxit Robin.] Mistress Page, remember you your cue. Mrs. Page. I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me. [ Exit. Mrs. Ford. Go to, then: we’ll use this unwhole- some humidity, this gross watery pumpion; we ’ll teach him to know turtles from jays. Enter Falstaff. Fal. Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough: this is the period of my ambition: O this blessed Mrs. Ford. O sweet Sir John! {hour ! Fal. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. NowshallIsinin my wish: I would thy husband were dead: Ill speak it before the best lord; I would make thee my lady. Mrs. Ford. I your lady, Sir John! alas, I should be a pitiful lady! Fal. Let the court of France show me such an- other. I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond: thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows become nothing else; nor that well neither. Fal. By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: thou wouldst make an absolute courtier; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there’s no such thing in me. Fal. What made me love thee ? let that persuade thee there ’s something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn-buds, that come like women in men’s apparel, and smell like Bucklers- bury in simple time; I cannot: but I love thee; none but thee; and thou deservest it. Mrs. Ford. Do not betray me, sir. I fear you love Mistress Page. 45 ACT III. Fal. Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln. Mrs. Ford. Well, heaven knows how I love you; and you shall one day find it. Fal. Keep in that mind; Ill deserve it. Mrs. Ford. Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or else I could not be in that mind. Rob. [Within] Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford! here ’s Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blow- ing and looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently. Fal. She shall not see me: I will ensconce me be- hind the arras. Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so: she’s a very tattling woman. [Falstaff hides himself. Re-enter Mistress Page and Robin. What ’s the matter ? how now! Mrs. Page. O Mistress Ford, what have you done ? You’re shamed, you ’re overthrown, you ’re undone for ever! [Page ? Mrs. Ford. What’s the matter, good Mistress Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford! having an honest man to ‘Mes husband, to give him such cause of suspicion Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ? Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion! you! how am I mistook in you! Mrs. Ford. Why, alas, what’s the matter ? Mrs. Page. Your husband’s coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his ab- sence: you are undone. Mrs. Ford. ’T is not so, I hope. Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man here! but ’tis most certain your hus- band’s coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. Be not amazed; call all your senses to you; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever. Mrs. Ford. What shallI do? There is a gentle- man, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame so much as his peril: I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. Mrs. Page. For shame! never stand ‘you had rather’ and ‘ you had rather:’ your husband ’s here at hand; bethink you of some conveyance: in the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you de- ceived me! Look, here is a basket: if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking: or—it is whiting-time—send him by your two men to Datchet-mead. Mrs. Ford. He’s too big to go in there. shall I do? fal. Cj forward] Let me see ’t, let me see ’t, O, let mesee’t! I’llin,I lin. Follow your friend’s counsel. Ill in. Mrs. Page. What, Sir John Falstaff ! your letters, knight ? fal. I love thee. Help meaway. Let me creep in here. I?ll never — [Gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen. Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight! Mrs. Ford. What, John! Robert! John! [ Hxit Robin. Re-enter Servants. Go take up these clothes here quickly. Where’s the cowl-staff ? look, how you drumble! Carry them to the laundress in Datchet-mead; quickly, come. 46 Out upon What Are these THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE PT fels ey Enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. Ford. Pray you, come near; if I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be your jest; I deserve it. Hownow! whither bear you Serv. To the laundress, forsooth. [this ? Mrs. Ford. Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with buck- washing. Ford. Buck! I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck, buck! Ay, buck; I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear. [| Hxeunt Servants with the basket.| Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-night; Ill tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my chambers ; search, seek, find out: Ill warrant we ’ll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first. [Locking the door.| So, now uncape. _ Page. Good Master Ford, be contented : you wrong yourself too much. Ford. True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen; you shall see sport anon; follow me, gentlemen. [Hwit. Evans. This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies. Caius. By gar, ‘tis no the fashion of France; it is not jealous in France. Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search. [Hxeunt Page, Caius, and Evans. Lae Page. Is there not a double excellency in is! Mrs. Ford. I know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket ! Mrs. Ford. Iam half afraid he will have need of washing; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress. Mrs. Ford. I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff’s being here; for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now. Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that; and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff: his disso- lute disease will scarce obey this medicine. Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water; and give him another hope, to be- tray him to another punishment ? Mrs. Page. We will do it: let him be sent for to- morrow, eight o’clock, to have amends. fte-enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. Ford. I cannot find him: may be the knave brag- ged of that he could not compass. Mrs. Page. [Aside to Mrs. Ford] Heard you that ? Mrs. Ford. You use me well, Master Ford, do Ford. Ay, I do so. [you ? Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than your Ford. Amen! [thoughts ! Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, Mas- Ford. Ay, ay; 1 must bear it. (ter Ford. Evans. If there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment! Caius. By gar, nor I too: there is no bodies. Page. Fie, fie, Master Ford! are you not ashamed? What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination ? I would not ha’ your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle. [it. Ford. "Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for Evans. You suffer for a pad conscience: your wife is as honest a ’omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred too. Caius. By gar, I see ’tis an honest woman. Ford. Well, I promised you a dinner. Come come, walk in the Park: I pray you, pardon me; I AOD TEL. will hereafter make known to you why I have done this. Come, wife; come, Mistress Page. I pray you, pardon me; pray heartily, pardon me. Page. Let’s go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we ll mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morn- ing to my house to breakfast: after we ’ll a-birding together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so? Ford. Any thing. [company. Evans. If there is one, I shall make two in the | Caius. If dere be one or two, I shall make-a the | [turd. | Evans. Il pray you now, remembrance to-morrow | Ford. Pray you, go, Master Page. on the lousy knave, mine host. Caius. Dat is good; by gar, with all my heart! Evans. A lousy knave, to have his gibes and his mockeries! [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.—A room in Page’s house. Enter Fenton and Anne Page. Fent. I see I cannot get thy father’s love; Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. Anne. Alas, how then ? Fent. Why, thou must be thyself. He doth object I am too great of birth; And that, my state being gall’d with my expense, I seek to heal it only by his wealth: : Besides these, other bars he lays before me, My riots past, my wild societies ; And tells me ’tis a thing impossible I should love thee but as a property. Anne. May be he tells you true. Fent. No, heaven so speed me in my time to come! Albeit I will confess thy father’s wealth Was the first motive that I woo’d thee, Anne: Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value Than stam_s in gold or sums in sealed bags; And ’tis the very riches of thyself That now I aim at. Anne. Gentle Master Fenton, Yet seek my father’s love; still seek it, sir: if opportunity and humblest suit Cannot attain it, why, then,— hark you hither! [They converse apart. Enter Shallow, Slender, and Mistress Quickly. Shal. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly: my kinsman shall speak for himself. Slen. Ill make a shaft or a bolt on’t: ’slid, ’tis | but venturing. Shal. Be not dismayed. Slen. No, she shall not dismay me: I care not for that, but that [ am afeard. Quick. Hark ye; Master Slender would speak a word with you. [choice. Anne. I come tohim. [Aside] This is my father’s O, what a world of vile ill-favour’d faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a-year! Quick. And how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a word with you. Shal. She’s coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father! Slen. I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest, how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle. Shal. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. _ Slen. Ay, that I do; as well as I love any woman in Gloucestershire. Shal. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman. Slen. Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail, | under the degree of a squire. Shal. He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure. [himselt. Anne. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for Shal. Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE V. that good comfort. She calls you, coz: Ill leave Anne. Now, Master Slender,— [you. Slen. Now, good Mistress Anne,— Anne. What is your will ? Slen. My will! ’od’s heartlings, that ’s a pretty jest indeed! I ne’er made my will yet, I thank heaven ; Tam notsuch a sickly creature, I give heaven praise. Anne. I mean, Master Slender, what would you with me. Slen. Truly, for mine own part, I would little or nothing with you. Your father and my uncle hath made motions: if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man be his dole! They can tell you how things go better than I can: you may ask your father ; here he comes. Enter Page and Mistress Page. Page. Now, Master Slender: love him, daugh. ter Anne. Why, how now! what does Master Fenton here ? You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house: I told you, sir, my daughter is disposed of. Fent. Nay, Master Page, be not impatient. Mrs. Page. Good Master Fenton, come not to my Page. She is no match for you. [child. Fent. Sir, will you hear me ? Page. No, good Master Fenton. Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in. Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton. [Exeunt Page, Shal., and Slen. A eae Speak to Mistress Page. ent. Good Mistress Page, for that I love your In such a righteous fashion as I do, [daughter Perforce, against all checks, rebukes and manners, I must advance the colours of my love And not retire: let me have your good will. Anne. Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool. Mrs. Page. I mean it not; I seek you a better hus. Quick. That’s my master, master doctor. [band. Anne. Alas, I had rather be set quick i’ the earth And bowl’d to death with turnips! [ter Fenton, Mrs. Page. Come, trouble not yourself. Good Mas- I will not be your friend nor enemy: My daughter will I question how she loves you, And as I find her,so am I affected. Till then farewell, sir: she must needs go in; Her father will be angry. Fent. Farewell, gentle mistress: farewell, Nan. [Hxeunt Mrs. Page and Anne. Quick. This is my doing,now: ‘ Nay,’ said I, ° will you cast away your child on a fool, and a physician ? Look on Master Fenton :’ this is my doing. Fent. [thank thee; and I pray thee, once to-niglit _ Give my sweet Nan this ring: there ’s for thy pains. Quick. Now heaven send thee good fortune! | Hart Fenton.| A kind heart he hath: awoman would run through fire and water for sucha kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne; or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, | would Mas- ter Fenton had her: I will do what I can for them all three; for so I have promised, and Ill be as good aS my word; but speciously for Master Fen- ton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two mistresses: whata beast am I to slack it! [ Hct. SCENE V.— A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. Fal. Bardolph, I say,— Bard. Here, sir. Fal. Go fetch mea quart of sack; puta toast in’t. [Hxit Bard.] Have I lived to be carried in a basket, likea barrow of butcher’s offal, and to be thrown in the Thames ? Well, if I be served such another trick, Ill have my brains ta’en out and buttered, and give them to a dog for a new-year’s gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse as 47 ACT ITI. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. they would have drowned a blind bitch’s puppies, fifteen i’ the litter: and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bot- tom were as deep as hell, [should down. I had been drowned, but that the shore was shelvy and shal- low,—a death that I abhor; for the water swells a man; and what athing should I have been when I had been swelled! I should have been a moun- tain of mummy. Re-enter Bardolph with sack. Bard. Here’s Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you. Fal. Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water; for my belly ’s as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in. Bard. Come in, woman! Enter Mistress Quickly. Quick. By your leave; Icry you mercy: give your worship good morrow. Fal. Take away these chalices. pottle of sack finely. Bard. With eggs, sir? Fal. Simple of itself; Ill no pullet-sperm in my brewage. [Exit Bardolph.] How now! Quick. Marry, sir, 1 come to your worship from Mistress Ford. Fal. Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I was thrown into the ford; I have my belly full of ford. Quick. Alas the day! good heart, that was not her fault: she does so take on with her men; they mis- took their erection. [promise. Fal. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman’s Quick. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would ’ yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this Go brew me a morning a-birding; she desires you once more to come to her between eight and nine: I must carry her word quickly : she 71] make youamends, I warrant you. Fal. Well, I will visit her: tell her so; and bid her think what a man is: let her consider his frail- ty, and then judge of my merit. uick. I will tell her. Fal. Do so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou ? Quick. Eight and nine, sir. Fal. Well, be gone: I will not miss her. Quick. Peace be with you, sir. [ Exit. Ful. I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word to stay within: I like his money well. ©, here he comes. Enter Ford. ‘ord. Bless you, sir! Ful. Now, Master Brook, you come to know what hath passed between me and Ford’s wife ? Ford. That, indeed, Sir John, is my business. ‘al. Master Brook, I will not lie to you: I was at her house the hour she appointed me. Ford. And sped you, sir? Ful. Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook. Ford. How so, sir? Did she change her determi- nation ? Fal. No, Master Brook; but the peaking Cornuto ler husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual ‘larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our | encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, | and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; | and at his heelsa rabble of his companions, thither | provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, for- sooth, to search his house for his wife’s love. 48 SCENE V. Ford. What, while you were there ? Fal. While I was there. Ford. And did he search for you, and could not find you? Fal. Youshall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page; gives intelligence of Ford’s approach; and, in her invention and Ford’s wife’s distraction, they conveyed me into a buck- Ford. A buck-basket ! [basket. Fal. By the Lord, a buck-basket! rammed me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins; that, Master Brook, there was the rankest compound of villanous smell that ever of- fended nostril. Ford. And how long lay you there ? Fal. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford’s knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane: they took me on their shoulders; met the jealous knave their master in the door, who asked them once or twice what they had in their basket: I quaked for fear, lest the lunatic knave would have searched it ; but fate, ordaining heshould be a cuckold, held his hand. Well: on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook: I suffered the pangs of three several deaths; first, an intolerable fright, to be detected with a jealous rotten bell- wether; next, to be compassed, like a good bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong dis- tillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease: think of that,—a man of my kidney ,— think of that,— that am as subject to heat as butter ; a man of continual dissolution and thaw: it was a miracle to ’scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath,when Iwas more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse- shoe; think of that,— hissing hot,—think of that, Master Brook. ' Ford. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffered all this. My suit then is desperate; you ’ll undertake her no more? Fal. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-birding; I have received from her another embassy of meeting; *twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook. Ford. ’Tis past eight already, sir. Fal. Is it? Iwill then address me to my appoint- ment. Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall know how I speed; and the conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her. Adieu. You shall have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford. wit. Ford. Hum! ha! is thisa vision ? is thisa dream ? do I sleep? Master Ford, awake! awake, Master Ford! there ’s a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford. This ’tis to be married! this ’tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim my- self what Iam: I will now take the lecher; he is at my house; he cannot ’scape me; ’tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny purse, nor into a pepper box: but, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not shall not make me tame: if I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me: T ll be horn-mad. [ Exit. ACT IV. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE II. Be ay Ne SCENH I.— A street. Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Quickly, and William. AGhe Page. Is he at Master Ford’s already, think’st thou: Quick. Sure he is by this, or will be presently: but, truly, he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly. Mrs. Page. I’11 be with her by and by: Ill but bring my young man here to school. Look, where his master comes; ’tis a playing-day, I see. Enter Sir Hugh Evans. How now, Sir Hugh! no school to-day? _ [to play. Evans. No; Master Slender is let the boys leave Quick. Blessing of his heart! Mrs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book. I pray you, ask him some questions in his accidence. [come. Evans. Come hither, William; hold up your head ; Mrs. Page. Come on, sirrah; hold up your head ; answer your master, be not afraid. Evans. William, how many numbers is in nouns? Will. Two. Quick. Truly, I thought there had been one num- ber more, because they say,‘ ’Od ’s nouns.’ Evans. Peace your tattlings! What is ‘ fair,’ Will. Pulcher. [William ? Quick. Polecats! there are fairer things than pole- cats, sure. Evans. You are a very simplicity ’oman: I pray you, peace. What is ‘ lapis,’ William ? Will. A stone. Evans. And what is ‘a stone,’ William ? Will. A pebble. Evans. No, it is ‘ lapis:’ I pray you, remember in your prain. Will. Lapis. Evans. That is a good William. What is he, William, that does lend articles ? Will. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined, Singulariter, nominativo, hic, heec, hoc. Evans. Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark: genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusa- tive case ? Will. Accusativo, hinc. Evans. I pray you, have your remembrance, child ; accusativo, hung, hang, hog. [you. Ae ial ‘Hang-hog’ is Latin for bacon, I warrant vans. Leave your prabbles, oman. What is the focative case, William ? Will. O.— vocativo, O. Evans. Remember, William; focative is caret. neg And that ’s a good root. vans. "Oman, forbear. Mrs. Page. Peace! Evans. What is your genitive case plural, Wil- Will. Genitive case! [liam ? Evans. Ay. Will. Genitive,—horum, harum, horum. Quick. Vengeance of Jenny’s case! fie on her! never name her, child, if she be a whore. Evans. For shame, ’oman. Quick. You do ill to teach the child such words: he teaches him to hick and to hack, which they ‘Il do fast opaugh of themselves, and to call ‘horum:’ fie upon you! Evans. ’Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no understandings for thy cases and the numbers of the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian crea- tures as I would desires. 4 Mrs. Page. Prithee, hold thy peace. Evans. Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns. Will. Forsooth, I have forgot. Hvans. It is qui, que, quod: if you forget your ‘ quies,’ your ‘ quees,’ and your ‘ quods,’ you must be preeches. Go your ways, and play; go. Mrs. Page. He is a better scholar than I thought he was. Evans. He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page. Mrs. Page. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [ Exit Sir Hugh.] Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. [ Exewnt. SCENE II. — A room in Ford’s house. Enter Falstaff and Mistress Ford. Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair’s breadth: not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, complement and cere- may of it. But are you sure of your husband nowt ho! Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber, Sir John. [Exit Falstaff. Enter Mistress Page. Mrs. Page. How now, sweetheart ! who’s at home besides yourself ? Mrs. Ford. Why, none but mine own people. Mrs. Page. Indeed! Mrs. Ford. No, certainly. [Aside to her.] Speak louder. Mrs. Page. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here. Mrs. Ford. Why? Mrs. Page. Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again: he so takes on yonder with my hus- band; so rails against all married mankind; so curses all Eve’s daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, cry-- ing, ‘ Peer out, peer out!’ that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility and pa- tience, to this his distemper he is in now: I am glad the fat knight is not here. Mrs. Ford. Why, does he talk of him ? Mrs. Page. Of none but him; and swears he was carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket ; protests to my husband he is now here, and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his sus- picion; but I am glad the knight is not here; now he shall see his own foolery. Mrs. Ford. How near is he, Mistress Page ? Mrs. Page. Hard by; at street end; he will be here anon. Mrs. Ford. Tam undone! The knight is here. Mrs. Page. Why then you are utterly shamed, and he’s but a dead man. What awoman are you! — Away with him, away with him! better shame than murder. Mrs. Ford. Which way should he go ? how should I bestow him ? Shall I put him into the basket again ? Re-enter Falstaff. Fal. No, I’ll come no more i’ the basket. May I not go out ere he come ? Mrs. Page. Alas, three of Master Ford’s brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue ag ACT IV. out; otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here ? Fal. What shall I do? I’ll creep up into the chimney. Mrs. Ford. There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces. Creep into the kiln-hole. Fal. Where is it ? Mrs. Ford. He will seek there, on my word. Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note: there is no hiding you in the house. Fal. Ill go out then. Mrs. Page. If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir John. Unless you go out disguised — Mrs. Ford. How might we disguise him ? Mrs. Page. Alas the day, I know not! There is no woman’s gown big enough for him; otherwise he might put on a hat, a muffler and a kerchief, and so escape. Fal. Good hearts, devise something: any ex- tremity rather than a mischief. Mrs. Ford. My maid’s aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above. Mrs. Puge. On my word, it will serve him; she’s as big as he is: and there’s her thrummed hat and her muffler too. Run up, Sir John. Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet Sir John: Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head. Mrs. Page. Quick, quick! we’ll come dress you straight: put on the gown the while. Mrs. Ford. I would my husband would meet him in this shape: he cannot abide the old woman of Brentford; he swears she’s a witch; forbade her my house and hath threatened to beat her. Mrs. Page. Heaven guide him to thy husband’s cudgel, and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards! Mrs. Ford. But is my husband coming ? Mrs. Page. Ay, in good sadness, is he; and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. Mrs. Ford. We’ll try that; for I’ll appoint my men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it, as they did last time. Mrs. Page. Nay, but he’ll be here presently: let’s go dress him like the witch of Brentford. Mrs. Ford. 1°11 first direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up; I’ll bring linen for him straight. [ Hvit. Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest varlet! we can- not misuse him enough. We'll leave a proof, by that which we will do, Wives may be merry, and yet honest too: We do not act that often jest and laugh; ’T is old, but true, Still swine eat all the aaa vit. Re-enter Mistress Ford with two Servants. Mrs. Ford. Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders: your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it down, obey him: quickly, dispatch. [ Hexit. First Serv. Come, come, take it up. Sec. Serv. Pray heaven it be not full of knight again. [lead. First Serv. I hope not; I had as lief bear so much Enter Ford, Page, Shallow, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. Ford. Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you any way then to unfool me again? Set down the basket, villain! Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket! O you panderly rascals! there’s a knot, a ging, a pack, a conspiracy against me: now shall the devil be shamed. What, wife, I say! Come, come forth! Behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching! 50 THK MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. [Exit Falstaff. | SCENE If. Page. Why, this passes, Master Ford; you are not to go loose any longer; you must be pinioned. Evans. Why, this is lunatics! this is mad as a mad dog! Shal. Indeed, Master Ford,this is not well, indeed. Ford. So say I too, sir. ¢ Re-enter Mistress Ford. Come hither, Mistress Ford; Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous crea- ture, that hath the jealous fool to her husband! I suspect without cause, mistress, do I ? Mrs. Ford. Heaven be my witness you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty. Ford. Well said, brazen-face! hold it out. Come forth, sirrah. [Eradling clothes out of the basket. Page. This passes! alone. Mrs. Ford. Are you not ashamed? let the clothes Ford. I shall find you anon. Evans. ’Tis unreasonable! Will you take up your wife’s clothes? Come away. Ford. Empty the basket, I say! Mrs. Ford. Why, man, why ? Ford. Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket: why may not he be there again? In my house I am sure he is: my intelligence is true; my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen. Mrs. Ford. If you find a man there, he shall die a flea’s death. Page. Here’s no man. Shal. By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford; this wrongs you. Evans. Master Ford, you must pray, and not fol- low the imaginations of your own heart: this is Ford. Well, he’s not here I seek for. [jealousies. Page. No, nor nowhere else but in your brain. Ford. Help to search my house this one time. If I find not what I seek, show no colour for my ex- tremity; let me for ever be your table-sport; let them say of me, ‘ As jealous as Ford, that searched a hollow walnut for his wife’s leman.’ Satisfy me once more; once more search with me. . Mrs. Ford. What, ho, Mistress Page! come you and the old woman. down; my husband will come into the chamber. Ford. Old woman! what old woman’s that ? Mrs. Ford. Why, itis my maid’s aunt of Brentford. ford. A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean ! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? Weare simple men; we do not know what’s brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element: we know nothing. Come down, you witch, you hag, you; come down, I say! Mrs. Ford. N ay, good, sweet husband! gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman. Re-enter Falstaff in woman’s clothes, and Mistress Page. Mrs. Page. Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand. Ford. Ill prat her. [Beating him] Out of my door, you witch, you hag, you baggage, you polecat, you ronyon! out, out! 17’ conjure you, Ill fortune- tell you. [Heit Falstaff. Mrs. Page. Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the poor woman. Mrs. Ford. Nay, he will do it. eredit for you. Ford. Hang her, witch! Evans. By yea and no, I think the ’oman isa witch indeed: I like not when a ’oman has a great peard; I spy a great peard under his muffler. Ford. Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech | you, follow; see but the issue of my jealousy: if I Good ’T is a goodly ACT IV. cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again. Page. Let’s obey his humour a little further: come, gentlemen. [Hxeunt Ford, Page, Shal., Caius, and Evans. Mrs. Page. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. Mrs. Ford. Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully, methought. Mrs.Page. I ’llhave the cudgel hallowed and hung o’er the altar; it hath done meritorious service. Mrs. Ford. What think you? may we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge ? Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared out of him: if the devil have him not in fee- simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again. Mrs. Ford. Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him ? Mrs. Page. Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband’s brains. If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers. Mrs. Ford. I 11 warrant they 1] have him publicly shamed: and methinks there would be no period to the jest, should he not be publicly shamed. Mrs. Page. Come, to the forge with it then ; shape it: I would not have things cool. [ Hxeunt. SCENE III.— A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Host and Bardolph. Bard. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses: the duke himself will be to-morrow at court, and they are going to meet him. Host. What duke should that be comes so secretly ? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen: they speak English ? Bard. Ay, sir; Ill call them to you. Host. They shall have my horses; but Ill make them pay; Ill sauce them: they have had my house a week at command; I have turned away my other guests: they must come off; I’llsaucethem. Come. [ Exeunt. SCENE IV.— 4 room in Ford’s house. Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Sir Hugh Evans. Evans. ’T is one of the best discretions of a ’oman as ever I did look upon. Page. And did he send you both these letters at an instant ? Mrs. Page. Within a quarter of an hour. [wilt; Ford. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do what thou I rather will suspect the sun with cold [stand, Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour In him that was of late an heretic, . As firm as faith. Page. ’T is well, ’tis well; no more: Be not as extreme in submission As in offence. But let our plot go forward: let our wives Yet once again, to make us public sport, Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow, Where we may take him and disgrace him for it. Ford. There is no better way than that they spoke of. _ Page. How? to send him word they’ll meet him in the park at midnight? Fie, fie! he ’ll never come. Hwans. You say he has been thrown in the rivers and has been grievously peaten as an old ’oman: me- thinks there should be terrors in him that he should not come; methinks his flesh is punished, he shall have no desires. Page. So think I too. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE IV. Mrs. Ford. Devise but how you’ll use him when he comes, And let us two devise to bring him thither. Mrs. Page. There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns; And there he blasts the tree and takes the cattle And makes milch-kine yield blood and shakes a chain In a most hideous and dreadful manner: You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know The superstitious idle-headed eld Received and did deliver to our age This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth. Page. Why, yet there want not many that do fear In deep of night to walk by this Herne’s oak: But what of this ? Mrs. Ford. Marry, this is our device; That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us. Page. Well, let it not be doubted but he 71] come; And in this shape when you have brought him thither, What shall be done with him ? what is your plot ? Mrs. Page. That likewise have we thought upon, and thus: Nan Page my daughter and my little son And three or four more of their growth well dress Like urchins, ouphes and fairies, green and white, With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, And rattles in their hands: upon a sudden, As Falstaff, she and I, are newly met, Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once With some diffused song: upon their sight, We two in great amazedness will fly: Then let them all encircle him about And, fairy-like, to-pinch the unclean knight, And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, In their so sacred paths he dares to tread In shape profane. Mrs. Ford. And till he tell the truth, Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound . And burn him with their tapers. Mrs. Page. The truth being known, We'll all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit, And mock him home to Windsor. Ford. The children must Be practised well to this, or they ‘ll ne’er do ’t. Evans. I will teach the children their behaviours ; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with my taber. [vizards. Ford. That will be excellent. I Il goand buy them Mrs. Page. My Nan shall be the queen of all the fairies, Finely attired in a robe of white. Page. That silk will I go buy. [Aside] And in that Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away [time And marry her at Eton. Gosend to Falstaff straight. Ford. Nay, Ill to him again in name of Brook: He ’ll tell me all his purpose: sure, he ’ll come. Mrs. Page. Fear not you that. Go get us proper- ies And tricking for our fairies. Evans. Let us about it: it isadmirable pleasures and fery honest knaveries. [Hxeunt Page, Ford, and Evans. Mrs. Page. Go, Mistress Ford, Send quickly to Sir John, to know his mind. [Huit Mrs. Ford. Ill to the doctor: he hath my good will, And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot ; And he my husband best of all affects. The doctor is well money’d, and his friends Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her, Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her. [ Hx. 51 ACL DY SCENE V.— A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Host and Simple. Host. What wouldst thou have, boor ? what, thick- skin ? speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap. Sim. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender. Host. There’s his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing bed and truckle-bed ; ’t is painted about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go knock and call; hel speak like an Anthropophagin- ian unto thee: knock, I say. Sim. There’s an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber: I7ll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come down; I come to speak with her, indeed. Host. Ha! a fat woman! the knight may be rob- bed: Ill call. Bully knight! bully Sir John! speak from thy lungs military: art thou there? it is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls. Fal. [Above] How now, mine host! Host. Here’s a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the com- | | I ing down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully let her descend; my chambers are honourable: fie | yrivacy ? fie! ; y Enter Falstaff. Fal. There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with me; but she’s gone. [Brentford ? Sim. Pray you, sir, was ’t not the wise woman of Fal. Ay, marry, was it, mussel-shell: what would you with her? Sim. My master, sir, Master Slender, sent to her, seeing her go through the streets, to know, sir, whether one Nyn, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the chain or no. Fal. I spake with the old woman about it. Sim. And what says she, I pray, sir ? Fal. Marry, she says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him | of it. Sim. I would I could have spoken with the woman herself; I had other things to have spoken with her too from him. Fal. What are they ? let us know. Host. Ay, come; quick. Sim. I may not conceal them, sir. Host. Conceal them, or thou diest. Sim. Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mis- tress Anne Page; to know if it were my master’s fortune to have her or no. Fal. ’T is, tis his fortune. Sim. What, sir? Fal. To have her, or no. told me so. Sim. May I be bold to say so, sir ? Fal. Ay, sir; like who more bold. Sim. I thank your worship: I shall make my master glad with these tidings. | Heit. Host. Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was there a wise woman with thee ? } Fal. Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught me more wit than ever I learned before in my life; and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for my learning. Enter Bardolph. Bard. Out, alas, sir! cozenage, mere cozenage! Host. Where be my horses? speak well of them, varletto. Bard. Run away with the cozeners; for so soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off from behind one of them, in a slough of mire; and set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses. Host. They are gone but to meet the duke, vil- lain: do not say they be fled; Germans are honest men. Go; say the woman 52 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE VI. Enter Sir Hugh Evans. Evans. Where is mine host ? Host. What is the matter, sir? Evans. Have a care of your entertainments: there is a friend of mine come to town, tells me there is three cozen-germans that has cozened all the hosts of Readins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell you for good will, look you: you are wise and full of gibes and vlouting- stocks, and ’tis not convenient you should be coz- ened. Fare you well. [ Hatt. Enter Doctor Caius. Caius. Vere is mine host de Jarteer ? Host. Here, master doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma. Caius. I cannot tell vat is dat: but it is tell-a me dat you make grand preparation for a duke de Jamany: by my trot, dere is no duke dat the court is know to come. I tell you for good vill: adieu. [ Hxtt. Host. Hue and cry, villain, go! Assist me, knight. am undone! Fly, run, hue and cry, villain! I am undone! [Exeunt Host and Bard. Fal. I would all the world might be cozened; for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it should come to the ear of the court, how I have been trans- formed and how my transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat drop by drop and liquor fishermen’s boots with me: I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never prospered since I forswore myself at prime- ro. Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would repent. Enter Mistress Quickly. Now, whence come you? Quick. From the two parties, forsooth. fal. The devil take one party and his dam the other! and so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more for their sakes, more than the villan- ous inconstancy of man’s disposition is able to bear. Quick. And have not they suffered? Yes, I war- rant; speciously one of them; Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her. . Fal. What tellest thou me of black and blue? I was beaten myself into all the colours of the rain- bow; and I was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brentford: but that my admirable dex- terity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, delivered me, the knave constable had set me i’ the stocks, i’ the common stocks, for a witch. Quick. Sir, let me speak with you in your cham- ber: you shall hear how things go; and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say some- what. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are su crossed. Fal. Come up into my chamber. [ Hxeunt. SCENE VI.—Another room in the Garter Inn. Enter Fenton and Host. Host. Master Fenton, talk not to me; my mind is heavy: I will give over all. [pose, Fent. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my pur- And, as I am a gentleman, I ll give thee A hundred pound in gold more than your loss. Host. I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will at the least keep your counsel. Fent. From time to time I have acquainted you With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page; Who mutually hath answer’d my affection, | So far forth as herself might be her chooser, AGTIV. THE MHREY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE V. Even to my wish: I have a letter from her Of such contents as you will wonder at; The mirth whereof so larded with my matter, ‘That neither singly can be manifested, Without the show of both; fat Falstaff Hath a great scene: the image of the jest 1’ll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host. To-night at Herne’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, ever strong against that match And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed That he shall likewise shuffle her away, While other sports are tasking of their minds, And at the deanery, where a priest attends, Straight marry her: to this her mother’s plot She seemingly obedient likewise hath Made promise to the doctor. Now, thus it rests: Her father means she shall be all in white, And in that habit, when Slender sees his time To take her by the hand and bid her go, She shall go with him: her mother hath intended, The better to denote her to the doctor, For they must all be mask’d and vizarded, That quaint in green she shall be loose enrobed, With ribands pendent, flaring ’bout her head ; And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token, The maid hath given consent to go with him. Host. W hich means she to deceive,father or mother? Fent. 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 the lawful name of marrying, To give our hearts united ceremony. Host. Well, husband your device; Ill to the vicar: Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. Fent. So shall I evermore be bound to thee; Besides, I 1] make a present recompense. [Hvewnt. INGE We SCENE I.—A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff and Mistress Quickly. Fal. Prithee, no more prattling; go. Ill hold. This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away! go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. way! Quick. Ill provide you a chain; and 1711 do what I can to get you a pair of horns. Fal. Away, I say; time wears: hold up your head, and mince. | [Hait Mrs. Quickly. Enter Ford. How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter will be known to-night, or never. Be you in the Park about midnight, at Herne’s oak, and you shall see wonders. Ford. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed ? Fal. I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like apoor old man: but I came from her, Master Brook, likea poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you: he beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver’s beam; because I know also life isasbuttle. Iam in haste; go along with me: [71] tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played truant and whipped top, IL knew not what ’t was to be beaten till lately. Fol- low me: Ill tell you strange things of this knave Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow. [Evweunt. SCENE II.— Windsor Park. Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. Page. Come, come; we’!l couch i’ the castle-ditch till we see the light of our fairies. eemember, son Slender, my daughter. Slen. Ay,forsooth; I have spoke with her and we have a nay-word how to know one another: I come to her in white, and cry ‘mum; she cries ‘ budget ;’ and by that we know one another. Shal. That’s good too: but what needs either your ‘mum’ or her ‘ budget’? the white will decipher her wellenough. It hath struck ten o’clock. Page. The night is dark ; light and spirits will be- come it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let ’s away; follow me. [ Hiceunt. SCENE ITI.— A street leading to the Park. Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Doctor Caius. p Mrs. Page. Master doctor, my daughter is in green: when you see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the Park: we two must go together. Caius. I know vat I have to do. Adieu. Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [Hit Caius.] My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor’s marrying my daughter: but ’tis no matter: better a little chiding than a great deal of heart-break. Mrs. Ford. Where is Nan now and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil Hugh ? Mrs. Page. They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne’s oak, with obscured lights; which, at the very instant of Falstaff’s and our meeting, they will at once display to the night. Mrs. Ford. That cannot choose but amaze him. Mrs. Page. If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked. Mrs. Ford. Well betray him finely. [ery Mrs. Page. Against such lewdsters and their lech- Those that betray them do no treachery. Mrs. Ford. The hour draws on. ‘To the oak, to the oak! [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— Windsor Park. Enter Sir Hugh Evans disguised, with others as Fairies. Evans. Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts: be pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit; and when I give the watch-’ords, do as I pid you: come, come; trib, trib. [ Hxeunt. SCENE V.— Another part of the Park. Enter Falstaff disguised as Herne. Fal. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on. Now, the hot-blooded gods assist 53 ACT V. me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Eu- ropa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love! that, in some respects, makes a beast a man, in some other, amana beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan for the love of Leda. O omnipotent Love! how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose! V is no matter: ne’er a fantastical knave | Phe. I would not be thy executioner: of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Ezit. | I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye: SCENE IV.—The forest. *T is pretty, sure, and very probable, Ek ; ; That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, nter Rosalind and Celia. Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Ros. Never talk to me; I will weep. Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murderers! _Cel. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to con- | Now I do frown on thee with all my heart; sider that tears do not become a man. And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee: fos. But have I not cause to weep ? [weep. | Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down; Cel. As good cause as one would desire; therefore | Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, Jtos. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. | Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers! Cel. Something browner than Judas’s: marry, his | Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: kisses are Judas’s own children. | Seratch thee but with a pin, and there remains 182 ; | AS YOU Some sear 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. O dear Phebe, If ever,—as that ever may be near,— You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love’s keen arrows make. Phe. But till that time Come not thou near me: and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; As till that time I shall not pity thee. [mother, Ros. And why, I pray you? Who might be your That you insult, exult, and all at once, [beauty,— Over the wretched? What though you have no As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed — Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? Why, what means this? Whydo you look on me? 1 see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too! No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it: *T is not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship. You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain ? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman: ’tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favour’d children : *T is not her glass, but you, that flatters her; And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her. But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love: For I must tell you friendly in your ear, Sell when you can: you are not for all markets: Cry the man mercy; love him; take his 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 together : I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. fos. He’s fallen in love with your foulness 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 Phe. For no ill-will I bear you. [me ? ios. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine: Besides, Llike younot. If you will know my house, *T is at the tuft of olives here hard by. Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud: though all the world could see, ACT IV. _ None could be so abused in sight as he. Come, to our flock.. , [Hxeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin. LIKE IT. Phe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might, ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight ?’ Sil. Sweet Phebe,— Phe. Ha, what say’st thou, Silvius ? Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be: If you do sorrow at my grief in love, , By giving love your sorrow and my grief Were both extermined. Phe. Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly ? Sil. I would have you. Phe. Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee, And yet it is not that I bear thee love; But since that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, I will endure, and I ’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: loose now and then A scatter’d smile, and that Il] live upon. [while? Phe. Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me ere- SCENE I. Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft; And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds That the old carlot once was master of. Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; ’T is but a peevish boy; yet he talks well: But what care I for words? yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth: not very pretty: But, sure, he’s proud, and yet his pride becomes him: He ’l) make a proper man: the best thing in him Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue Did make offence his eye did heal it up. i He is not very tall; 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 {ference Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’t was just the dif- Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him; but, for my part, I love him not nor hate him not; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him: For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black and my hair black, And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me: I marvel why I answer’d not again: But that’s all one; omittance is no quittance. I ll write to him a very taunting letter, And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius ? Sil. Phebe, with all my heart. Phe. Ill write it straight ; The matter ’s in my head and in my heart: I will be bitter with him and passing short. Go with me, Silvius. [ Hxeunt. wAsGenl EV. . SCENE I.— The forest. Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques. Jaq. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better ac- quainted with thee. _Ttos. They say you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. Lam so; I do love it better than laughing. fos. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards. Jaq. Why, ’t is good to be sad and say nothing. Ros. Why then, ’tis good to be a post. Jag. I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation, nor the musician’s, which 1s fantastical, nor the courtier’s, which is proud, nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer’s, which is politic, nor the lady’s, which is nice, nor the lover’s, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, ex- tracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry | ¢ 183 ACT IV. contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s; then, to have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. 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! Enter Orlando. Orl. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind! | Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse. [ Exit. Ros. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam ina eee Why, how now, Orlando! where have you een all this while ? Youa 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 athousand parts and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the atf- fairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’ the shoulder, but Ill warrant him Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. {heart-whole. Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as lief be wooed of a snail. Orl. Of a snail ? fos. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman: besides, he brings his destiny with him. Orl. What ’s that ? Ros. Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife. Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is fos. And I am your Rosalind. [virtuous. Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you. Ros. Come, woo me, woo me, for nowI am ina holiday humour and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Orl. I would kiss before I spoke. [Rosalind ? Rios. Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking — God warn us!—matter, the cleanliest shift is to Orl. How if the kiss be denied ? [kiss. fios. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter. vl. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress ? fios. Marry, that should you, if I were your mis- tress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my Orl. What, of my suit ? [wit. fos. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind ? Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her, tos. Well in her person I say I will not have you. Orl. Then in mine own person I die. Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, vide- licet, inalove-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went 184 AS YOU\LLKE Tf. SCENE lI. but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and being taken with the cramp was drowned: and the foolish coroners of that age found it was ‘ Hero of Sestos.’ But these are all lies: men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for, I protest, her frown might kill me. fos. By this hand, it will not killa fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I will grant it. Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. tos. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays Orl. And wilt thou have me? {and all. Ros. Ay, and twenty such. Orl. What sayest thou ? Ros. Are you not good ? Orl. I hope so. fos. 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 ? Url. Pray thee, marry us. Cel. I cannot say the words. Fos. You must begin, ‘ Will you, Orlando—’ Cel. Goto. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Orl. I will. [Rosalind ? Ros, Ay, but when ? Url. Why now; as fast as she can marry us. tos. Then you must say ‘I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.’ Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. fos. I might ask you for your commission; but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: there’s a girl goes before the priest ; and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions. Orl. So do all thoughts; they are winged. Fos. Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her. Orl. For ever and a day. fos. Say ‘a day,’ without the ‘ever.’ No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires 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 life, she will do as I do. Orl. O, but she is wise. Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman’s wit and it will out at the casement ; shut that and ’t will out at the keyhole; stop that, ’t will fly with the smoke out of the chimney. Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say ‘ Wit, whither wilt ?’ ftos. Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed. {that ? Orl. And what wit could wit have to excuse Ros. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool! Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. [hours. fios. Alas! dear love, I cannot lack thee two Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner: by two o’clock I will be with thee again. fos. Ay, gO your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove: my friends told me as much, and I thought no less: that flattering tongue ACT IV. of yours won me: ’tis but one cast away, and so, come, death! Two o’clock is your hour ? Ori. Ay, sweet Rosalind. Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise and the most hollow lover and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure and keep your promise. Ori. With no less religion than if thou wert in- deed my Rosalind: so adieu. Ros. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try: adieu. [Exit Orlando. Cel. You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest. Ros. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an 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 bastard of Venus that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses every one’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. Ill tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I ot go find a shadow and sigh till he come. Cet. And I’ll sleep. [ Hxewnt. SCENE II. The forest. Enter Jaques, Lords, and Foresters. Jaq. Which is he that killed the deer ? A d. Sir, it was I. Jaq. Let ’s present him to the duke, like a Roman conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose ? For. Yes, sir. Jaq. Sing it: tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough. SONG. For. What shall he have that kill’d the deer ? His leather skin and horns to wear. Then sing him home; [The rest shall bear this burden. Take thou no scorn to wear the horn; It was a crest ere thou wast born: Thy father’s father wore it, And thy father bore it: ‘The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. SCENE III. The forest. Enter Rosalind and Celia. ios. How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock ? and here much Orlando! Cel. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to sleep. Look, who comes here. [ Hxeunt. Enter Silvius. Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth; My gentle Phebe bid me give you this: I know not the contents; but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action hich she did use as she was writing of it, It bears an angry tenour: pardon me; I am but as a guiltless messenger. ASO DPE E 7. SCENE III. Ros. Patience herself would startle at this letter And play the isd Seow bear this, bear all: She says I am not fair, that I lack manners; She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, Were man as rare as pheenix. ’Od’s my will! Her love is not the hare that I do hunt: Why writes she soto me? Well, shepherd, well, This is a letter of your own device. Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents: Phebe did write 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-colour’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. fos. Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style, A style for challengers; why, she defies me, Like Turk to Christian : women’s gentle brain Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter ? Sil. So please you, for I never heard it yet; Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty. Ros. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes. [ Reads. Art thou god to shepherd turn’d, That a maiden’s heart hath burn’d ? Can a woman rail thus ? Sil. Call you this railing ? Ros. [Reads] Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart ? Did you ever hear such railing ? Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me. Meaning me a beast. If the scorn of your bright eyne Have power to raise such love in mine, Alack, in me what strange effect Would they work in mild aspect! Whiles you chid me, I did love; How then might your prayers move! He that brings this love to thee Little knows this love in me: And by him seal up thy mind ; Whether that thy youth and kind Will the faithful offer take Of me and all that I can make; Or else by him my love deny, And then I’ll study how 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 love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless thou en- treat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company. [Hzit Silvius. Enter Oliver. Oli. Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees ? Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom : The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream Left on your right hand brings you to the place. But at this hour the house doth keep itself; There ’s none within. Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, 185 SAS) SOE, Then should I know you by description ; Such garments and such years: ‘ The boy is fair, Of female favor, and bestows himself Like a ripe sister: the woman low And browner than her brother.’ Are not you The owner of the house I did inquire for ? Cel. It is no boast, being ask’d, to say we are. Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both, And to that youth he calls his Rosalind He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he? Ros. Lam: what must we understand by this ? Oli. Some of my shame; if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where This handkercher was stain’d. 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 befel! he threw his eye aside, And mark what object did present itself: Under an oak, whose boughs were moss’d with age And high top bald with dry antiquity, A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair, Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself, Who with her head nimble in threats approach’d The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, Seeing Orlando, it unlink’d itself, And with indented glides did slip away Into a bush: under which bush’s shade A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, When that the sleeping man should stir; for ’tis The royal disposition of that beast To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead: This seen, Orlando did approach the man And found it was his brother, his elder brother. Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother ; And he did render him the most unnatural That lived amongst men. Oli. And well he might so do, For well I know he was unnatural. fos. But, to Orlando: did he leave him there, Food to the suck’d and hungry lioness ? Oli. Twice did he turn his back and purposed so; But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness, Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling From miserable slumber I awaked. Cel. Are you his brother ? Ros. Was ’t you he rescued ? ACT V. LIKE IT. SCENE I. Simieilng ’t you that did so oft contrive to kill 1im 3 Oli. "T was 1; but *tis not I: I do not shame To tell you what I was, since my conversion So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ? } By and by. Oli. When from the first to last betwixt us two Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed, As how I came into that desert place : — In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, Committing me unto my brother’s love; Who led me instantly unto his cave, There stripp’d himself, and here upon his arm The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. Brief, I recover’d him, bound up his wound ; And, after some small space, being strong at heart, He sent me hither, stranger as I am, To tell this story, that you might excuse His broken promise, and to give this napkin Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. [ Rosalind swoons. Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Gany- mede! Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. Cel. There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede! . Oli. Look, he recovers. Fos. I would I were at home. Cel. Well 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. Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited! I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho! Oli. This was not counterfeit: there is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest. Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. Oli. Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man. Ros. So I do: but, i’ faith, I should have been a woman by right. Cel. Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw homewards. Good sir, go with us. Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. fos. I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go? [ Hxeunt. AGE TV SCENE I.— The forest. Enter Touchstone and Audrey. Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey. Aud. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman’s saying. Touch. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you. Aud. Ay, 1 know who ’tis; he hath no interest in me in the world: here comes the man you mean. Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown: by my troth, we that have good wits have Pugh s answer for; we shall be flouting; we can- not hold. 186 Enter William. Will. Good even, Audrey.. Aud. God ye good even, William. Will. And good even to you, sir. Touch. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, prithee, be covered. How old are Will. Five and twenty, sir. [you, friend ? Touch. A ripe age. Is thy name William ? Will. William, sir. | Touch. A fairname. Wast born i’ the forest here? Will. Ay, sir, I thank God. | Touch. ‘ Thank God;’ a good answer. Artrich? Will. Faith, sir, so so. a Touch. ‘So so’ is good, very good, very excellent ' good; and yet it is not; it is but soso. Art thou | Will Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. [wise ? ACT V. AS YOU. LIKE TL. SCENE II. Touch. Why, thousayest well. I do now remem- ber a saying, ‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’ The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid ? Will. I do, sir. Touch. Give me your hand. Art thou learned ? Will. No, sir. Touch. Then learn this of me: to have, is to have; for it isa figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse is he: now, you are not ipse, for I am he. Will. Which he, sir ? Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon,—which is in the vulgar leave,—the society,— which in the boorish is company,—of this female,—which in the com- mon is woman; which together is, abandon the society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest ; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction; I will o’er-run thee with pol- icy ; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways: there- fore tremble, and depart. Aud. Do, good William. Will. God rest you merry, sir. [ Eavit. Enter Corin. Cor. Our master and mistress seek you; come, away, away ! Touch. Trip, Audrey! trip, Audrey! I attend, T attend. [ Hveunt. SCENE III.— The forest. Enter Orlando and Oliver. Orl. Ist possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? that but seeing you should love her ? and loving woo ? and, wooing, she should grant ? and will you persever to enjoy her ? . Oli. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sud- den wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say ‘with me, I love Aliena; say with her, that she loves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other : it shall be to your good; for my father’s house and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland’s will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd. Orl. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow: thither will I invite the duke and all ’s contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for look you, here comes my Rosalind. Enter Rosalind. ios. God save you, brother. Oli. And you, fair sister. [ Exit. fios. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf! Orl. It is my arm. fios. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion. | Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. Jios. Did your brother tell you how I counter- caer to swoon when he showed me your handker- cher : Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that. Rios. O, I know where you are: nay, ’t is true: there was never anything so sudden but the fight | of two rams and Cesar’s thrasonical brag of ‘I _ Came, Saw, and overcame;’ for your brother and | my sister no sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but they loved, no sooner loved but they _ Sighed, no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason, no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage: they are in the very wrath of love and they will together; clubs cannot part them. Orl. They shall be married to-morrow, and I will bid the duke to the nuptial. But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for. ttos. Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind ? ) Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. ios. I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. Know of me then, for now I speak to some purpose, that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit: I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things: I have, since I was three years old, conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosa- lind so near your heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry her: I know into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow human as she is and without any danger. Orl. Speakest thou in sober meanings ? ftos. By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say Iam a magician. Therefore, put you in your best array; bid your friends; for if you will be Petty to-morrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, TRE Enter Silvius and Phebe. Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers. Phe. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness, To show the letter that I writ to you. fos. I care not if I have: it is my study To seem despiteful and ungentle to you: You are there followed by a faithful shepherd ; Look upon him, love him ; he worships you. [love. Phe. Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’t is to Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and tears; And so am I for Phebe. Phe. And I for Ganymede. Orl. And I for Rosalind. Ros. And I for no woman. Sil. It is to be all made of faith and service; And so am I for Phebe. Phe. And I for Ganymede. Orl. And I for Rosalind. 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 impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance; And so am I for Phebe. Phe. And so am I for Ganymede. Orl. And so am I for Rosalind. Ros. And so am I for no woman. Phe. If this be so, why blame you me to love your Sil. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? Fos. 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. [70 Sil.] I will help you, if I can: [To Phe.] I would love you, if I could. To-morrow meet me all to- gether. [Zo Phe.] I will marry you, if ever I marry 187 AS LOG woman, and Ill be married to-morrow: [To Orl.] I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow: [To Sil.] I will content you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married to-morrow. [Zo Orl.] As you love Rosa- lind, meet: [Zo Sil.] as you love Phebe, meet; and as I love no woman, 1’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. SCENE III.— The forest. Enter Touchstone and Audrey. Touch. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to- morrow will we be married. Aud. Ido desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come two of the banished duke’s pages. ACT V. [ Exeunt. Enter two Pages. First Page. Well met, honest gentleman. Touch. By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and a song. Sec. Page. We are for you: sit i’ the middle. First Page. Shall we clap into ’t roundly, without hawking or spitting or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice ? Sec. Page. I’ faith, i’ faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse. SONG. It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: Sweet lovers love the spring. Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In spring time, &c. This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a flower In spring time, Xe. And therefore take the present time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; For love is crowned with the prime In spring time, &c. Touch. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable. First Page. You are deceived, sir: we kept time, we lost not our time. Touch. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you; and God mend your voices! Come, Audrey. [Evweunt. SCENE IV.—The forest. Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia. Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy Can do all this that he hath promised ? Orl. [sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not ; As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe. feos. Patience once more, whiles our compact is urged : ; You say, if 1 bring in your Rosalind, You will bestow her on Orlando here ? 188 TTAIOTG EL. SCENE IV. Duke S. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. . {her ? Ros. And you say, you will have her, when I bring Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king: Ros. You say, you’ll marry me, if I be willing ? 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 ? Sil. Though to have her and death were both one thing. Ros. [have promised to make all this matter even. Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter; You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter: Keep your word, Phebe, that you ’ll marry me, Or else refusing me, to wed this shepherd: 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 shepherd boy Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour. Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him Methought he was a brother to your daughter: But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born, And hath been tutor’d in the rudiments Of many desperate studies by his uncle, Whom he reports to be a great magician, Obscured in the circle of this forest. Enter Touchstone and Audrey. Jaq. There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes | a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues | are called fools. Touch. Salutation and greeting to you 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 flat- | tered a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one. Jag. And how was that ta’en up? : Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause. Jug. How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow. Duke S. I like him very well. Touch. God ’ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and forswear; according as marriage binds and blood breaks ; a poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will: rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster. Duke S. By my faith, he is very swift and sen- tentious. Touch. According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such duleet diseases. Jaq. But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause ? ; Touch. Upon a lie seven times’ removed : — bear your body more seeming, Audrey : —as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard: he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was: this is called the Retort Courteous. If I sent him word again ‘it was not well cut,’ he would send me word, he cut it to please himself: this is called the Quip Modest. If again ‘it was not well cut,’ he disabled my judgment: this is called the Reply Churlish. If again ‘it was not well cut,’ he mould answer, I spake not true: this , ‘ is called the Reproof Valiant. If again ‘it was not i ACT V. well cut,’ he would say, I lied: this is called the Countercheck Quarrelsome: and so to the Lie Cir- cumstantial and the Lie Direct. Jag. And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut ? Touch. I durst go no further than the Lie Circum- stantial, nor he durst not give me the Lie Direct ; and so we measured swords and parted. Jag. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie ? Touch. O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book ; as you have books for good manners: I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish ; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Countercheck Quarrelsome ; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that too, with an If. I knew when | seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as, ‘If you said so, then I said so ;’ and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the only peace-maker; much virtue in If. Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he’s as good at any thing and yet a fool. Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit. Enter Hymen, Rosalind, and Celia. . Still Music. Then is there mirth in heaven, When earthly things made even Atone together. Good duke, receive thy daughter: Hymen from heaven brought her, _ Yea, brought her hither, That thou mightst join her hand with his Whose heart within his bosom is. Ros. pe uke] To youl give myself,for lam yours. [To Or |) To you I give myself, for I am yours. Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter. Orl. If there be truth in sight, youare my Rosalind. Phe. Vf sight and shape be true, Why then, my love adieu! fos. 17ll have no father, if you be not he: -17ll have no husband, if you be not he: Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she. Hym. Peace, ho! I bar confusion: *T is I must make conclusion Of these most strange events: Here’s eight that must take hands To join in Hymen’s bands, If truth holds true contents. You and you no cross shall part: You and you are heart in heart : You to his love must accord, Or have a woman to your lord: You and you are sure together, As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, Feed yourselves with questioning ; That reason wonder may diminish, How thus we met, and these things finish. SONG. Wedding is great Juno’s crown: O blessed bond of board and bed! *T is Hymen peoples every town; High wedlock then be honoured: Honour, high honour and renown, To Hymen, god of every town! Hyin. Duke S. O my dear niece, welcome thou art to AS YOU LIKE ITT. SCENE IV. Enter Jaques de Boys. Jaq. de B. Let me have audience for a word or I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, [two: That bring these tidings to this fair assembly. Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day Men of great worth resorted to this forest, _, Address’d a mighty power; which were on foot, In his own conduct, purposely to take His brother here and put him to the sword: And to the skirts of this wild wood he came; Where meeting with an old religious man, After some question with him, was converted Both from his enterprise and from the world, His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother, And all their lands restored to them again That were with him exiled. This to be true, I do engage my life. Duke 8S. Welcome, young man; Thou offer’st fairly to thy brothers’ wedding: To one his lands withheld, and to the other A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. First, in this forest let us do those ends That here were well begun and well begot: And after, every of this happy number That have endured shrewd days and nights with us Shall share the good of our returned fortune, According to the measure of their states. Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity And fall into our rustic revelry. Play, music! And you, brides and bridegrooms all, With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures fall. Jaq. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly, The duke hath put on a religious life And thrown into neglect the pompous court ? Jag. de B. He hath. Jaq. To him will I: out of these convertites There is much matter to be heard and learn’d. [To Duke] You to your former honour I bequeath ; Your patience and your virtue well deserves it: [Zo Orl.] You to.a love that your true faith doth merit: [allies : [To Oli.] You to your land and love and great [To Sil.] You to a long and well-deserved bed: [To Touch.]| And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage {ures : Is but for two months victuall’d. So, to your pleas- I am for other than for dancing measures. Duke 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 As we do trust they ’ll end, in true delights. [rites, A dance. EPILOGUE. Ros. It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but it isno more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good bushes, and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not become me: my way is to conjure you; and [ll begin with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as please you: and I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women —as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hates them —that be- tween you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not: and, I am sure, as | Even daughter, welcome, in no less degree. [me! | Phe. I will not eat my word, now thou art mine; | | Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. many as have good beards or good faces or sweet breaths will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, _ bid me farewell. [ Haxeunt. 189 LEAT oF ay, THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. DRAMATIS PERSON, A Lord. Tranio, A Christopher Sly, a tinker. Persons in the Biondello, \ servanla to Laie Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, | Induction. Grumio, serventeds Dateien and Servants. ; Curtis, Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. A Pedant. Vincentio, an old gentleman of Pisa. Katharina, the shrew, \ daughters to Baptista, Lucentio, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca. Bianca, Petruchio, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Widow. Katharina, Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Bap Gremio, tista and Petruchio. itors to Bianca. Hortensio, \ sui - f | SCENE — Padua, and Petruchio’s country house. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLIX.] INDUCTION. SCENE I.— Before an alehouse on a heath. Enter Hostess and Sly. Sly. Ill pheeze you, in faith. Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue! Sly. Ye are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles; we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore paucas pallabris; let the world slide: sessa! [burst ? Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have Sly. No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy: go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. Host. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third-borough. [ Hat. Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I 7] an- swer him by law: I ’ll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly. [Falls asleep. Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with his train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds: Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d; And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth’d brach. Saw’st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault ? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. f[lord; First Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my He cried upon it at the merest loss And twice to-day pick’d out the dullest scent: Trust me, I take him for the better dog. Lord. Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet, I would esteem him worth a dozen such. But sup them well and look unto them all: To-morrow I intend to hunt again. First Hun. I will, my lord. Lord. What’s here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe ? Sec. Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’d with ale, This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. flies! Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were convey’d to bed, Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, A most delicious banquet by his bed, 190 [een en aan InnnEnnenee cee And brave attendants near him when he wakes, Would not the beggar then forget himself? [choose. First Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot Sec. Hun. It would seem strange unto him when he waked. [fancy. Lord. Even as a flattering dream or worthless Then take him up and manage well the jest: Carry him gently to my fairest chamber And hang it round with all my wanton pictures: Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet: Procure me music ready when he wakes, To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ; And if he chance to speak, be ready straight And with a low submissive reverence Say ‘ What is it your honour will command ?’ Let one attend him with a silver basin Full of rose-water and bestrew’d with flowers ; Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, And say ‘Will’t please your lordship cool your Some one be ready with a costly suit [hands ?’ And ask him what apparel he will wear; Another tell him of his hounds and horse, And that his lady mourns at his disease: Persuade him that he hath been lunatic; And when he says he is, say that he dreams, For he is nothing but a mighty lord. This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs: It will be pastime passing excellent, If it be husbanded with modesty. First Hun. My lord, I warrant you we will piay As he shall think by our true diligence [our part, He is no less than what we say he is. Lord. Take him up gently and to bed with him, And each one to his office when he wakes. [Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds. Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds: [Exit Servingman. Belike, some noble gentleman that means, Travelling some journey, to repose him here. Re-enter Servingman. How now! who is it ? Serv. An’t please your honour, players That offer service to your lordship. Lord. Bid them come near. INDUCTION. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE II. Enter Players. Now, fellows, you are welcome. Players. We thank your honour. Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to-night ? A Player. So please your lordship to accept our duty. Lord. Withallmy heart. This fellow I remember, Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son: ”T was where you woo’d the gentlewoman so well: I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d. [means. A Player. I think ’t was Soto that your honour Lord. ’Tis very true: thou didst it excellent. Well, you are come to me in happy time; The rather for I have some sport in hand Wherein your cunning can assist me much, There is a lord will hear you play to-night: But I am doubtful of your modesties ; Lest over-eyeing of his odd behaviour,— For yet his honour never heard a play,— You break into some merry passion And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs, 1f you should smile he grows impatient. [selves, A Player. Fear not, my lord: we can contain our- Were he the veriest antic in the world. Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome every one: Let them want nothing that my house affords. [ Hxit one with the Players. Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page, And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady: That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber ; And call him ‘ madam,’ do him obeisance. Tell him from me, as he will win my love, He bear himself with honourable action, Such as he hath observed in noble ladies Unto their lords, by them accomplished : Such duty to the drunkard let him do With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy, And say ‘ What is ’t your honour will command, Wherein your lady and your humble wife May show her duty and make known her love ?’ And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses, And with declining head into his bosom, Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy’d To see her noble lord restored to health, Who for this seven years hath esteemed him No better than a poor and loathsome beggar: And if the boy have not a woman’s gift To rain a shower of commanded tears, An onion will do well for such a shift, Which in a napkin being close convey’d Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst: Anon I’ll give thee more instructions. [ Hxit a Servingman. I know the boy will well usurp the grace, Voice, gait and action of a gentlewoman: I long to hear him call the drunkard husband, And how my men will stay themselves from laughter When they do homage to this simple peasant. 1’ll in to counsel them ; haply my presence _ May well abate the over-merry spleen _ Which otherwise would grow into extremes. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— A bedchamber in the Lord’s house. inter aloft Sly, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with basin and ewer and other appurtenances ; and Lords, Sly. For God’s sake, a pot of small ale. First Serv. Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack ? Sec. Serv. Will ’t please your honour taste of these conserves ? Third Serv. What raiment will your honour wear to-day ? Sly. Iam Christophero Sly; call not me ‘ honour’ nor ‘lordship:’ I ne’er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef: ne’er ask me what raiment Ill wear; for | have no more doublets than backs, no more stock- ings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather. Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your O, that a mighty man of such descent, [honour! Of such possessions and so high esteem, Should be infused with so foul a spirit! Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son of Burtonheath, by birth a pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by trans- mutation a bear-herd, and now by present profes- sion a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale- wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say Iam not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not bestraught: here ’s— Third Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn! [droop! Sec. Serv. O, this it is that makes your servants Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth, Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. Look how thy servants do attend on thee, Each in his office ready at ony beck. Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays [Music. And twenty caged nightingales do sing: Or wilt thou sleep? well have thee to a couch Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed On purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground: Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp’d, Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. | Dost thou love hawking ? thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt ? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. First Serv. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. Sec. Serv. Dost thou love pictures ? we will fetch thee straight Adonis painted by a running brook, And Cytherea all in sedges hid, Which seem to move and wanton with her breath, Even as the waving sedges play with wind. Lord. Well show thee Io as she was a maid, And how she was beguiled and surprised, As lively painted as the deed was done. [wood, Third Serv. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds, And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. Lord. Thou art a lord and nothing but a lord: Thou hast a lady far more beautiful Than any woman in this waning age. [for thee First Serv. And till the tears that she hath shed Like envious floods o’er-run her lovely face, She was the fairest creature in the world; And yet she is inferior to none. Sly. AmTIa lord? and have I such a lady? Or do I dream ? or have I dreain’d till now ? I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak ; I smell sweet savours and I feel soft things * Upon my life, I am a lord indeed And not a tinker nor Christophero Sly. Well, bring our lady hither to our sight; And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale. 191 ACT I. Sec. Serv. Will ’t please your mightiness to wash your hands ? O, how we joy to see your wit restored! O, that once more you knew but what you are! These fifteen years you have been in a dream ; Or when you waked, so waked as if you slept. Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never speak of all that time ? First Serv. O, yes, my lord, but very idle words: For though you lay here in this goodly chamber, Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door; And rail upon the hostess of the house; And say you would present her at the leet, Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts: Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. Sly. Ay, the woman’s maid of the house. Third Serv. Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid, Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up, As Stephen Sly and old John Naps of Greece And Peter Turph and Henry Pimpernell And twenty more such names and men as these Which never were nor no man ever saw. a: Now Lord be thanked for my good amends! All. Amen. Sly. I thank thee: thou shalt not lose by it. Enter the Page as a lady, with Attendants. Page. How fares my noble lord ? Sly. Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough. Where is my wife ? Page. Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her ? Sly. Are you my wife and will not: call me hus- and ? [man. My men should call me ‘lord:’ I am your good- Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and hus- THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. SCENE I. Lord. Madam. Sly. Al’ce madam, or Joan madam ? (ladies. Lord. ‘Madam,’ and nothing else: so lords eall Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d And slept above some fifteen year or more. Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, Being all this time abandon’d from your bed. Sly. "Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone. Madam, undress you and come now to bed. Page. Thrice-noble lord, let me entreat of you To pardon me yet for a night or two, . Or, if not so, until the sun be set: For your physicians have expressly charged, . In peril to incur your former malady, That I should yet absent me from your bed: I hope this reason stands for my excuse. Sly. Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long. But I would be loath to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry in despite of the flesh and the blood. Enter a Messenger. Mess. Your honour’s players, hearing your amend- Are come to play a pleasant comedy: {ment, For so your doctors hold it very meet, Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood, And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy: Therefore they thought it good you hear a play And frame your mind to mirth and merriment, Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. Sly. Marry, I will, let them play it. Is not a comonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick ? Page. No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff. Sly. What, household stuff ? Page. It is a kind of history. Sly. Well, we’ll see’t. Come, madam wife, sit I am your wife in all obedience. [band ; | by my side and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be Sly. I know it well. What must I call her? younger. Flourish. LEGIT. TT; SCENE I.— Padua. Enter Lucentio and his man Tranio. Inc. Tranio, since for the great desire I had To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, I am arrived for fruitful Lombardy, The pleasant garden of great Italy ; And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d With his good will and thy good company, My trusty servant, well approved in all, Here let us breathe and haply institute «A course of learning and ingenious studies. Pisa renowned for grave citizens Gave me my being and my father first, A merchant of great traffic through the world, Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. Vincentio’s son brought up in Florence It shall become to serve all hopes conceived, To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds: And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study, Virtue and that part of philosophy Will L apply that treats of happiness By virtue specially to be achieved. Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left And am to Padua come, as he that leaves A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. Tra. Mi perdonato, gentle master mine, I am in all affected as yourself ; Glad that you thus continue your resolve. To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. Only, good master, while we do admire This virtue and this moral discipline, 192 A public place. | To make a stale of me amongst these mates? Let ’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray; Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured: Balk logic with acquaintance that you have And practise rhetoric in your common talk; Music and poesy use to quicken you; The mathematics and the metaphysics, Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you; No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en: In brief, sir, study what you most affect. Luc. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore, We could at once put us in readiness, And take a lodging fit to entertain Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. | But stay a while: what company is this? Tra. Master, some show to welcome us to town. Enter Baptista, Katharina, Bianca, Gremio,and Hortensio. Lucentio and Tranio stand by. Bap. Gentlemen, importune me no farther, For how I firmly am resolved you know; That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter Before I have a husband for the elder: If either of you both love Katharina, Because I know you well and love you well, Leave shall you have to court her at your pleas- =. ure. Gre. [Aside] To cart her rather: she’s toorough for me. . There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife? Kath. I pray you, sir, is it your will ACT I. Hor. Mates, maid! how mean you that ? no mates Unless you were of gentler, milder mould. [for you, Kath. V faith, sir, you shall never need to fear: I wis it is not half way to her heart; But if it were, doubt not her care should be To comb your noddle with a three-legg’d stool And paint your face and use you like a fool. Hor. From all such devils, good Lord deliver us! Gre. And me too, good Lord! [ward: Tra. Hush, master! here ’s some good pastime to- That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward. Luc. But in the other’s silence do I see Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety. Peace, Tranio ! Tra. Wellsaid, master; mum! and gaze your fill. Bap. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good What I have said, Bianca, get you in: And let it not displease thee, good Bianca, For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl. Kath. A pretty peat! it is best Put finger in the eye, an she knew why. Bian. Sister, content you in my discontent. Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe: My books and instruments shall be my company, On them to look and practise by myself. [speak. Iue. Hark, Tranio! thou may’st hear Minerva Hor. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange ? Sorry am I that our good will effects Bianca’s grief. Gre. Why will you mew her up, Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, And make her bear the penance of her tongue ? Bap. Gentlemen, content ye: I am resolved: Go in, Bianca: [Hait Branca. And for I know she taketh most delight In music, instruments and poetry, Schoolmasters will I keep within my house, Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such, Prefer them hither; for to cunning men I will be very kind, and liberal To mine own children in good bringing up: And so farewell. Katharina, you may stay; For I have more to commune with Bianca. [Ezit. Kath. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not? What,shall I be appointed hours; as though, belike, I knew not what to take, and what to leave, ha? [ Ecit. Gre. You may go to the devil’s dam: your gifts are so good, here’s none will hold yor. Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out: our cake’s dough on both sides. Farewell: yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father. Hor. So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. _Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both, that we may yet again have access to our fair mis- ‘tress and be happy rivals in Bianca’s love, to labour and effect one thing specially. . What’s that, I pray ? Hor. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. ‘e. A husband! a devil. Hor. I say, a husband. - Gre. I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell ? _ Hor. Tush, Gremio, though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, an a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough. _ Gre. I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition, to be whipped at the high cross every morning. 13 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. Hor. Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in rotten apples. But come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained till by helping Baptista’s eldest daughter to a husband we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have tot afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio ? Gre. Lam agreed; and would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing that would thoroughly woo her, wed her and bed her and rid the house of her! Come on. [EHxeunt Gremio and Hortensio. Tra. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible That love should of a sudden take such hold ? Luc. O Tranio, till I found it to be true, I never thought it possible or likely ; But see, while idly I stood looking on, I found the effect of love in idleness: And now in plainness do confess to thee, That art to me as secret and as dear As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was, ' Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio, eR ————————— If I achieve not this young modest girl. Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst; Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. Tra. Master, it is no time to chide you now; Affection is not rated from the heart: If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so, ‘Redime te captum quam queas minimo.’ Tuc. Gramercies, lad, go forward; this contents: The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound. Tra. Master, you look’d so longly on the maid, Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all. Luc. O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face, Such as the daughter of Agenor had, That made great Jove to humble him to her hand, When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand. Tra. Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her Began to scold and raise up such a storm [sister That mortal ears might hardly endure the din? Luc. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move And with her breath she did perfume the air: Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. [trance. Tra. Nay, then, ’tis time to stir him from his I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid, [stands: Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it Her eldest sister is so curst and shrewd That till the father rid his hands of her, Master, your love must live a maid at home; And therefore has he closely mew’d her up, Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors. Luc. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father ’s he! But art thou not advised, he took some care To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her ? Tra. Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now ’t is plotted, Inuc. I have it, Tranio. Tra. Master, for my hand, Both our inventions meet and jump in one. Luc. Tell me thine first. Tra. You will be schoolmaster And undertake the teaching of the maid: That ’s your device. i Tue. It is: may it be done? Tra. Not possible; for who shall bear your part, And be in Padua here Vincentio’s son, Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends, Visit his countrymen and banquet them ? Luc. Basta; content thee, for I have it full. We have not yet been seen in any house, Nor can we be distinguish’d by our faces For man or master ; then it follows thus; Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead, Keep house and port and servants, as I should: I will some other be, some Florentine, Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. ’T is hatch’d and shall be so: Tranio, at once 198 vy shy: THE TAMING Unease thee; take my colour’d hat and cloak: When Biondello comes, he waits on thee; But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. _ Tra. So had you need. In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, And I am tied to be obedient ; For so your father charged me at our parting, ‘ Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he, Although I think ’t was in another sense; Iam content to be Lucentio, Because so well I love Lucentio. Luc. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves: And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye. Here comes the rogue. Enter Biondello. Sirrah, where have you been ? Bion. Where have I been! Nay,how now! where are you? Master, has my fellow Tranio stolen your clothes? Or you stolen his? or both? pray, what’s the news ? Luc. Sirrah, come hither: ’tis no time to jest, And therefore frame your manners to the time. Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life, Puts my apparel and my countenance on, And I for my escape have put on his; For in a quarrel since I came ashore I kill’d a man and fear I was descried: Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, While I make way from hence to save my life: You understand me ? Bion. I, sir! ne’er a whit. Lue. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth: Tranio is changed into Lucentio. Bion. The better for him: would I were so too! Tra. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after, [daughter. That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master’s, I advise [panies : You use your manners discreetly in all kind of com- | When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio; But in all places else your master Lucentio. Luc. Tranio, let’s go: one thing more rests, that thyself execute, to make one among these wooers: if thou ask me why, sufliceth, my reasons are both good and weighty. [ Hxeunt. The presenters above speak, First Serv. My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play. | Sly. Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good matter, surely : comes there any more of it ? Page. My lord, ’tis but begun. Sly. ’T is a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would ’t were done! [They sit and mark. SCENE II.— Padua. Before Hortensio’s house. Enter Petruchio and his man Grumio. Pet. Verona, for a while I take my leave, To see my friends in Padua, but of all My best beloved and approved friend, Hortensio; and I trow this is his house. Here, sirrah Grumio; knock, I say. Gru. Knock, sir! whom should I knock ? is there any man has rebused your worship ? Pet. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. Gru. Knock you here, sir! why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir ? Pet. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate And rap me well, or Ill knock your knave’s pate. Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first, And then I know after who comes by the worst. Pet. Will it not be? 194 OF THE SHREW. SCENE If. Faith, sirrah, an you’ll not knock, Ill ring it; 1° try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. [He wrings him by the ears. Gru. Help, masters, help! my master is mad. Pet. Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain! Enter Hortensio. Hor. How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona ? Pet. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray ? ‘Con tutto il cuore, ben trovato,’ may I say. Hor.‘ Alla nostra casa ben venuto, molto honorato signor mio Petruchio.’ Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel. Gru. Nay, ’t is no matter, sir, what he ’leges in Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, look you, sir, he bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to use his master so, being perhaps, for aught I see, two and thirty, a pip out ? Whom would to God I had well knock’d at first, Then had not Grumio come by the worst. Pet. A senseless villain! Good Hortensio, I bade the rascal knock upon your gate, And could not get him for my heart to do it. Gru. Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these words plain, ‘ Sirrah, knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and knock mesoundly’ ? And come you now with, ‘ knocking at the gate’? Pet. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you. Hor. Petruchio, patience; Iam Grumio’s pledge: Why, this’s a heavy chance *twixt him and you, Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale Blows you to Padua here from old Verona ? Pet. Such wind as scatters young men through the world To seek their fortunes farther than at home Where small experience grows. But in a few, Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me: Antonio, my father, is deceased ; And I have thrust myself into this maze, Haply to wive and thrive as best I may: Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home, And so am come abroad to see the world. Hor. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wite ? Thou ’ldst thank me but a little for my counsel: And yet Ill promise thee she shall be rich And very rich: but thou ’rt too much my friend, And Ill not wish thee to her. Pet. Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as we Few words suffice: and therefore, if thou know One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife, As wealth is burden of my wooing dance, Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love, As old as Sibyl and as curst and shrewd As Socrates’ Xanthippe, or a worse, She moves me not, or not removes, at least, Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough As are the swelling Adriatic seas: | I come to wive it wealthily in Padua; If wealthily, then happily in Padua. @ Gru. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what — his mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she haye as_ many diseases as two and fifty horses: why, nothing “-. comes amiss, so money comes withal. Hor. Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in, — I will continue that I broach’d in jest. a I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife - With wealth enough and young and beauteous, Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman: Her only fault, and that is faults enough, Is that she is intolerable curst q ’ ACT I. And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure That, were my state far worser than it is, I would not wed her for a mine of gold. __ [effect: Pet. Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s Tell me her father’s name and *tis enough; For I will board her, though she chide as loud As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack. Hor. Her father is Baptista Minola, An affable and courteous gentleman: Her name is Katharina Minola, Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue. Pet. I know her father, though I know not her; And he knew my deceased father well. I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her; And therefore let me be thus bold with you To give you over at this first encounter, Unless you will accompany me thither. Gru. I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O’ my word, an she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good upon him: she may perhaps call him half a score knaves or so: why, that’s nothing; an he begin once, he ’ll rail in his rope-tricks. Ill tell you what, sir, an she stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face and so disfigure her with it that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir. Hor. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee, For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is: He hath the jewel of my life in hold, His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca, And her withholds from me and other more, Suitors to her and rivals in my love, Supposing it a thing impossible, For those defects I have before rehearsed, That ever Katharina will be woo’d ; Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en, That none shall have access unto Bianca Till Katharine the curst have got a husband. Gru. Katharine the curst! A title for a maid of all titles the worst. Hor. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace, And offer me disguised in sober robes To old Baptista as a schoolmaster Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca ; That so I may, by this device, at least Have leave and leisure to make love to her And unsuspected court her by herself. Gru. Here’sno knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together ! Enter Gremio, and Lucentio disguised. Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha ? Hor. Peace, Grumio! it is the rival of my love. Petruchio, stand by a while. Gru. A proper stripling and an amorous! Gre. O, very well, I have perused the note. Hark you, sir; I ’ll have them very fairly bound: _ All books of love, see that at any hand; _ And see you read no other lectures to her: _ You understand me: over and beside Signior Baptista’s liberality, 1’ll mend it with a largess. Take your paper too, And let me have them very well perfumed : _For she is sweeter than perfume itself To whom they goto. What will you read to her? ' Luc. Whate’er I read to her, Ill plead for you _As for my patron, stand you so assured, _As firmly as yourself were still in place: Yea, and perhaps with more successful words han you, unless you were a scholar, sir. Gre. O this learning, what a thing it is! Gru. O this woodcock, what an ass it is! | Pet. Peace, sirrab ! [Gremio. _ Hor. Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior __ Gre. And you are well met, Signior Hortensio. ) Trow you whither Lam going ? To Baptista Minola. eat LAMING OF THH SHREW. SCENE ITI. I promised to inquire carefully About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca: And by good fortune I have lighted well On this young man, for learning and behaviour Fit for her turn, well read in poetry And other books, good ones, I warrant ye. Hor. ’T is well; and I have met a gentleman Hath promised me to help me to another, A fine musician to instruct our mistress ; So shall I no whit be behind in duty To fair Bianca, so beloved of me. [prove. Gre. Beloved of me; and that my deeds shall Gru. And that his bags shall prove. Hor. Gremio, ’t is now no time to vent our love: Listen to me, and if you speak me fair, I'll tell you news indifferent good for either. Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met, Upon agreement from us to his liking, Will undertake to woo curst Katharine, Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. Gre. So said, so done, is well. Hortensio, have you told him all her faults ? Pet. I know she is an irksome brawling scold : If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. [man ? Gre. No, say’st me so, friend? What country- Pet. Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son: My father dead, my fortune lives for me; And I do hope good days and long to see. [strange! Gre. O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were But if you have a stomach, to ’t i’ God’s name: You shall have me assisting you in all. But will you woo this wild-cat ? Pet. Will I live ? Gru. Will he woo her ? ay, or I ’ll hang her. Pet. Why came I hither but to that intent ? Think you a little din can daunt mine ears ? Have I not in my time heard lions roar ? Have I not heard the sea puff’d up with winds Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat ? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies ? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang? And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire ? Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs. Gru. For he fears none. Gre. Hortensio, hark: This gentleman is happily arrived, My mind presumes, for his own good and ours. Hor. I promised we would be contributors And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er. Gre. And so we will, provided that he win her. Gru. I would I were as sure of a good dinner. Enter Tranio brave, and Biondello. Tra. Gentlemen, God save you. If I may be bold, Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way To the house of Signior Baptista Minola ? Bion. He that has the two fair daughters: is ’t Tra. Even he, Biondello. fhe you mean ” Gre. Hark you, sir; you mean not her to—. Tra. Perhaps, him and her, sir: what have you to do? Pet. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray. Tra. Llove no chiders, sir. Biondello, let ’saway. Luc. Well begun, Tranio. Hor. Sir, a word ere you go; Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no ? Tra. And if I be, sir, is it any offence ? Gre. No; if without more words you will get you hence. Tra. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free For me as for you ? re. But so is not she. Tra. For what reason, I beseech you? 195 AOT It. Gre. For this reason, if you ‘ll know, That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio. Hor. That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio. Tra. Softly, my masters! if you be gentlemen, Do me this right; hear me with patience. Baptista is a noble gentleman, To whom my father is not all unknown; And were his daughter fairer than she is, She may more suitors have and me for one. Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers; Then well one more may fair Bianca have: And so she shall; Lucentio shall make one, Though Paris came in hope to speed alone. Gre. What! this gentleman will out-talk us all. Luc. Be give him head: I know he’ll prove a jade. Pet. Hortensio, to what end are all these words? Hor. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you, Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter ? Tra. No, sir; but hear I do that he hath two, The one as famous for a scolding tongue As is the other for beauteous modesty. Pet. Sir, sir, the first ’s for me; let her go by. Gre. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules; And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE J, Pet. Sir, understand you this of me in sooth: The youngest daughter whom you hearken for Her father keeps from all access of suitors, And will not promise her to any man Until the elder sister first be wed: The younger then is free and not before. Tra. If it be so, sir, that you are the man Must stead us all and me amongst the rest, And if you break the ice and do this feat, Achieve the elder, set the younger free For our access, whose hap shall be to have her Will not so graceless be to be ingrate. Hor. Sir, you say well and well you do conceive ; And since you do profess to be a suitor, You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, To whom we all rest generally beholding. Tra. Sir, I shall not be slack: in sign whereof, Please ye we may contrive this afternoon, And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health, And do as adversaries do in law, Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. Gru. Bion. excellent motion! Fellows, let ’s be gone. . Hor. The motion ’s good indeed and be it so, Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto. [ Hxeunt. GOT TT: SCENE I.— Padua. Enter Katharina and Bianca. Bian. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong your- To make a bondmaid and a slave of me: [self, That I disdain: but for these other gawds, Unbind my hands, I’) pull them off myself, Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat ; Or what you will command me will I do, So well I know my duty to my elders. Kath. Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell Whom thou lovest best: see thou dissemble not. Bian. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive I never yet beheld that special face Which I could fancy more than any other. Kath. Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio? Bian. If you affect him, sister, here I swear Ill plead for you myself, but you shall have him. Kath. O then, belike, you fancy riches more: You will have Gremio to keep you fair. Bian. Is it for him you do envy me so ? Nay then you jest, and now I will perceive You have but jested with me all this while: I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands. Kath. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. [Strikes her. A room in Baptista’s house. Enter Baptista. Bap. Why, how now, dame! whence grows this insolence ? Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps. Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her. For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit, Why ce thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee ? When did she cross thee with a bitter word ? Kath. Her silence flouts me, and I ’ll be rever.ged. [Flies after Bianca. Bap. What, in my sight? Bianca, get thee in. [Exit Bianca. a What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now see She is your treasure, she must have a husband; J must dance barefoot on her wedding day And for your love to her lead apes in hell. Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep Till I can find occasion of revenge. 196 [ Exit. Bap. Was ever gentleman thus grieved as I? But who comes here ? Enter Gremio, Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; Petruchio, with Hortensio as a musician; and Tranio, with Biondello bearing u lute and books. Gre. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista. Bap. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. save you, gentlemen! Pet. And you, good sir! daughter Call’d Katharina, fair and virtuous ? Bap. I have a daughter, sir, called Katharina. Gre. You are too blunt: go to it orderly. [leave. Pet. You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me I am a gentleman of Verona, sir, That, hearing of her beauty and her wit, Her affability and bashful modesty, Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour, Am bold to show myself a forward guest Within your house, to make mine eye the witness Of that report which I so oft have heard. And, for an entrance to my entertainment, I do present you with a man of mine, [Presenting Hortensio. Cunning in music and the mathematics, To instruct her fully in those sciences, Whereof I know she is not ignorant: Accept of him, or else you do me wrong: His name is Licio, born in Mantua. {sake. Bap. You ’re welcome, sir; and he, for your good But for my daughter Katharine, this I know, She is not for your turn, the more my grief. Pet. I see you do not mean to part with her, Or else you like not of my company. Bap. Mistake me not; I speak but as I find. ‘ Whence are you, sir ? what may I call your name? — Pet. Petruchio is my name; Antonio’s son, A man well known throughout all Italy. [sake. Bap. I know him well: you are welcome for his” Gre. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray, Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too: Baccare! you are marvellous forward. ‘ Pet. O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain — be doing. [wooing. Gre. I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your God Pray, have you not a ACT II. Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness, myself, that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, freely give unto you this young scholar [presenting Lucentio}, that hath been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics: his name is Cambio; pray, accept his service. Bap. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio. Wel- come, good Cambio. [Zo T'ranio] But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger: may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming ? Tra. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own, That, being a stranger in this city here, Do make myself a suitor to your daughter, Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me, In the preferment of the eldest sister. This liberty is all that I request, That, upon knowledge of my parentage, I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo And free access and favour as the rest: And, toward the education of your daughters, I here bestow a simple instrument, And this small packet of Greek and Latin books: If you accept them, then their worth is great. Bap. Lucentio is your name; of whence, I pray ? Tra. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio. Bap. A mighty man of Pisa; by report I know him well: you are very welcome, sir. Take you the lute, and you the set of books; You shall go see your pupils presently. Holla, within ! Enter a Servant. Sirrah, lead these gentlemen To my daughters; and tell them both, These are their tutors: bid them use them well. [Exit Servant. with. Lecentio and Hortensio, Bion- dello following. We will go walk a little in the orchard, And then to dinner. You are passing welcome, And so I pray you all to think yourselves. Pet. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, And every day I cannot come to woo. You knew my father well, and in him me, Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, Which I have better’d rather than decreased : Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love What dowry shall I have with her to wife ? Bap. After my death the one half of my lands, And in possession twenty thousand crowns. Pet. And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, In all my lands and leases whatsoever: Let specialties be therefore drawn between us, That covenants may be kept on either hand. Bap. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d, That is, her love; for that is all in all. __ Pet. Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she proud-minded ; And where two raging fires meet together They do consume the thing that feeds their fury: _ Though little fire grows great with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all: So I to her and so she yields to me; _ Por Iam rough and woo not like a babe. [speed ! Bap. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words. [winds, Pet. Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for - That shake not, though they blow perpetually. fte-enter Hortensio, with his head broke. Bap. How now, my friend! why dost thou look So pale ? Hor. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. Bap. What, will my daughter prove a good musician ? THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. Hor. I think she ’l] sooner prove a soldier: Iron may,hold with her, but never lutes. [lute ? Bap. Why, then thou canst not break her to the Hor. Why,no; for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her frets, And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering ; When, with a most impatient devilish spirit, , ‘ Frets, call you these ?’? quoth she; ‘I ’ll fume with them :’ And, with that word, she struck me on the head, And through the instrument my pate made way ; And there I stood amazed for a while, As on a pillory, looking through the lute: While she did call me rascal fiddler And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms, As had she studied to misuse me so. Pet. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e’er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her! Bap. Well, go with me and be not so discomfited : Proceed in practice with my younger daughter ; She’s apt to learn and thankful for good turns. Signior Petruchio, will you go with us, Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you? Pet. I pray you do. [ Hxeunt- all but Petruchio. I will attend her here, And woo her with some spirit when she comes. Say that she rail; why then Ill tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale: Say that she frown; Ill say she looks as clear AS morning roses newly wash’d with dew: Say she be mute and will not speak a word; Then I 711 commend her volubility, And say she uttereth piercing eloquence: If she do bid me pack, Ill give her thanks, As though she bid me stay by her a week: If she deny to wed, I ’ll crave the day When I shall ask the banns and when be married. But here she comes ; and now, Petruchio, speak. Enter Katharina. Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear. Isath. Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing : They call me Katharine that do talk of me. Pet. You lie,in faith; for you are call’d plain Kate, And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst ; But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation ; Hearing thy mildness praised in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife. Kath. Moved! in good time: let him that moved you hither Remove you hence: I knew you at the first You were a moveable. Pet. Kath. A join’d-stool. Pet. Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me. Kath. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are you. Kath. No such jade as you, if me you mean. Pet. Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee; For, knowing thee to be but young and light— Kath. Too light for such aswain as you to catch; And yet as heavy as my weight should be. Pet. Should be! should — buzz! Kath. Well ta’en, and like a buzzard. Pet. Ou slowuis o turtle! shall a buzzard take thee ? Kath. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. Pet. Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith, you are too angry. j Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. 197 Why, what ’s a moveable ? AUT hr. Pet. My remedy is then, to pluck it out. Kath. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. Pet. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail. Kath. In his tongue. Pet. Whose tongue ? Kath. Yours,if you talk of tails: and so farewell. Pet. What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, Good Kate; Iam a gentleman. [come again, Kath. That 170 try. [She strikes him. Pet. I swear I’) cuff you, if you strike again. Kath. So may you lose your arms: If you strike me, you are no gentleman; And if no gentleman, why then no arms. Pet. A herald, Kate? O, put me in thy books! Kath. What is your crest? a coxcomb? Pet. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen. Kath. Nocock of mine; you crow toolikeacraven. Pet. Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour. Kath. 1t is my fashion, when I see a crab. Pet. Why, here’s no crab; and therefore look not sour. Kath. There is, there is. Pet. Then show it me. Kath. Had I a glass, I would. Pet. What, you mean my face? Kath. Well aim’d of such a young one. Pet. Now, by Saint George, lam too young for you. Kath. Yet you are wither’d. Pet. *T is with cares. Kath. I care not. Pet. Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth you scape not Kath. I chafe you, if I tarry: let me go. [so. Pet. No, not a whit: I find you passing gentle. *T was told me you were rough and coy and sullen, And now I find report a very liar; For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous, But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers: Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance, Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will, Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk, But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers, With gentle conference, soft and affable. Why does the world report that Kate doth limp ? O slanderous world! Kate like the hazel-twig Is straight and slender and as brown in hue As hazel nuts and sweeter than the kernels. O, let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt. Kath. Go, fool,and whom thou keep’st command. Pet. Did ever Dian so become a grove As Kate this chamber with her princely gait ? O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate; And then let Kate be chaste and Dian sportful! Kath. Where did you study all this goodly speech ? Pet. It is extempore, from my mother-wit. Kath. A witty mother! witless else her son. Pet. Am I not wise ? Kath. Yes; keep you warm. Pet. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy And therefore, setting all this chat aside, Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented That you shall be my wife; your dowry ’greed on; And, will you, nill you, I will marry you. Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn; For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty, Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well, Thou must be married to no man but me; For I am he am born to tame you Kate, And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate Conformable as other household Kates. Here comes your father: never make denial; I must and will have Katharine to my wife. Re-enter Baptista, Gremio, and Tranio. Bap. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter ? 198 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. [bed : | SCENE I. Pet. How but well, sir? how but well ? It were impossible I should speed amiss. Bap. Why, how now, daughter Katharine! in your dumps ? [you Kath. Call you me daughter? now, I promise You have show’d a tender fatherly regard, To wish me wed to one half lunatic; A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack, That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. Pet. Father, ’t is thus: yourself and all the world, That talk’d of her, have talk’d amiss of her: If she be curst, it is for policy, For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove; She is not hot, but temperate as the morn; For patience she will prove a second Grissel, And Roman Lucrece for her chastity : And to conclude, we have ’greed so well together, That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. Kath. 1°ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first. Gre. Hark, Petruchio; she says she’ll see thee hang’d first. Tra. Is this your speeding? nay, then, good night our part! [self ; Pet. Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for my- If she and I be pleased, what’s that to you? ’T is bargain’d twixt us twain, being alone, That she shall still be curst in company. I tell you, ’t is incredible to believe How much she loves me: O, the kindest Kate! She hung about my neck; and kiss on kiss She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath, That in a twink she won me to her love. O, you are novices! ’tis a world to see, How tame, when men and women are alone, A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew. Give me thy hand, Kate: I will unto Venice, To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests; I will be sure my Katharine shall be fine. [hands; Bap. I know not what to say: but give me your God send you joy, Petruchio! ’tis a match. Gre. Tra. Amen, say we: we will be witnesses. Pet. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu; I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace: We will have rings and things and fine array ; And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’ Sunday. [Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina severally, — Gre. Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly ? Bap. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s And venture madly on a desperate mart. [part, Tra. "Twas a commodity lay fretting by you: °T will bring you gain, or perish on the seas. Bap. The gain I seek is, quiet in the match. Gre. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter: Now is the day we long have looked for: I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. Tra. And I am one that love Bianca more Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess. Gre. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I. Tra. Greybeard, thy love doth freeze. Gre. But thine doth fry. — Skipper, stand back: ’tis.age that nourisheth. r Tra. But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth. Bap. Content you, gentlemen: I will compound this strife: | ’T is deeds must win the prize; and he of both ‘g That can assure my daughter greatest dower . Shall have my Bianca’s love. ‘G Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her ? g Gre. First,as you know, my house within the — Is richly furnished with plate and gold; [city Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands; My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry ; In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns; In cypress chests my arras counterpoints, Costly apparel, tents, and canopies, { ’ ; : ACT III. THE Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl, Valance of Venice gold in needlework, Pewter and brass and all things that belong To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail, Sixseore fat oxen standing in my stalls, And all things answerable to this portion. Myself am struck in years, I must confess ; And if I die to-morrow, this is hers, If whilst I live she will be only mine. Tra. That‘ only’ came well in. Sir, list to me: I am my father’s heir and only son: If I may have your daughter to my wife, Il] leave her houses three or four as good, Within rich Pisa walls, as any one Old Signior Gremio has in Padua; Besides two thousand ducats by the year Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure. What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio ? Gre. Two thousand ducats by the year of land! My land amounts not to so much in all: That she shall have; besides an argosy That now is lying in Marseilles’ road. What, have I choked you with an argosy ? Tra. Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less Than three great argosies; besides two galliases, And twelve tight galleys: these I will assure her, And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next. Gre. Nay, I have offer’d all, I have no more; And she can have no more than all I have: If you like me, she shall have me and mine. ALCd SCENE I.— Padua. Baptistu’s house. | Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca. Inuc. Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir: Have you so soon forgot the entertainment Her sister Katharine welcomed you withal ? Hor. But, wrangling pedant, this is The patroness of heavenly harmony: Then give me leave to have prerogative ; And when in music we have spent an hour, Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. Luc. Preposterous ass, that never read so far To know the cause why music was ordain’d ! Was it not to refresh the mind of man After his studies or his usual pain ? Then give me leave to read philosophy, And while I pause, serve in your harmony. Hor. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine. Bian. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong, To strive for that which resteth in my choice: I am no breeching scholar in the schools; I ll not be tied to hours nor ’pointed times, But learn my lessons as I please myself. And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down: Take you your instrument, play you the whiles; His lecture will be done ere you have tuned. Hor. Youll leave his lecture when I am in tune ? Luc. That will be never: tune your instrument. Bian. Where left we last ? Luc. Here, madam: ‘Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus ; Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.’ Bian. Construe them. Luc. ‘Hic ibat,’ as I told you before, ‘ Simois,’ I am Lucentio, ‘ hic est,’ son unto Vincentio of Pisa, ‘Sigeia tellus,’ disguised thus to get your love; ‘ Hic steterat,’ and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, *Priami,’ is my man Tranio, ‘regia,’ bearing my port, ‘celsa senis,’ that we might beguile the old pantaloon. LAMING OF LE SHREW. SCENE I. a Tra. Why, then the maid is mine from all the world By your firm promise: Gremio is out-vied. Bap. I must confess your offer is the best ; And, let your father make her the assurance, She is your own; else, you must pardon me, If you should die before him, where ’s her dower ? Tra. That ’s but a cavil: he is old, I young: Gre. And may not young men die, as well as old ? Bap. Well, gentlemen, I am thus resolved: on Sunday next you know My daughter Katharine is to be married: Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca Be bride to you, if you make this assurance; If not, to Signior Gremio: And so, I take my leave, and thank you both. Gre. Adieu, good neighbour. | Hxit Baptista. Now I fear thee not: Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool To give thee all, and in his waning age Set foot under thy table: tut, a toy! An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. [Evit. Tra. A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hide! Yet I have faced it with a card of ten. °T is in my head to do my master good: I see no reason but supposed Lucentio Must get a father, call’d ‘supposed Vincentio; ’ And that ’s a wonder: fathers commonly Do get their children: but in this case of wooing, A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my mnargay vit. tobe Hor. Madam, my instrument’s in tune. Bian. Let’s hear. O fie! the treble jars. Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. Bian. Now let me see if I can construe it: ‘Hic ibat Simois,’ I know you not, ‘ hic est Sigeia tellus,’ I trust you not; ‘ Hic steterat Priami,’ take heed he hear us not, ‘regia,’ presume not, ‘celsa senis,’ despair not. Hor. Madam, ’t is now in tune. Tue. All but the base. Hor. The base is right; ’tis the base knave that [ Aside] How fiery and forward our pedantis! [jars. Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love: Pedascule, I ll watch you better yet. Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. Luc. Mistrust it not; for, sure, Aacides Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather. [you, Bian. I must believe my master ; else, I promise I should be arguing still upon that doubt: But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you: Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray, That I have been thus pleasant with you both. Hor. You may go walk, and give me leave a while: My lessons make no music in three parts. Luc. Are you so formal, sir? well, I must wait, [Aside] And watch withal; for, but I be deceived, Our fine musician groweth amorous. Hor. Madam, before you touch the instrument, To learn the order of my fingering, I must begin with rudiments of art; To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, More pleasant, pithy and effectual, Than hath been taught by any of my trade: And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. Bian. Why, lam past my gamut long ago. Hor. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. [accord, Bian. [Reads] ‘‘‘ Gamut’ I am, the ground of all ‘A re,’ to plead Hortensio’s passion ; ‘B mi,’ Bianca, take him for thy lord, ‘C fa ut,’ that loves with all affection: 199 ACT III. ‘D sol re,’ one clef, two notes have I: ‘E la mi,’ show pity, or I die.”’ Call you this gamut’? tut, I like it not: Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice, To change true rules for old inventions. Enter a Servant. Serv. Mistress, your father prays you leave your And help to dress yoursister’schamberup: [books You know to-morrow is the wedding-day. Bian. Farewell, sweet masters both; I must be gone. [Hxeunt Bianca and Servant. Luc. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [ Heit. Hor. But I have cause to pry into this pedant: Methinks he looks as though he were in love: Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale, Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging, Hortensio will be quit with thee by TLE 3 wit. SCENE II. — Padua. Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katharina, Bianca, Lucentio, and others, Attendants, Bap. {To Tranio| Signior Lucentio, this is the *pointed day That Katharine and Petruchio should be married, And yet we hear not of our son-in-law. What will be said ? what mockery will it be, To want the bridegroom when the priest attends To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage! What says Lucentio to this shame of ours? Kath. No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forced To give my hand opposed against my heart Unto a mad-brain rudesby full of spleen; Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour: And, to be noted for a merry man, He ’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage, Make feasts, invite friends, and proclaim the banns; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d. Now must the world point at poor Katharine, And say, ‘ Lo, there is mad Petruchio’s wife, If it would please him come and marry her!’ Tra. Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too. Upon my life, Petruchio means but well, Whatever fortune stays him from his word: Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise; Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest. Kath. though! [Hxit weeping, followed by Bianca and others. Bap. Go, girl; I cannot blame thee now to weep; For such an injury would vex a very saint, Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. Enter Biondello. Bion. Master, master! news, old news, and such news as you never heard of! Bap. Is it new and old too ? how may that be? Bion. Why, is it not news, to hear of Petruchio’s Bap. Is he come ? [coming ? Bion. Why, no, sir. Bap. What then ? Bion. He is coming. Bap. When will he be here ? Bion. When he stands where I am and sees you Tra. But say, what to thine old news? [there. Bion. Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and an old jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned, a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced, an old rusty sword ta’en 200 Before Baptista’s house. Would Katharine had never seen him | THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE II. out of the town-armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hip- ped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lam- pass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder- shotten; near-legged before and with a half-checked bit and a head-stall of sheep’s leather which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst and now repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced and a woman’s crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread. Bap. Who comes with him ? Bion. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world ca- parisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with ared and blue list; an old hat and ‘ the humour of forty fancies’ pricked in ’t for a feather: & mon- ster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Chris- © tian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey. Tra. "Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion ; Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d. Bap. Iam glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes, Bion. Why, sir, he comes not. Bap. Didst thou not say he comes ? Bion. Who? that Petruchio came? Bap. Ay, that Petruchio came. Bion. No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back. Bap. Why, that’s all one. Bion. Nay, by Saint Jamy, I hold you a penny, A horse and a man Is more than one, And yet not many. Enter Petruchio and Grumio. Pet. Come, where be these gallants? who’s at Bap. You are welcome, sir. [home ? And yet I come not well. not. Not so well apparell’d et. Bap. And yet you halt Tra. As I wish you were. Pet. Were it better, I should rush in thus. But where is Kate? where is my lovely bride? How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown: And wherefore gaze this goodly company, As if they saw some wondrous monument, Some comet or unusual prodigy ? [day: Bap. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding- First were we sad, fearing you would not come; Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. Fie, doff this habit, shame to your estate, | An eye-sore to our solemn festival! Tra. And tell us, what occasion of import Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife, And sent you hither so unlike yourself ? Pet. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear: Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word, Though in some part enforced to digress ; Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse _ As you shall well be satisfied withal. But where is Kate? I stay too long from her: The morning wears, ’t is time we were at church. Tra. See not your bride in these unreverent robes: Go to my chamber; put on clothes of mine. Pet. Not I, believe me: thus I'll visit her. Bap. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her. Pet. Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words: To me she’s married, not unto my clothes: ACT IIl. Could I repair what she will wear in me, As I can change these poor accoutrements, *T were well for Kate and better for myself. But what a fool am I to chat with you, When I should bid good morrow to my bride, And seal the title with a lovely kiss! [Hxeunt Petruchio and Grumio. Tra. He hath some meaning in his mad attire: We will persuade him, be it possible, To put on better ere he go to church. Bap. 17ll after him, and see the event of this. [Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, and attendants. Tra. But to her love concerneth us to add Her father’s liking: which to bring to pass, As I before imparted to your worship, I am to get a man,— whate’er he be, It skills not much, we ’ll fit him to our turn,— And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa; And make assurance here in Padua Of greater sums than I have promised. So shall you quietly enjoy your hope, _ And marry sweet Bianca with consent. Inc. Were it not that my fellow-schoolmaster Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly, *T were good, methinks, to steal our marriage ; Which once performed, let all the world say no, i ll keep mine own, despite of all the world. Tra. That by degrees we mean to look into, And watch our vantage in this business: Well over-reach the greybeard, Gremio, The narrow-prying father, Minola, The quaint musician, amorous Licio; All for my master’s sake, Lucentio. Re-enter Gremio. Signior Gremio, came you from the church ? Gre. As willingly as e’er I came from school. Tra. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home ? Gre. A bridegroom say you? *tisa groom indeed, v.N Ey sana groom, and that the girl shall find. a. Curster than she? why, ’tis impossible. Gre. Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend. Tra. Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam. Gre. Tut, she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool to him! ill tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife, * Ay, by gogs-wouns,’ quoth he; and swore so loud, That, all-amazed, the priest let fall the book; And, as he stoop’d again to take it up, The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff That down fell priest and book and book and priest : * Now take them up,’ quoth he, ‘if any list.’ Tra. What said the wench when he rose again ? Gre. Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp’d and swore, As if the vicar meant to cozen him. But after many ceremonies done, He calls for wine: ‘ A health!’ quoth he, as if He had been aboard, carousing to his mates After a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face; Having no other reason : But that his beard grew thin and hungerly And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking. This done, he took the bride about the neck And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smack That at the parting all the church did echo: And I seeing this came thence for very shame; And after me, I know, the rout is coming. Such a mad marriage never was before: Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play. [ Music. fe-enter Petruchio, Katharina, Bianca, Bap- tista, Hortensio, Grumio, and Train. Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains: LHHE TAMING OF THH SHREW. SCENE II. I know you think to dine with me to-day, And have prepared great store of wedding cheer ; But so it is, my haste doth call me hence, And therefore here I mean to take my leave. Bap. Is’t possible you will away to-night ? Pet. I must away to-day, before night come: Make it no wonder; if you knew my business, You would entreat me rather go than stay. And, honest company, I thank you all, That have beheld me give away myself To this most patient, sweet and virtuous wife: Dine with my father, drink a health to me; For I must hence; and farewell to you all. Tra. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. Pet. It may not be. Gre. Let me entreat you. Pet. It cannot be. Kath. Let me entreat you. Pet. I am content. Kath. Are you content to stay ? Pet. Iam content you shall entreat me stay ; But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. Kath. Now, if you love me, stay. Pet. Grumio, my horse. Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready: the oats have eaten the horses. Kath. Nay, then, Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day; No, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself. The door is open, sir; there lies your way; You may be jogging whiles your boots are green; For me, Ill not be gone till I please myself: ’T is like youll prove a jolly surly groom, That take it on you at the first so roundly. Pet. O Kate, content thee; prithee, be not angry. Kath. I will be angry: what hast thou to do? Father, be quiet: he shall stay my leisure. Gre. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. Kath. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner: I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist. [mand. Pet. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy com- Obey the bride, you that attend on her; | Go to the feast, revel and domineer, Carouse full measure to her maidenhead, | Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves: But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ; I will be master of what is mine own: She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing; And here she stands, touch her whoever dare; Ill bring mine action on the proudest he That stops my way in Padua. Grumio, Draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with thieves; Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch thee, Kate: Ill buckler thee against a million. | Hxeunt Petruchio, Katharina, and Grunvio. Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones. Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing. Tra. Of all mad matches never was the like. Luc. Mistress, what ’s your opinion of your sister? Bian. That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated. Gre. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. _ Bap. Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants For to supply the places at the table, You know there wants no junkets at the feast. Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s place ; And let Bianca take her sister’s room. Nie 3 Tra. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it ? Bap. She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let ’s go. [| Hxewnt. 201 AMET AVS THE TAMING OF. THE SHEEW. SCENE I. ALG TN. SCENE I.— Petruchio’s country house. Enter Grumio. Gru. Fie, fie or all tired jades, on all mad mas- ters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten ? was ever man so rayed ? was ever Man so weary ? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not La little pot and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me: but I, with blowing the fire, shall warm myself ; for, con- sidering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis. Enter Curtis. Curt. Who is that calls so coldly ? Gru. A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with no greater arun but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis. Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio ? Gru. O, ay, Curtis, ay: and therefore fire, fire; cast on no water. Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported ? Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this frost: but, thou knowest, winter tames man, woman and beast; for it hath tamed my old master and my new mis- tress and myself, fellow Curtis. Curt. Away, you three-inch fool! Iam no beast. Gru. Am I but three inches ? why, thy horn is a foot; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mis- tress, whose hand, she being now at hand, thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office ? Curt. IL prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the worid ? Gru. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and therefore fire: do thy duty, and have thy duty; for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death. Curt. There’s fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news. Gru. Why, ‘Jack, boy! ho! boy!’ and as much news as will thaw. Curt. Come, you are so full of cony-catching! Gru. Why, therefore fire; for I have caught ex- treme cold. Where’s the cook? is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept 5 the serving-men in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? Be the jacks fair within, the jills fair with- out, the carpets laid, and every thing in order ? Curt. All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news. Gru. First, know, my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out. Curt. How ? Gru. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale. Curt. Let ’s ha ’t, good Grumio. Gru. Lend thine ear. Curt. Here. Gru. There. [Strikes him. Curt. This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale. Gru. And therefore ’t is called a sensible tale: and this cuff was but to knock at your ear, and beseech listening. Now I begin: Imprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress,— Curt. Both of one horse ? Gru. What ’s that to thee ? Curt. Why, a horse. Gru. Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her 202 horse fell and she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled, how he left her with the horse upon her, how he beat me because her horse stumbled, how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me, how he swore, how she prayed, that never prayed before, how I cried, how the horses ran away, how her bridle was burst, how I lost my crupper, with many things of worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion and thou return unexperienced to thy grave. [she. Curt. By this reckoning he is more shrew than Gru. Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find when he comes home. But what talk lof this? Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop and the rest: let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brushed and their garters of an indifferent knit: let them curtsy with their left legs and not presume to touch a hair of my master’s horsetail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready ? Curt. They are. Gru. Call them forth. Curt. Do you hear, ho ? you must meet my master to countenance my mistress. Gru. Why, she hath a face of her own. Curt. Who knows not that ? Gru. Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her. Curt. I call them forth to credit her. Gru. Why,she comes to borrow nothing of them. Enter four or fwe Servingmen. Nath. Welcome home, Grumio! Phil. How now, Grumio! Jos. What, Grumio! Nich. Fellow Grumio! Nath. How now, old lad ? Gru. Welcome, you;—how now, you;—what, — you;—fellow, you; —and thus much for greeting. — Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat ? Nath. All things is ready. master ? Gru. E’en at hand, alighted by this: and there- peeeree not —Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my master. How near is our Enter Petruchio and Katharina. Pet. Where be these knaves? What, no man at To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse! [door Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip ? All Serv. Here, here, sir; here, sir. Pet. Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms! What, no attendance? no regard ? no duty? Where is the foolish knave I sent before ? Gru. Here, sir; as foolish as I was before. ‘ Pet. You peasant swain! you whoreson malt- horse drudge ! Did I not bid thee meet me in the park, a And bring along these rascal knaves with thee ? : Gru. Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made, And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel; There was no link to colour Peter’s hat, i ak And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing: There were none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory; The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; : Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. — Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in. [Hxeunt Servants. [Singing] Where is the life that late I led — P Where are those—Sit down, Kate, and welcomée.— Soud, soud, soud, soud! . ACT IV. Re-enter Servants with supper. Why, when, I say ? Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry. Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains, when ? [Sings] It was the friar of orders grey, As he forth walked on his way :— Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry: Take that, and mend the plucking off the other. [Strikes him. Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho! Where ’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence, And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither: One, on that you must kiss, and be acquainted with. Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water ? Enter one with water. Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. You whoreson villain! will you let it fall? [ Strikes him. Kath. Patience, I pray you; *twas a fault un- willing. Pet. A whoreson beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave! Come,Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach. Will you give thanks, sweet Kate; or else shall I? What’s this? mutton ? First Serv. y- Pet. Who brought it ? Peter. I Pet. ’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat. What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook ? How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, And serve it thus to me that love it not ? There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all: [Throws the meat, &c., about the stage. You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves! What, do you grumble? Ill be with you straight. Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet: The meat was well, if you were so contented. Pet. Itell thee, Kate, ’t was burnt and dried away : And I expressly am forbid to touch it, For it engenders choler, planteth anger ; And better ’t were that both of us did fast, Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. _ Be patient; to-morrow ’t shall be mended, _ And, for this night, we ’ll fast for company: _ Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. Re-enter Servants severally. res Nath. Peter, didst ever see the like ? Peter. He kills her in her own humour. Re-enter Curtis. Gru. Where is he ? Curt. In her chamber, making a sermon of con- tinency to her; And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul, Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak, And sits as one new-risen from a dream. Away,away! for he is coming hither. sa aceel [ Exeunt. Re-enter Petruchio. Pet. Thus have I politicly begun my reign, And ’tis my hope to end successfully. My falcon now is sharp and passing empty; And till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, For then she never looks upon her lure. Another way I have to man my haggard, To make her come and know her keeper’s call, That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites That bate and beat and will not be obedient. _ She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat ; Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not; As with the meat, some undeserved fault _ Ill find about the making of the bed; . And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster, THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE II. This way the coverlet, another way the sheets: Ay, and amid this hurly I intend That all is done in reverend care of her; And in conclusion she shall watch all night: And if she chance to nod I ’ll rail and brawl And with the clamour keep her still awake. This is a way to kill a wife with kindness; __, And thus I ll curb her mad and headstrong humour. He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak: ’tis charity to show. [Ezit. SCENE II.— Padua. Enter Tranio and Hortensio. . Tra. Is’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Doth fancy any other but Lucentio ? [Bianca I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. Hor. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said, Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching. Before Baptista’s house. Enter Bianca and Lucentio. Luc. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read ? ae Yip: master, read you? first resolve me at. Luc. I read that I profess, the Art to Love. Bian. And may you prove, sir, master of your art! Luc. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart! Hor. Quick proceeders, marry! I pray, You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca Loved none in the world so well as Lucentio. Tra. O despiteful love! unconstant womankind ! I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful. Hor. Mistake no more: I am not Licio, Nor a musician, as I seem to be; But one that scorn to live in this disguise, For such a one as leaves a gentleman, And makes a god of such a cullion: Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio. Tra. Signior Hortensio, I have often heard Of your entire affection to Bianca; And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness, I will with you, if you be so contented, Forswear Bianca and her love for ever. Hor. See, how they kiss and court! centio, Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow Never to woo her more, but do forswear her, As one unworthy all the former favours That I have fondly flatter’d her withal. Tra. And here I take the like unfeigned oath, Never to marry with her though she would entreat; Fie on her! see, how beastly she doth court him! Hor. Would all the world but he had quite for- sworn! For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, I will be married to a wealthy widow, Ere three days pass, which hath as long loved me As I have loved this proud disdainful haggard. And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love: and so I take my leave, In resolution as I swore before. [ Batt. Tra. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace As “longeth to a lover’s blessed case! Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love, And have forsworn you with Hortensio. Bian. Tranio, you jest: but have you both for- sworn me ? Tra. Mistress, we have. ih Luc. Then we are rid of Licio. Tra. I’ faith, he ll have a lusty widow now, That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day. Bian. God give him joy! Tra. Ay, and he ’ll tame her. Bian. Now, tell me, Signior Lu- He says so, Tranio. 203 ACT IV. Tra. Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school. Bian. The taming-school! what, is there such a place ? Tra. Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master; That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long, To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue. Enter Biondello. Bion. O master, master, I have watch’d so long That I am dog-weary: but at last I spied An ancient angel coming down the hill, Will serve the turn. Tra. What is he, Biondello ? Bion. Master, a mercatante, or a pedant, I know not what; but formal in apparel, In gait and countenance surely like a father. Luc. And what of him, Tranio ? Tra. If he be credulous and trust my tale, I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio, And give assurance to Baptista Minola, As if he were the right Vincentio. Take in your love, and then let me alone. [Hxeunt Lucentio and Bianca. Enter a Pedant. Ped. God save you, sir! Tra. \ And you, sir! you are welcome. Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest ? Ped. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two: But then up farther, and as far as Rome; And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. Tra. What countryman, I pray ? Ped. Of Mantua. Tra. Of Mantua, sir? marry, God forbid! And come to Padua, careless of your life ? Ped. My life, sir! how, I pray ? for that goes hard. Tra. Tis death for any one in Mantua To come to Padua. Know you not the cause? Your ships are stay’d at Venice, and the duke, For private quarrel *twixt your duke and him, Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly: *T is marvel, but that you are but newly come, You might have heard it else proclaim’d about. Ped. Alas! sir, it is worse for me than so; For I have bills for money by exchange From Florence and must here deliver them. Tra. Well, sir, to do you courtesy, This will I do, and this I will advise you: First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa ? Ped. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been, Pisa, renowned for grave citizens. Tra. Among them know you one Vincentio ? Ped. I know him not, but I have heard of him; A merchant of incomparable wealth. Tra. He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say, In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. Bion. [Aside] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one. Tra. To save your life in this extremity, This favour will I do you for his sake; And think it not the worst of all your fortunes That you are like to Sir Vincentio. His name and credit shall you undertake, .And in my house you shall be friendly lodged : Look that you take upon you as you should; You understand me, sir: so shall you stay Till you have done your business in the city: If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. Ped. O sir, Ido; and will repute you ever The patron of my life and liberty. Tru. Then go with me to make the matter good. This, by the way, I let you understand ; My father is here look’d for every day, To pass assurance of a dower in marriage *Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here: In all these circumstances Ill instruct you: Go with me to clothe you as becomes you. [Hxeunt. 204 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE frIl. SCENE III.—A room in Petruchio’s house Enter Katharina and Grumio. Gru. No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life. Kath. The more my wrong, the more his spite ap- What, did he marry me to famish me? [pears : Beggars, that come unto my father’s door, Upon entreaty have a present alms; If not, elsewhere they meet with charity: But I, who never knew how to entreat, Nor never needed that I should entreat, Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep, With oaths kept waking and with brawling fed: And that which spites me more than all these wants, He does it under name of perfect love; As who should say, if I should sleep or eat, °T were deadly sickness or else present death. I prithee go and get me some repast ; I care not what, so it be wholesome food. Gru. What say you to a neat’s foot ? Kath. ’T is passing good: I prithee let me have it. Gru. I fear it is too choleric a meat. How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d ? Kath. 1 like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me. Gru. I cannot tell; I fear ’t is choleric. What say you to a piece of beef and mustard ? Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon. Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. Kath. Why then, the beef, and let the mustard rest. Gru. Nay then, I will not: you shall have the mus- Or else you get no beef of Grumio. {tard, Kath. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. Gru. Why then, the mustard without the beef. Kath. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave, [Beats him. That feed’st me with the very name of meat: Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you, That triumph thus upon my misery! Go, get thee gone, I say. Enter Petruchio and Hortensio with meat. Pet. How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all Hor. Mistress, what cheer ? [amort ? Kath. Faith, as cold as can be. Pet. Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me. Here, love; thou see’st how diligent I am To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee: Iam sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What, nota word? Nay, then thou lovest it not; And all my pains is sorted to no proof. Here, take away this dish. Kath. I pray you, let it stand. Pet. The poorest service is repaid with thanks ; And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. Kath. I thank you, sir. Hor. Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame. _ Come, Mistress Kate, Ill bear you company. [me. Pet. [Aside] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest — Much good do it unto thy gentle heart ! . Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love, Will we return unto thy father’s house And revel it as bravely as the best, : With silken coats and caps and golden rings, With ruffs and cuffs and fardingales and things; ¢ With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery, With amber bracelets, beads and all this knavery. ; 7 : What, hast thou dined ? The tailor stays thy leisure, To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. Enter Tailor. . Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments ; Lay forth the gown. Enter Haberdasher. What news with you, sir? Hab. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer ; S “AI PV—AARUHS AHL AO ONINVIL ‘ITL OUSD ig? , if at i hh fi. ® NZ } i yy YMG YX “QU = a \\ {RO apie? ip ACT IV. A velvet dish: fie, fie! *tis lewd and filthy: Why, *tis a cockle or a walnut-shell, A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap: Away with it! come, let me have a bigger. Kath. ‘le have to bigger: this doth fit the time, And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. Pet. When you are gentle, you shall have one too, And not till then. Hor. | Aside] That will not be in haste. rath. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak ; And speak I will; Iam no child, no babe: Your betters have endured me say my mind, And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, - Or else my heart concealing it will break, And rather than it shall, I will be free Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. Pet. Why, thou say’st true; it isa paltry cap, A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie: I love thee well, in that thou likest it not. Kath. Love me or love me not, I like the cap; And it I will have, or I will have none. [Hxit Haberdasher. Pet. Thy gown ? why,ay: come, tailor, let us see’t. O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here ? What’s this? asleeve? ’tis like a demi-cannon: What, up and down, carved like an apple-tart ? Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash, Like to a censer in a barber’s shop: Why, what, i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this? Hor. | Aside] I see she’s like to have neither cap nor gown. Tai. You bid me make it orderly and well, According to the fashion and the time. Pet. Marry, and did; but if you be remember’d, I did not bid you mar it to the time. Go, hop me over every kennel home, For you shall hop without my custom, sir: Ill none of it: hence! make your best of it. Kath. I never saw a better-fashion’d gown, More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commend- Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. __[able: PS true; he means to make a puppet of ee Tai. She says your worship means to make a puppet of her. Pet. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, thou thimble ! - Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail, Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou! Braved in mine own house with a skein of thread ? Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant: Or I shall so be-meet thee with thy yard As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou livest ! I tell thee, I, that thou hast marred her gown. Tai. Your worship is deceived; the gown is made Just as my master had direction: Grumio gave order how it should be done. Gru. I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff. Tat. But how did you desire it should be made? Gru. Marry, sir, with needle and thread. Tai. But did you not request to have it cut ? Gru. Thou hast faced many things. Tai. I have. Gru. Face not me: thou hast braved many men; brave not me; I will neither be faced nor braved. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown, pr did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou iest. Tai. Why, here is the note of the fashion to tes- Pet. Read it. [tify. Gru. The note lies in’s throat, if he say I said so. Tai. [Reads] ‘ Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown :’ Gru. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it, and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread: I said a gown. Pet. Proceed. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE IV. Tai. [Reads] * With a small compassed cape :’ Gru. I confess the cape. . Tai. [Reads] *‘ With a trunk sleeve :’ Gru. I confess two sleeves. Tai. [Reads] *‘ The sleeves curiously cut.’ Pet. Ay, there’s the villany. Gru. Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I commanded the sleeves should be cut out and sewed up again; and that I’ll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble. Tat. This is true that I say: an I had thee in place where, thou shouldst know it. Gru. I am for thee straight: take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me. __[odds. Hor. God-a-mercy,Grumio! then he shall have no Pet. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. Gru. You are i’ the right, sir: *tis for my mis- Pet. Go, take it up unto thy master’s use. [tress. Gru. Villain, not for thy life: take up my mis- stress’ gown for thy master’s use! Pet. Why, sir, what ’s your conceit in that? [for: Gru. O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use! O, fie, fie, fie! [paid. Pet. [Aside] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more. Hor. Tailor, Ill pay thee for thy gown to-morrow : Take no unkindness of his hasty words: Away! I say; commend me to thy master. [Hait Tailor. Pet. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your Even in these honest mean habiliments: [father’s Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; For ‘tis the mind that makes the body rich; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honour peereth in the meanest habit. What is the jay more precious than the lark, Because his feathers are more beautiful ? Or is the adder better than the eel, Because his painted skin contents the eye ? O, no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse For this poor furniture and mean array. If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me; And therefore frolic: we will hence forthwith, To feast and sport us at thy father’s house. Go, call my men, and let us straight to him; And bring our horses unto Long-iane end ; There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. Let ’s see; I think ’t is now some seven o’clock, And well we may come there by dinner-time. Kath. I dare assure you, sir, ’t is almost two: And ’t will be supper-time ere you come there. Pet. It shall be seven ere I go to horse: Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do, You are still crossing it. Sirs, let ’t alone: I will not go to-day; and ere I do, It shall be what o’clock I say it is. Hor. [Aside] Why, so this gallant will command the sun. [| Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— Padua. Enter Tranio, and the Pedant dressed like Vincentio. Tra. Sir, this is the house: please it you that I call ? Ped. Ay, what else? and but I be deceived Signior Baptista may remember me, Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus. Tra. ’T is well; and hold your own, in any case, With such austerity as ’longeth to a father. Ped. I warrant you. Enter Biondello. But, sir, here comes your boy; ’T were good he were school’d. 205 Before Baptista’s house. ACD SEY. Tra. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello, Now do your duty throughly, I advise you: Imagine ‘t were the right Vincentio. Bion. Tut, fear not me. Tra. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista ? Bion. I told him that your father was at Venice, And that you look’d for him this day in Padua. Tra. Thou’rt a tall fellow: hold thee that to drink. Here comes Baptista: set your countenance, sir. Enter Baptista and Lucentio. Signior Baptista, you are happily met. [you of: [Zo the Pedant] Sir, this is the gentleman I told I pray you, stand good father to me now, Give me Bianca for my patrimony. Ped. Soft, son! Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio Made me acquainted with a weighty cause Of love between your daughter and himself: And, for the good report I hear of you And for the love he beareth to your daughter And she to him, to stay him not too long, I am content, in a good father’s care, To have him match’d; and if you please to like No worse than I, upon some agreement Me shall you find ready and willing With one consent to have her so bestow’d; For curious I cannot be with you, Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well. ap. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say: Your plainness and your shortness please me well. Right true it is, your son Lucentio here Doth love my daughter and she loveth him, Or both dissemble deeply their affections: And therefore, if you say no more than this, That like a father you will deal with him And pass my daughter a sufficient dower, The match is made, and all is done: Your son shall have my daughter with consent. Tra. I thank you, sir. Where then do you know We be aflfied and such assurance ta’en [best As shall with either part’s agreement stand ? Bap. Not in my house, Lucentio; for, you know, Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants: Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still; And happily we might be interrupted. Tra. 'Then at my lodging, an it like you: There doth my father he; and there, this night, We ’ll pass the business privately and well. Send for your daughter by your servant here; My boy shall fetch the scrivenerx presently. The worst is this, that, at so slender warning, You are like to have a thin and slender pittance. Bap. It likes me well. Biondello, hie you home, And bid Bianca make her ready straight ; And, if you will, tell what hath happened, Lucentio’s father is arrived in Padua, And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife. Bion. I pray the gods she may with all my heart! Tra. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. [Hxit Bion. Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way ? Welcome! one mess is like to be your cheer: Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa. Bap. I follow you. [Hxeunt Tranio, Pedant, and Baptista. Tte-enter Biondello. Bion. Cambio! Luc. What sayest thou, Biondello ? Bion. You saw my master wink and laugh upon Luc. Biondello, what of that ? [you ? Bion. Faith, nothing; but has left me here be- hind, to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens. 206 | ‘ THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. aT SCENE V. Tue. I pray thee, moralize them. Bion. Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son. — Luc. And what of him? | ' Bion. His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper. Tuc. And then? Bion. The old priest of Saint Luke’s church is at your command at all hours. Luc. And what of all this ? Bion. I cannot tell; expect they are busied about a counterfeit assurance: take you assurance of her, ‘cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum:’ to the church; take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses : If this be not that you look for, I have no more to But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. [say, Luc. Hearest thou, Biondello ? Bion. I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir: and so, adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke’s, to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix. [ Exit. Luc. I may, and will, if she be so contented : She will be pleased ; then wherefore should I doubt ? Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her: It shall go hard if Cambio go without her. [wit. SCENE V.— A public road. Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and Servants. Pet. Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s. Good Lord, how Laie and goodly shines the moon! Kath. The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now. Pet. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. Kath. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. Pet. Now, by my mother’s son, and that ’s myself, It shall be moon, or star, or what I list, Or ere I journey to your father’s house. Go on, and fetch our horses back again. Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d ! Hor. Say as he says, or we shall never go. Kath. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please: An if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. Pet. I say it is the moon. Kath. I know it is the moon. Pet. Nay, then you lie: it is the blessed sun. ‘ath. Then, God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun: But sun it is not, when you say it is not; And the moon changes even as your mind. What you will have it named, even that it is; And so it shall be so for Katharine. Hor. Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won. Pet. Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should And not unluckily against the bias. [ruu, But, soft! company is coming here. Enter Vincentio. [To Vincentio] Good morrow, gentle mistress: where Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, [away ? Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ? Such war of white and red within her cheeks! What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty, As those two eyes become that heavenly face ? Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee. Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake. Hor. A’ will make the man mad, to make a woman of him. Kath. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and Whither away, or where is thy abode ? [sweet, Happy the parents of so fair a child; 4 ACT Vv. Happier the man, whom favourable stars Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow ! [mad: Pet. Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d, And not a maiden, as thou say’st he is. Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, That have been so bedazzled with the sun That everything I look on seemeth green: Now I perceive thou art a reverend father ; Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. Pet. Do, good old grandsire; and withal make known Which way thou travellest: if along with us, We shall be joyful of thy company. Vin. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, That with your strange encounter much amazed me, My name is call’d Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa; And bound I am to Padua; there to visit A son of mine, which long I have not seen. Pet. What is his name? Vin. Lucentio, gentle sir. Pet. Happily met; the happier for thy son. P THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. ——: And now by law, as well as reverend age, I may entitle thee my loving father: The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman, Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not, Nor be not grieved: she is of good esteem, Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth; Beside, so qualified as may beseem The spouse of any noble gentleman. Let me embrace with old Vincentio, And wander we to see thy honest son, Who will of thy arrival be full joyous. Vin. But is this true ? or is it else your pleasure, Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest Upon the company you overtake ? Hor. I do assure thee, father, so it is. Pet. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof ; For our first merriment hath made thee jealous. [Hxeunt all but Hortensio. Hor. Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. Have to my widow! and if she be froward, Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be praia eh eit. Pe LV SCENE I.— Padua. Before Lucentio’s house. Gremio discovered. Enter behind Biondello, Lu- centio, and Bianca. Bion. Softly and swiftly, sir; for the priest is ready. Luc. I fly, Biondello: but they may chance to need thee at home; therefore leave us. Bion. Nay, faith, I ll see the church o’ your back ; and then come back to my master’s as soon as I can. [Hxeunt Lucentio, Bianca, and Biondello. Gre. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Vincentio, Gru- mio, with Attendants. Pet. Sir, here ’s the door, thisis Lucentio’s house : My father’s bears more toward the market-place ; Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir. Vin. You shall not choose but drink before you 0: I flint I shall command your welcome here, And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward. [| Knocks. Gre. They ’re busy within; you were best knock louder. Pedant looks out of the window. Ped. What’s he that knocks as he would beat down the gate? Vin. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir ? Ped. He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken withal. Vin. What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two, to make merry withal ? Ped. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none, so long as I live. Pet. Nay, lL told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir? ‘To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa and is here at the door to speak with him. Ped. Thou liest: his father is come from Padua and here looking out at the window. Vin. Art thou his father ? wee: Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe e 2 Pet. [To Vincentio] Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another man’s name. Ped. Lay hands on the villain: I believe a’ means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance. Re-enter Biondello. Bion. I have seen them in the church together : God send ’em good ed But who is here ? mine old master Vincentio! now we are undone and brought to nothing. Vin. [Seeing Biondello] Come hither, crack hemp. Bion. I hope I may choose, sir. [got me ? Vin. Come hither, yourogue. What, have you for- Bion. Forgot you! no, sir: I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life. Vin. What, you notorious villain, didst thou never see thy master’s father, Vincentio ? Bion. What, my old worshipful old master? yes, marry, sir: see where he looks out of the window. Vin. Is’t so, indeed ? [Beats Biondello. Bion. Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me. [ Exit. Ped. Help, son! help, Signior Baptista! [Hatt from above. Pet. Prithee, Kate, let ’s stand aside and see the end of this controversy. [ They retire. Re-enter Pedant below; Tranio, Baptista, and Servants. Tra. Sir, what are you that offer to beat my ser- vant ? Vin. What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet! a velvet hose! a scarlet cloak! and a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! while I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university. Tra. How now! what’s the matter ? Bap. What, is the man lunatic ? Tra. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, sir, what ’cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold ? I thank my good father, I am able to main- tain it. | Bergamo Vin. Thy father! O villain! he is a sail-maker im Bap. You mistake, sir, you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name ? Vin. His name! as if I knew not his name: I have brought him up ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio. ; Ped. Away, away, mad ass! his name is Lucentio, and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio. 207 ACT V. Vin. Lucentio! O,he hath murdered his master! Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the duke’s name. O,my son,my son! Tell me, thou villain, where is my son Lucentio ? Tra. Call forth an officer. Enter one with an Officer. Carry this mad knave to the gaol. I charge you see that he be forthcoming. Vin. Carry me to the gaol! Gre. Stay, officer: he shall not go to prison. Bap. Talk not, Signior Gremio: I say he shall go to prison. Gre. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business: I dare swear this is the right Vincentio. Ped. Swear, if thou darest. Gre. Nay, I dare not swear it. Tra. Then thou wert best say that I am not Lu- centio. Gre. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio. Bap. Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him! Vin. Thus strangers may be haled and abused: O monstrous villain! Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca. Bion. O! we are spoiled and — yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone. Luc. [Kneeling] Pardon, sweet father. Vin. Lives my sweet son ? [Exeunt Biondello, Tranio, and Pedant, as fast as may be. Bian. Pardon, dear father. Bap. How hast thou offended ? Where is Lucentio? Uc. Here’s Lucentio, Right son to the right Vincentio; That have by marriage made thy daughter mine, While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne. moe: Here’s packing, with a witness, to deceive us all! Vin. Where is that damned villain Tranio, That faced and braved me in this matter so ? Bap. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio ? Bian. Cambio is changed into Lucentio. Luc. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love Made me exchange my state with Tranio, While he did bear my countenance in the town; And happily I have arrived at the last Unto the wished haven of my bliss. What Tranio did, myself enforced him to; Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake. Vin. 171) slit the villain’s nose, that would have sent me to the gaol. Bap. But do you hear, sir? have you married my daughter without asking my good will? Vin. Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but I will in, to be revenged for this Manas 2 eit. Bap. And I, to sound the depth of this sna ait. Luc. Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown. | Hxeunt Lucentio and Bianca. Gre. My cake is dough; but I’ll in among the rest, . Out of hope of all, but my share of the feast. [ zit. Kath. Husband, let ’s follow, to see the end of this Pet. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. [ado. Kath. What, in the midst of the street ? Pet. What, art thou ashamed of me ? Kath. No, sir, God forbid; but ashamed to kiss. Pet. Why,then let ’s home again. Come, sirrah, let ’s away. Kath. Nay, I will give theea kiss: now pray thee, love, stay. Pet. Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate: Better once than never, for never too late. [Ezeunt. 208 | } THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Father Baptista, SCENE II. SCENE II.— Padua. Lucentio’s house. Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the Pedant, Lu- centio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and Widow, Tranio, Biondello, and Grumio: the Servingmen with Tranio bringing in a banquet. Luc. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree: And time it is, when raging war is done, To smile at scapes and perils overblown. My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, While I with self-same kindness welcome thine. Brother Petruchio, sister Katharina, And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow, Feast with the best, and welcome to my house: My banquet is to close our stomachs up, After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down; For now we sit to chat as well as eat. Pet. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat! Bap. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio. Pet. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. sib For both our sakes, I would that word were rue. Pet. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow. Wid. Then never trust me, if I be afeard. Pet. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you. [sense : Wid. He that is giddy thinks the world turns Pet. Roundly replied. [round. Kath. Mistress, how mean you that ? Wid. Thus I conceive by him. Pet. Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that ? Hor. My widow says, thus she conceives her tale. Pet. Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow. [round:’ Kath. ‘He that is giddy thinks the world turns I pray you, tell me what you meant by that. Wid. Your husband, being troubled with a shrew, Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe: And now you know my meaning. Kath. A very mean meaning. Wid. Right, I mean you. Kath. And I am mean indeed, respecting you. Pet. To her, Kate! Hor. To her, widow! [down. Pet. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her Hor. That’s my office. Pet. Spoke like an officer: ha’ to thee, lad! [Drinks to Hortensio. Bap. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks ? Gre. Believe me, sir, they butt together well. Bian. Head, and butt! an hasty-witted body ; Would say your head and butt were head and horn. Vin. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you ? Bian. Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I ll sleep again. un, Pet. Nay, that you shall not: since you have be- Have at you for a bitter jest or two! Bian. Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush; And then pursue me as you draw your bow. You are welcome all. [Exeunt Bianca, Katharina, and Widow. Pet. She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio, This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not; Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d. Tra. O,sir, Lucentio slipp’d me like his greyhound, Which runs himself and catches for his master. Pet. A good swift simile, but something currish. Tra. ’T is well, sir, that you hunted for yourself: ’T is thought your deer does hold you at a bay. Bap. O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now. Tne. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. Hor. Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here? Pet. A’ has a little eall’d me, I confess; And, as the jest did glance away from me, ’T is ten to one it maim’d you two outright. Bap. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. ACT V. Pet. Well, I say no: and therefore for assurance Let ’s each one send unto his wife; _ And he whose wite is most obedient To come at first when he doth send for her, Shall win the wager which we will propose. Hor. Content. What is the wager ? Luc. Twenty crowns. Pet. Twenty crowns! I ‘il venture so much of my hawk or hound, But twenty times so much upon my wife. Luc. A hundred then. Hor. Content. Pet. A match! ’tis done. Hor. Who shall begin ? Lue That will I. Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. Bion. I go. Bap. Son, I’ll be your half, Bianca comes. Luc. 1’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself. [ Exit. Re-enter Biondello. How now! what news ? Bion. Sir, my mistress sends you word That she is busy and she cannot come. Pet. How! she is busy and she cannot come! Js that an answer ? Gre. Ay, and a kind one too: Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. Pet. I hope, better. Hor. Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife To come to me forthwith. [ Hauit Bion. Pet. O, ho! entreat her! Nay, then she must needs come. Hor. T am afraid, sir, Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. Re-enter Biondello. . Now, where ’s my wife ? Bion. She says you have some goodly jest in hand: She will not come; she bids you come to her. Pet. Worse and worse; she will not come! Ovile, Intolerable, not to be endured! Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress; Say, I command her come to me. Hor. I know her answer. Pet. What ? [Hxit Grunio. Hor. She will not. Pet. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end. Bap. Now,by my holidame,here comes Katharina! Re-enter Katharina. Kath. What is your will, sir, that you send for me ? Pet. Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife ? Kath.. They sit conferring by the parlour fire. Pet. Go, fetch them hither: if they deny to come, Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands: Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. [| Hxit Katharina. Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. Hor. And so it is: I wonder what it bodes. Pet. Marry, peace it bodes, and love and quiet life, And awful rule and right supremacy ; And, to be short, what not, that ’s sweet and happy ? Bap. Now, fair befal thee, good Petruchio! The wager thou hast won; and I will add Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns; Another dowry to another daughter, For she is changed, as she had never been. Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet And show more sign of her obedience, Her new-built virtue and obedience. See where she comes and brings your froward wives As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Re-enter Katharina, with Bianca and Widow. Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not: Off with that bauble, throw it under-foot. 14 Dene TAMING OF THE SHEL W. SCENE II, Wid. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh, Till I be brought to such a silly pass! Bian. Fie! what a foolish duty call you this ? Luc. 1 would your duty were as foolish too: |The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time. Bian. The more fool you, for laying on my duty. Pet. Katharine, I charge thee, tell these head- strong women What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. Wid. Come, come, you ’re mocking: we will have no telling. Pet. Come on, I say; and first begin with her. Wid. She shall not. Pet. I say she shall: and first begin with her. soaks Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind row, And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor: It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads, Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds, And in no sense is meet or amiable. A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land, To watch the night in storms, the day 1n cold, Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks and true obedience; Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince Even such a woman oweth to her husband; And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will, What is she but a foul contending rebel And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? I am ashamed that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace, Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway, When they are bound to serve, love and obey. Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts ? Come, come, you froward and unable worms! My mind hath been as big as one of yours, My heart as great, my reason haply more, To bandy word for word and frown for frown ; But now I see our lances are but straws, Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, That seeming to be most which we indeed least are Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, And place your hands below your husband’s foot: In token of which duty, if he please, My hand is ready; may it do him ease. Pet. Why, there ’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate. Luc. Well, go ha’t. Vin. ’Tis a good hearing when children are to- ward. [ward. Luc. But a harsh hearing when woman are {ro- Pet. Come, Kate, we ’ll to bed. We three are married, but you two are sped. [To Luc.] ’T was I won the wager, though you hit the white; And, being a winner, God give you good night! [Hxeunt Petruchio and Katharina. Hor. Now, go thy ways; thou hast tamed a curst thy ways, old lad; for thou shalt shrew. Luc. "Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so. [ Exeunt. 209 ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. DRAMATIS PERSON 4. King of France. Duke of Florence. Bertram, Count of Rousillon. Lafeu, an old lord. Parolles, a follower of Bertram. Steward, ! servants to the Countess of Clown, j| Rousillon. A Page. Countess of Rousillon, mother to Bertram. Helena, a gentlewoman protected by the Countess. An old Widow of Florence. Diana, daughter to the Widow. Violenta, } neighbours and friends to the Mariana, Widow. Lords, Officers, Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine. SCENE — Rousillon ; Paris ; Florence ; Marseilles. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page L.] nd Oa Ram 6 SCENE I1.— Rousillon. The Count’s palace. Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon, He- lena, and Lafeu, all in black. Count. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband. Ber. And Lin going, madam, weep o’er my father’s death anew: but I must attend his majesty’s com- mand, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in sub- jection. Laf. You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you, sir, a father: he that so generally is at all times good must of necessity hold his virtue to you; whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather than lack it where there is such abundance. [ment ? Count. What hope is there of his majesty’s amend- Laf. He hath abandoned his physicians, madam ; under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the pro- cess but only the losing of hope by time. Count. This young gentlewoman had a father,— O, that ‘had’! how sad a passage ’t is! — whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far, would have made nature immor- tal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for the king’s sake, he were living! I think it would be the death of the king’s disease. [madam ? Laf. How called you the man you speak of, Count. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon. Laf. He was excellent indeed, madam: the king very lately spoke of him admiringly and mourn- ingly: he was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality. Ber. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes Laf. A fistula, my lord. [of? Ber. 1 heard not of it before. Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon ? Count. His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises; her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity; they are virtues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness. 210 Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her Count. ’Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than have it. Hel. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living. Count. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal. Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes. ; Laf. How understand we that ? [father Count. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, Fall on thy head! Farewell, my lord; *T is an unseason’d courtier; good my lord, Advise him. af. He cannot want the best That shall attend his love. Count. Heaven bless him! Farewell, can wit. Ber. [To Helena] The best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. Laf. Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father. | inert Bertram and Lafeu. Hel. O, were that all! I think not on my father; And these great tears grace his remembrance more Than those I shed for him. What was he like? I have forgot him: my imagination Carries no favour in ’t but Bertram’s. I am undone: there is no living, none, If Bertram be away. ’T were all one That I should love a bright particular star And think to wed it, he is so above me: In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. ACT I. The ambition in my love thus plagues itself: The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love. ’T was pretty, though a plague, To see him every hour; to sit and draw Ilis arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, In our heart’s table; heart too capable Of every line and trick of his sweet favour: But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here ? Enter Parolles. [Aside] one that goes with him: I love him for his sake ; And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ; Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when virtue’s steely bones Look bleak i’ the cold wind: withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. Par. Save you, fair queen! Hel. And you, monarch! ers INO: Hel. And no. Par. Are you meditating on virginity ? Hel. Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you: let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to vir- ginity; how may we barricado it against him ? Par. Keep him out. Hel. But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: unfold to us some warlike resistance. Par. There is none: man, sitting down before you, will undermine you and blow you up. Hel. Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers up! Is there no military policy, how virgins might blow up men! Par. Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up; marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the common- wealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of vir- ginity is rational increase and there was never vir- gin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is ever lost: ’tis too cold a companion ; away with ’t. Hel. I will stand for ’t a little, though therefore [ die a virgin. Par. There’s little can be said in ’t; tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of vir- ginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself; and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by *t: out with ’t! within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the prin- cipal itself not much the worse; away with ’t! Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking ? Par. Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne’er it likes. °T isa commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with ’t while ’tis vendible; answer the time of re- quest. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French with- ered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE II. withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ’tis a withered pear: will you anything with it ? Hel. Not my virginity yet... There shall your master have a thousand loves. A mother and a mistress and a friend, A phoenix, captain and an enemy, A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear ; His humble ambition, proud humility, His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms, That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he— I know not what he shall. God send him well! The court ’s a learning place, and he is one— Par. What one, i’ faith ? Hel. That I wish well. ’Tis pity — Par. Whats pity ? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in ’t, Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born, Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And show what we alone must think, which never Returns us thanks. Enter Page. Page. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for ee it. Par. Little Helen, farewell: if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court. Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star. Par. Under Mars, I. Hel. I especially think, under Mars. Par. Why under Mars ? Hel. The wars have so kept you under that you must needs be born under Mars. Par. When he was predominant. Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather. Par. Why think you so ? Hel. You go so much backward when you fight. Par. That’s for advantage. Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes the safety: but the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well. Par. Iam so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends: get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee: so, farewell. [itt. Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. What power is it which mounts my love so high, That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye ? The mightiest space in fortune nature brings To join like likes and kiss like native things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their pains in sense and do suppose What hath been cannot be: who ever strove To show her merit, that did miss her love ? The king’s disease—my project may deceive me, But my intents are fix’d and will not leave me. [ Exit. SCENH II.— Paris. The king’s palace. Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters, and divers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears ; Have fought with equal fortune and continue A braving war. 211 ACT TI. First Lord. So *t is reported, sir. King. Nay, ’tis most credible; we here receive it A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria, With caution that the Florentine will move us For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend Prejudicates the business and would seem To have us make denial. First Lord. His love and wisdom, Approved so to your majesty, may plead For amplest credence. king. He hath arm’d our answer, And Florence is denied before he comes: Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see The Tuscan service, freely have they leave To stand on either part. Sec. Lord. It well may serve A nursery to our gentry, who are sick For breathing and exploit. King. What ’s he comes here ? Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles. First Lord. It is the Count Rousillon, my good Young Bertram. [lord, King. Youth,thou bear’st thy father’s face ; Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, Hath well composed thee. Thy father’s moral parts Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris. Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty’s. King. I would I had that corporal soundness now, As when thy father and myself in friendship First tried our soldiership! He did look far Into the service of the time and was Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long; But on us both did haggish age steal on And wore us out of act. It much repairs me To talk of your good father. In his youth He had the wit which I can well observe To-day in our young lords; but they may jest Till their own scorn return to them unnoted Ere they can hide their levity in honour: So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were, His equal had awaked them, and his honour, Clock to itself, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speak, and at this time His tongue obey’d his hand: who were below him He used as creatures of another place And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks, Making them proud of his humility, In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man Might be a copy to these younger times; Which, follow’d well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward. Ber. His good remembrance, sir, Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb; So in approof lives not his epitaph As in your royal speech. [say — King. Would I were with him! He would always Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them, To grow there and to bear,— Let me not live,’— This his good melancholy oft began, On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, When it was out,— Let me not live,’ quoth he, ‘ After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses All but new things disdain; whose judgments are Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies Expire before their fashions. This he wish’d: I after him do after him wish too, Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home, I quickly were dissolved from my hive, To give some labourers room. Sec. Lord. You are loved, sir; They that least lend it you shall lack you first. dking. I fill a place, I know ’t. How long is’t, count, 212 ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE IIlf. Since the physician at your father’s died ? He was much famed. Ber. Some six months since, my lord. King. If he were living, I would try him yet. Lend me an arm; the rest have worn me out / With several applications: nature and sickness Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count; My son ’s no dearer. Ber. Thank your majesty. [Exeunt. Flourish. SCENE III. — Rousillon. Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown. Count. I will now hear; what say you of this gen- tlewoman ? Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our mod-. esty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them. Count. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you L do not all believe: ’tis my slowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours. Clo. ’Tis not unknown to you, madam, Iam a poor Count. Well, sir. [fellow. Clo. No, madam, ’t is not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned: but, if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may. Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar ? Clo. I do beg your good will in this case. Count. In what case ? Clo. In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage: and I think I shall never have the bless- ing of God till I have issue 0’ my body; for they say barnes are blessings. Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry. Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the fiesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives. Count. Is this all your worship’s reason ? Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are. Count. May the world know them ? Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent. Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness. Olo. I am out o’ friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife’s sake. Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. Clo. You’re shallow, madam, in great friends: for the knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of. He that ears my land spares my team and gives me leave to in the crop; if 1 be his cuck- old, he’s my drudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cher- ishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan and old Poysam the papist, howsome’er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one; pee may joul horns together, like any deer i’ the erd. Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave ? Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way: For I the ballad will repeat, Which men full true shall find; Your marriage comes by destiny, Your cuckoo sings by Kind. The Count’s palace. ACT I. — Count. Get you gone, sir; Ill talk with you more anon. Stew. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you: of her I am to speak. Cowit. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen, I mean. Clo. Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy ? Fond done, done fond, Was this King Priam’s joy ? With that she sighed as she stood, With that she sighed as she stood, And gave this sentence then; Among nine bad if one be good, Among nine bad if one be good, There ’s yet one good in ten. Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah. Clo. One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o’ the song: would God would serve the world so all the year! we’ld find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a’! An we might have a good woman born but one every blazing star, or at an earthquake, *t would mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out, ere a’ pluck one. Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you. Clo. That man should be at woman’s command, and yet no hurt done! Though honesty be no puri- tan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither. [ Exit. Count. Well, now. Stew. [know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely. Count. Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid her than she 71] demand. Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised, with- out rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sor- row that e’er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it. Count. You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself; many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you, leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon. [Hxit Steward. Enter Helena. Even so it was with me when I was young: If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong ; Our blood to us, this to our blood is born; It is the show and seal of nature’s truth, Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth: By our remembrances of days foregone, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none. Her eye is sick on ’t: I observe her now. Hel. What is your pleasure, madam ? ALLS WELE THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE III. Count. You know, Helen, I am a mother to you. fel. Mine honourable mistress. Count. Nay, a mother: Why not a mother? When I said ‘a mother,’ Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in ‘ mother,’ That you start at it? Isay, Iam your mother; And put you in the catalogue of those That were enwombed mine: ’t is often seen Adoption strives with nature and choice breeds A native slip to us from foreign seeds: You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan, Yet I express to you a mother’s care: God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood To say Iam thy mother? What’s the matter, That this distemper’d messenger of wet, The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye ? Why ? that you are my daughter ? Hel That I am not. Count. I say, I am your mother. Hel. Pardon, madam; The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honour’d name; No note upon my parents, his all noble: My master, my dear lord he is; and I His servant live, and will his vassal die: He must not be my brother. Count. Nor I your mother ? Hel. You are my mother, madam; would you were,— So that my lord your son were not my brother,— Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers, I care no more for than I do for heaven, So I were not his sister. Can ’t no other, But, I your daughter, he must be my brother? flaw: Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in- God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again? My fear hath catch’d your fondness: now I see The mystery of your loneliness, and find Your salt tears’ head: now to all sense ’tis gross You love my son; invention is ashamed, Against the proclamation of thy passion, To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true; But tell me then, ’tis so; for, look, thy cheeks Confess it, th’ one to th’ other; and thine eyes See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours That in their kind they speak it: only sin And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, That truth should be suspected. Speak, is ’t so? If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew; If it be not, forswear ’t: howe’er, I charge thee, As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, To tell me truly. Hel. Good madam, pardon me! Count. Do you love my son? Fel. Your pardon, noble mistress! Count. Love you my son? ; Fel Do not you love him, madam ? Count. Go not about; my love hath in ’t a bond, Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose The state of your affection; for your passions Have to the full appeach’d. Fel. Then, I confess, Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, That before you, and next unto high heaven, I love your son. My friends were poor, but honest; so ’s my love: Be not offended; for it hurts not him That he is loved of me: I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suit ; , Nor would I have him till I do deserve him ; Yet never know how that desert should be. I know [I love in vain, strive against hope ; Yet in this captious and intenible sieve I still pour in the waters of my love And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like, 213 ACT trL. Religious in mine error, I adore The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, Let not your hate encounter with my love For loving where you do: but if yourself, Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, Did ever in so true a fiame of liking Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian Was both herself and love; O, then, give pity To her, whose state is such that cannot choose But lend and give where she is sure to lose; That seeks not to find that her search implies, But riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies! Count. Had you not lately an intent,— speak To go to Paris ? [truly, Hel. Madam, I had. Count. Wherefore ? tell true. Hel. I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear. You know my father left me some prescriptions Of rare and proved effects, such as his reading And manifest experience had collected For general sovereignty; and that he will’d me In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them, As notes whose faculties inclusive were More than they were in note: amongst the rest, There is a remedy, approved, set down, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The king is render’d lost. Count. This was your motive For Paris, was it? speak. ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE I. Hel. My lord your son made me to think of this; Else Paris and the medicine and the king Had from the conversation of my thoughts Haply been absent then. Count. But think you, Helen, If you should tender your supposed aid, He would receive it ? he and his physicians Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him, They, that they cannot help: how shall they credit A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, Embowell’d of their doctrine, have left off The danger to itself ? Hel. There ’s something in’t, More than my father’s skill, which was the greatest Of his profession, that his good receipt Shall for my legacy be sanctified By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour But give me leave to try success, I ld venture The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure By such a day and hour. Count. Dost thou believe ’t ? Hel. Ay, madam, knowingly. [love, Count. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and Means and attendants and my loving greetings To those of mine in court: I ’ll stay at home And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt: Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this, What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. [ Hceunt. Wan a1 BD Bal BS SCENE I. — Paris. Flourish of cornets. Enter the King, attended with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war ; Ber- tram, and Parolles. King. Farewell, young lords; these warlike prin- ciples [well: Do not throw from you: and you, my lords, fare- Share the advice betwixt you: if both gain, all The gift doth stretch itself as ’tis received, And is enough for both. First Lord. *T is our hope, sir, After well enter’d soldiers, to return And find your grace in health. King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confess he owes the malady That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords; Whether I live or die, be you the sons Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy,— Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last monarchy,—see that you come Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek, That fame may cry you loud: I say, farewell. Sec. Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty ! King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them: They say, our French lack language to deny, If they demand: beware of being captives, Before you serve. Both. Our hearts receive your warnings. King. Farewell. Come hither to me. [ Hxit, attended. First Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay The King’s palace. behind us! Par. ’T is not his fault, the spark. Sec. Lord. O, ’tis brave wars! Par. Most admirable: I have seen those wars. Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with ‘Too young’ and ‘the next year’ and ‘’tis too early.’ 214 Par. An thy mind stand to’t, boy, steal away bravely. Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock, Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, Till honour be bought up and no sword worn But one to dance with! By heaven, I’llsteal away. First Lord. There’s honour in the theft. Par. Commit it, count. Sec. Lord. I am your accessary ; and so, farewell. Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured First Lord. Farewell, captain. [body. Sec. Lord. Sweet Monsieur Parolles! Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals: you shall find in the regiment of the Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword entrenched it: say to him, I live; and ob- serve his reports for me. First Lord. We shall, noble captain. [EHxeunt Lords. Par. Mars dote on you for his novices! what will Ber. Stay: the king. [ye do? Re-enter King. Bertram and Parolles retire. Par. [To Ber.| Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to them: for they wear themselves in the cap of the time, there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star ; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell. Ber. And I will do so. Par. Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy sword-men. [Hxeunt Bertram and Parolles. Enter Lafeu. Laf. [Kneeling] Pardon, my lord, for me and for King. Ill fee thee to stand up. [my tidings. ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE I. Lay. Then here’s a man stands, that has brought King. I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful : his pardon. I would you had kneel’d, my lord, to ask me mercy, And that at my bidding you could so stand up. King. I would I had; so I had broke thy pate, And ask’d thee mercy for ’t. [thus ; Laf. Good faith, across: but, my good lord, ’tis | Will you be cured of your infirmity ? King. No. Laf. O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox ? Yes, but you will my noble grapes, an if [medicine My royal fox could reach them: I have seen a That ’s able to breathe life into a stone, Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay, To give great Charlemain a pen in ’s hand And write to her a love-line. King. What ‘ her’ is this ? Laf. Why, Doctor She: my lord, there’s one arrived, If you will see her: now, by my faith and honour, If seriously I may convey my thoughts In this my light deliverance, I have spoke With one that, in her sex, her years, profession, Wisdom and constancy, hath amazed me more Than I dare blame my weakness: will you see her, For that is her demand, and know her business ? That done, laugh well at me. King. Now, good Lafeu, Bring in the admiration; that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wondering how thou took’st it. Laf. Nay, I’ll fit you, And not be all day neither. | Hott. King. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues. Re-enter Lafeu, with Helena. Laf. Nay, come your ways. King. This haste hath wings indeed. Laf. Nay, come your ways; This is his majesty; say your mind to him: A traitor you do look like; but such traitors His majesty seldom fears: I am Cressid’s uncle, That dare leave two together; fare you well. [xit. King. Now, fair one, does your business follow us ? Hel. Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon was my father ; In what he did profess, well found. King. I knew him. Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards Knowing himisenough. On’sbedofdeath [him; Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, Which, as the dearest issue of his practice, And of his old experience the only darling, He bade me store up, as a triple eye, Safer than mine own two, more dear; I have so; And, hearing your high majesty is touch’d With that malignant cause wherein the honour Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it and my appliance With all bound humbleness. King. We thank you, maiden; But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned doctors leave us and The congregated college have concluded That labouring art can never ransom nature From her inaidible estate: I say we must not So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malady To empirics, or to dissever so Our great self and our credit, to esteem A senseless help when help past sense we deem. Hel. My duty then shall pay me for my pains: { will no more enforce mine office on you; Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts A modest one, to bear me back again. ~ Thou thought’st to help me; and such thanks I give As one near death to those that wish him live: But what at full I know, thou know’st no part, a ae all my peril, thou no art. Hel. What I can do can do no hurt to try, Since you set up your rest ’gainst remedy. He that of greatest works is finisher Oft does them by the weakest minister: ° So holy writ in babes hath judgmentshown, [flown When judges have been babes; great floods have From simple sources, and great seas have dried When miracles have by the greatest been denied. Oft expectation fails and most oft there Where most it promises, and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits. [maid;: Ising. I must not hear thee; fare thee well, kind Thy pains not used must by thyself be paid: Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward. Hel. Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d: | It is not so with Him that all things knows As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows; But most it is presumption in us when The help of heaven we count the act of men. Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent ; Of heaven, not me, make an experiment. I am not an impostor that proclaim Myself against the level of mine aim; But know I think and think I know most sure My art is not past power nor you past cure. cing. Art thou so confident ? within what space Hopest thou my cure ? Hel. The great’st grace lending grace, Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring, Ere twice in murk and occidental damp Moist Hesperus hath quench’d his sleepy lamp, Or four and twenty times the pilot’s glass Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass, What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly, Health shall live free and sickness freely die. King. Upon thy certainty and confidence What darest thou venture ? Hel. Tax of impudence, A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame Traduced by odious ballads: my maiden’s name Sear’d otherwise; nay, worse —if worse— extended With vilest torture let my life be ended. [speak King. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth His powerful sound within an organ weak: And what impossibility would slay In common sense, sense saves another way. Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate Worth name of life in thee hath estimate, Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all That happiness and prime can happy call: Thou this to hazard needs must intimate Skill infinite or monstrous desperate. Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try, That ministers thine own death if I die. Hel. If I break time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die, And well deserved: not helping, death ’s my fee; But, if I help, what do you promise me ? King. Make thy demand. Fel. But will you make it even ? King. Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven. Hel. Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand What husband in thy power I will command: Exempted be from me the arrogance To choose from forth the royal blood of France, My low and humble name to propagate With any branch or image of thy state; But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow. King. Here is my hand; the premises observed. Thy will by my performance shall be served ; 215 ACT AE. So make the choice of thy own time, for I, Thy resolved patient, on thee still rely. More should I question thee, and more I must, Though more to know could not be more to trust, From whence thou camest, how tended on: but rest Unquestion’d welcome and undoubted blest. Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy meed. [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE II. — Rousillon. Enter Countess and Clown. Count. Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding. Clo. I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught: I know my business is but to the court. Count. To the court! why, what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt ? But to the court! Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off ’s cap, kiss his hand and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all men. {all questions. Count. Marry, that’s a bountiful answer that fits Clo. It is like a barber’s chair that fits all but- tocks, the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn buttock, or any buttock. Count. Will your answer serve fit to all questions ? Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an at- torney, as your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib’s rush for Tom’s forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun’s lip to the friar’s mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin. Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions ? Clo. From below your duke to beneath your con- stable, it will fit any question. Count. It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit all demands. Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth of it: here it is, and all that belongs to’t. Ask me if Lam a courtier: it shall do you no harm to learn. Count. To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, Sir, are you a courtier ? Clo. O Lord, sir! There’s a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of them. you. Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves Clo. O Lord, sir! Thick, thick, spare not me. Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat. [you. Clo. O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to’t, I warrant Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I think. Clo. O Lord, sir! spare not me. Count. Do you ery, ‘O Lord, sir!’ at your whip- ping, and ‘spare not me’? Indeed your ‘O Lord, sir!’ is very sequent to your whipping: you would answer very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to ’t. Clo. I ne’er had worse luck in my life in my ‘O Lord, sir!’ I see things may serve long, but not serve ever. Count. I play the ndble housewife with the time, To entertain ’t so merrily with a fool. Clo. O Lord, sir! why, there ’t serves well again. Count. An end, sir; to your business. Give Ellen And urge her to a present answer back: [this, Commend me to my kinsmen and my son: This is not much. Clo. Not much commendation to them. 216 The Count’s palace. ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE III. Count. Not much employment for you: you un- derstand me? Clo. Most fruitfully: I am there before my legs. Count. Haste you again. [ Exeunt severally. SCENE III. — Paris. Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles. Laf. They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons, to make modern and fa- miliar, things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing our- selves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear. f Par. Why, ’tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times. Ber. And so ’tis. Laf. To be relinquished of the artists, — Par. So I say. Laf. Both of Galen and Paracelsus. Par. So I say. Laf. Of all the learned and authentic fellows, — Par. Right; so I say. Laf. That gave him out incurable, — Par. Why, there ’tis; so say I too. Laf. Not to be helped, — Par. Right; as ’t were, a man assured of a— Laf. Uneertain life, and sure death. Par. Just, you say well; so would I have said. Laf. I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world. Par. It is, indeed: if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in—what do ye call there ? Laf. A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor. Par. That’s it; I would have said the very same. Laf. Why, your dolphin is not lustier: fore me, I speak in respect — Par. Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange, that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he’s of a most facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be Laf. Very hand of heaven. [the — Par. Ay, so I say. Laf. In a most weak — [pausing] and debile min- ister, great power, great transcendence: which should, indeed, give us a further use to be made than alone the recovery of the king, as to be— [ pausing] generally thankful. Par. I would have said it; you say well. comes the king. Enter King, Helena, and Attendants. Lafeu and Parolles retire. Laf. Lustig, as the Dutchman says: Ill like a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head: why, he’s able to lead her a coranto. Par. Mort du vinaigre! is not this Helen ? Laf. Fore God, I think so. King. Go, call before me all the lords in court. Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side: And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense Thou hast repeal’d, a second time receive The confirmation of my promised gift, Which but attends thy naming. The King’s palace. Here Enter three or four Lords. Fair maid, send forth thine eyes: this youthful Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing, [parcel O’er whom both sovereign power and father’s voice I have to use: thy frank election make ; [sake. Thou hast power to choose, and they none to for- Hel. To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress Fall, when Love please! marry, to each, but one! Laf. 1’ld give bay Curtal and his furniture, My mouth no more were broken than these boys’, And writ as little beard. King. Peruse them well: Not one of those but had a noble father. ACT II. Hel. Gentlemen, Heaven hath through me restored the king to health. All. We understand it, and thank heaven for you. Hel. Iam a simple maid, and therein wealthiest, That I protest I simply am a maid. Please it your majesty, I have done already: The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me, [fused, ‘We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be re- Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever; We'll ne’er come there again.’ King. Make choice; and, see, Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me. Hel. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, And to imperial Love, that god most high, Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit ? First Lord. And grant it. Hel. Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute. Loaf. I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life. Hel. The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes, Before I speak, too threateningly replies: Love make your fortunes twenty times above Her that so wishes and her humble love! Sec. Lord. No better, if you please. Fel. My wish receive, Which great Love grant! and so, I take my leave. Laf. Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine, I’d have them whipped; or I would send them to the Turk, to make eunuchs of. Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand should take; I ’ll never do you wrong for your own sake: Blessing upon your vows! and in your bed Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed! Laf. These boys are boys of ice, they ’1] none have her: sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em. Hel. You are too young, too happy, and too good, To make yourself a son out of my blood. Fourth Lord. Fair one, I think not so. Laf. There ’s one grape yet; I am sure thy father drunk wine: but if thou be’st not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen; I have known thee already. Hel. [To Bertram] I dare not say I take you; but Me and my service, ever whilst I live, [I give Into your guiding power. This is the man. King. Why,then, young Bertram, takeher; she’s thy wife. [highness, Ber. My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your In such a business give me leave to use The help of mine own eyes. King. Know’st thou not, Bertram, What she has done for me? Ber. Yes, my good lord ; But never hope to know why I should marry her. King. Thou know’st she has raised me from my sickly bed. Ber. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down Must answer for your raising ?_ I know her well: She had her breeding at my father’s charge. A poor physician’s daughter my wife! Disdain Rather corrupt me ever! [which King. ’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the Tecan build up. Strange is it that our bloods, Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off In differences so mighty. If she be All that is virtuous, save what thou dislikest, A poor physician’s daughter, thou dislikest Of virtue for the name: but do not so: From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, The place is dignified by the doer’s deed : Where great additions swell’s,and virtue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone Is good without a name. Vileness is so: The property by what it is should go, Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair; ALL’S WHLL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE III. In these to nature she’s immediate heir, And these breed honour: that is honour’s scorn, Which challenges itself as honour ’s born And is not like the sire: honours thrive, When rather from our acts we them derive Than our foregoers: the mere word ’s a slave Debosh’d on every tomb, on every grave A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said ? If thou canst like this creature as a maid, I can create the rest: virtue and she Is her own dower; honour and wealth for me. Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do ’t. King. Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose. Hel. That you are well restored, my lord, I’m glad: Let the rest go. King. My honour’s at the stake; which to defeat, I must produce my power. Here, take her hand, Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift; That dost in vile misprision shackle up My love and her desert; that canst not dream, We, poising us in her defective scale, Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know, It is in us to plant thine honour where We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt: Obey our will, which travails in thy good: Believe not thy disdain, but presently Do thine own fortunes that obedient right Which both thy duty owes and our power claims ; Or I will throw thee from my care for ever Into the staggers and the careless lapse Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice, Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer. Ber. Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit My fancy to your eyes: when I consider What great creation and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now The praised of the king; who, so ennobled, Is as ’t were born so. King. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoise, if not to thy estate A balance more replete. er. I take her hand. King. Good fortune and the favour of the king Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief, And be perform’d to-night: the solemn feast Shall more attend upon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lovest her, Thy love’s to me religious; else, does err. [Hxeunt all but Lafeu and Parolles. Laf. [Advancing] Do you hear, monsieur ? a word Par. Your pleasure, sir? [with you. Laf. Your lord and master did well to make his recantation. Par. Recantation! My lord! my master! Laf. Ay; is it not a language I speak ? Par. A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master! Laf. Are youcompanion to the Count Rousillon ? Par. To any count, to all counts, to what is man. Laf. To what is count’s man: count’s master is of another style. [too old. Par. Youare too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are Laf. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee. Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do. Laf. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass: yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burthen. 217 ACT II. I have now found thee; when I lose thee again, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking up; and that thou ’rt scarce worth. thee,— Par. Hadst thou not the privilegeof antiquity upon Laf. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial; which if— Lord have mercy on thee fora hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee well: thy casement I need not open, for I look through thee. Give me thy hand. [nity. Par. My lord, you give me most egregious indig- Daf. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy Par. I have not, my lord, deserved it. [of it. Laf. Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple. Par. Well, I shall be wiser. Laf. Even as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o’ the contrary. If ever thou be’st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I havea desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowl- edge, that I may say in the default, he is a man IL know. [vexation. Par. My lord, you do me most insupportable Laf. 1 would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal: for doing Lam past; as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave. [ Exit. Par. Well, thou hast ason shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority. Ill beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a lord. Ill have no more pity of his age than I would have of— Ill beat him, an if I could but meet him again. Re-enter Lafeu. Laf. Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; there’s news for you: you have a new mistress. Par. I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs: he is my good lord: whom I serve above is my master. Laf. Who? God? Par. Ay, sir. Laf. The devil it is that’s thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion ? dost make hose of thy sleeves? do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I “Id beat thee: methinks, thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee: I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee. me, This is hard and undeserved measure, my ord. Laf. Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond and no true traveller: you are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the com- mission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I ’ld call you knave. I leave you. - [Evit. Par. Good, very good; it is so then: good, very good; let it be concealed awhile. Re-enter Bertram. Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever! Par. What’s the matter, sweet-heart ? [Sworn, Ber. Although before the solemn priest I have I will not bed her. Par. What, what, sweet-heart ? Ber. O my Parolles, they have married me! I ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her. Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars! _ Ber. There’s letters from my mother: what the pi hg is, I know not yet. a r. Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my | aay Pas drown the brim. Cbs boy, to the wars! 218 ALI’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE IV. He wears his honour in a box unseen, That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms, Which should sustain the bound and high curvet Of Mars’s fiery steed. ‘To other regions France is a stable; we that dwell in ’t jades; Therefore, to the war! Ber. It shall be so: Ill send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And.wherefore I am fled; write to the king That which I durst not speak: his present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields, Where noble fellows strike: war is no strife To the dark house and the detested wife. Par. Will this capriccio hold in thee? art sure ? Ber. Go with me to my chamber, and advise me. I’l] send her straight away: to-morrow I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow. Par. Why, these balls bound ; there ’s noise in it. ’T is hard: A young man married is a man that ’s marr’d: Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go: The king has done you wrong: but, hush, ’t is so. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— Paris. Enter Helena and Clown. Hel. My mother greets me kindly: is she well ? Clo. She is not well; but yet she has her health: she ’s very merry ; but yet she is not well: but thanks be given, she’s very well and wants nothing i’ the world; but yet she is not well. Hel. If she be very well, what does she ail, that she’s not very well ? Clo. Truly, she’s very well indeed, but for two things. Hel. What two things ? Clo. One, that she’s not in heaven, whither God send her quickly! the other, that she’s in earth, from whence God send her quickly! Enter Parolles. Par. Bless you, my fortunate lady ! Hel. I hope, sir, 1 have your good will to have mine own good fortunes. Par. You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them on, have them still. O, my knave, how does my old lady ? Clo. So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I would she did as you say. Par. Why, I say nothing. Clo. Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man’s tongue shakes out his master’s undoing: to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your title; which is within a very little of nothing. Par. Away! thou’rt a knave. Clo. You should have said, sir, before a knave thou ’rt a knave; that ’s, before me thou ’rt a knave: this had been truth, sir. {thee. Par. Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found Clo. Did you find me in yourself, sir ? or were you taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable ; and much fool may you find in you, even to the world’s pleasure and the increase of laughter. Par. A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed. Madam, my lord will go away to-night ; A very serious business calls on him. The great prerogative and rite of love, fedge; Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowl. But puts it off to a compell’d restraint; [sweets, Whose want, and whose delay, is strew’d with Which they distil now in the curbed time, To make the coming hour o’erflow with joy The king’s palace. What’s his will else? ~wieg ACT III. ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE I. Par. That you will take your instant leave o’ the king, And make this haste as your own good proceeding, Strengthen’d with what apology you think May make it probable need. Hel. What more commands he ? Par. That, having this obtain’d, you presently Attend his further pleasure. Hel. In every thing I wait upon his will. Par. I shall report it so. [ Hxit Parolles. Hel. I pray you. Come, sirrah. | Hxeunt. SCENE V.—Paris. Enter Lafeu and Bertram. Laf. But [hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier. Ber. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof. Laf. You have it from his own deliverance. Ber. And by other warranted testimony. Laf. Then my dial goes not true: I took this lark for a bunting. Ber. I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knowledge and accordingly valiant. Laf. Ihave then sinned against his experience and transgressed against his valour; and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot. yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes: I pray you. make us friends; I will pursue the amity. The king’s palace. Enter Parolles. Par. [To Bertram] These things shall be done, sir. Laf. EER you, sir, who’s his tailor ? Pars soir 2 _ Laf. O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, ’s a good workman, avery good tailor. Ber. [Aside to Par.] Is she gone to the king ? Par. She is. Ber. Will she away to-night ? Par. As you’ll have her. Ber. [have writ my letters, casketed my treasure, Given order for our horses; and to-night, When I should take possession of the bride, End ere I do begin. Laf. A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three thirds and uses a known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten. God save you, captain. Ber. Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur ? Par. I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord’s displeasure. Laf. You have made shift to run into ’t, boots and spurs and all, like him that leaped into the cus- tard; and out of it you ’ll run again, rather than suffer question for your residence. Ber. It may be you have mistaken him, my lord. Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him at *s prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut; VW OU Bh SCENE I1.—Fflorence. The Duke’s palace. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, «itended ; the two Frenchmen, with a troop of soldiers. Duke. So that from point to point now have you The fundamental reasons of this war [hea Whose great decision hath much plood let Borhiuk And more thirsts after. the soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures. Farewell, monsieur: I have spoken better of you than you have or will to deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil. [ Exit. Par. An idle lord, I swear. Ber. I think so. Par. Why, do you not know him ? Ber. Yes, 1 do know him well,and common speech Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog. Enter Helena. Hel. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, Spoke with the king and have procured his leave For present parting; only he desires Some private speech with you. Ber. I shall obey his will. You must not marvel, Helen, at my course, Which holds not colour with the time, nor does The ministration and required office On my particular. Prepared I was not For such a business; therefore am I found So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you That presently you take your way for home; And rather muse than ask why I entreat you. For my respects are better than they seem And my appointments have in them a need Greater than shows itself at the first view To you that know them not. This to my mother: [Giving a letter. ”T will be two days ere I shall see you, so I leave you to your wisdom. Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, But that I am your most obedient servant. Ber. Come, come, no more of that. Fel. And ever shall With true observance seek to eke out that Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail’d To equal my great fortune. Ber. Let that go: My haste is very great: farewell; hie home. Hel. Pray, sir, your pardon. Ber. Well, what would you say ? Hel, 1 am not worthy of the wealth I owe, Nor dare I say ’tis mine, and yet it is; But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal What law does vouch mine own. What would you have? Te Something; and scarce so much: nothing, indeed. I would not tell you what I would, my lord: Faith, yes; Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss. Ber. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse. Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord. Ber. Where are my other men, monsieur ? ” Fare- well. | Exit Helena. Go thou toward home; where I will never come Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum. Away, and for our flight. On": Bravely, coragio! [ Hxeunt. ark First Lord. Holy seems the quarrel Upon your grace’s part; black and fearful On the opposer. [France Duke. Therefore we marvel much our cousin Would in so just a business shut his bosom Against our borrowing prayers. Sec. Lord. Good my lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yield, 219 ACT TIT. But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a council frames By self-unable motion: therefore dare not Say what I think of it, since I have found Myself in my incertain grounds to fail As often as I guess’d. Duke. Be it his pleasure. First Lord. But I am sure the younger of our na- That surfeit on their ease, will day by day _ [ture, Come here for physic. Duke. Welcome shall they be: And all the honours that can fly from us Shall on them settle. You know your places well; When better fall, for your avails they fell: To-morrow to the field. [ Flourish. SCENE II.— Rousillon. Enter Countess and Clown. Count. It hath happened all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her. Olo. By my troth, I take my young lord to bea very melancholy man. Count. By what observance, I pray you? Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know aman that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song. ount. Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come. [Opening a letter. Clo. I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court: our old ling and our Isbels 0’ the country are noth- ing like your old ling and your Isbels 0’ the court: the brains of my Cupid’s knocked out, and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stom- Count. What have we here ? [ach. Clo. E’en that you have there. [ Exit. Count. [Reads] I have sent you a daughter-in-law : she hath recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the ‘not’ eternal. You shall hear Iam run away: know it before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long dis- tance. My duty to you. Your unfortunate son, BERTRAM. This is not well, rash and unbridled boy, To fiy the favours of so good a king; To pluck his indignation on thy head By the misprising of a maid too virtuous For the contempt of empire. Exeunt. The Count’s palace. Re-enter Clown. Olo. O madam, yonder is heavy news within be- tween two soldiers and my young lady! Count. What is the matter ? Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would. Count. Why should he be killed ? Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does; the danger is in standing to’t; that’s the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more: for my part, I only hear your son was run away. [ Haxit. Enter Helena and two Gentlemen. First Gent. Save you, good madam. Hel. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone. Sec. Gent. Do not say so. [men, Count. Think upon patience. Pray you, gentle- I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief, That the first face of neither, on the start, [you? Can woman me unto’t: where is my son, I pray Sec. Gent. Madam, he’s gone to serve the duke of Florence: 220 ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE II. We met him thitherward ; for thence we came, And, after some dispatch in hand at court, Thither we bend again. [port. Hel. Look on his letter, madam: here ’s my pass- [Reads] When thou canst get the ring upon my finger which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband: but in such a ‘then’ I write a This is a dreadful sentence. [‘ never.’ Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen ? First Gent. Ay, madam; And for the contents’ sake are sorry for our pains. Count. I prithee, lady, have a better cheer ; If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, Thou robb’st me of a moiety: he was my son; But I do wash his name out of my blood, | And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he ? Sec. Gent. Ay, madam. Count. And to be a soldier ? Sec. Gent. Such is his noble purpose; and, believe’t, The duke will lay upon him all the honour That good convenience claims. Count. Return you thither ? First Gent. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed. [in France. Hel. [Reads] Till I have no wife, I have nothing °*T is bitter. Count. Find you that there ? Hel. Ay, madam. First Gent. "Tis. but the boldness of his hand, haply, which his heart was not consenting to. Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife! There ’s nothing here that is too good for him But only she; and she deserves a lord That twenty such rude boys might tend upon And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him ? First Gent. A servant only, and a gentleman Which I have sometime known. Count. Parolles, was it not ? First Gent. Ay, my good lady, he. ness. Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wicked- My son corrupts a well-derived nature With his inducement. First Gent. Indeed, good lady, The fellow has a deal of that too much, Which holds him much to have. Count. You’re welcome, gentlemen. I will entreat you, when you see my son, To tell him that his sword can never win The honour that he loses: more I ’ll entreat you Written to bear along. Sec. Gent. We serve you, madam, In that and all your worthiest affairs. Count. Not so, but as we change our courtesies. Will you draw near ? [Hxeunt Countess and Gentlemen. Hel.‘ Till T haveno wife, I have nothing in France.’ Nothing in France, until he has no wife! Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France; Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is ’t I That chase thee from thy country and expose Those tender limbs of thine to the event Of the none-sparing war? and is it I That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride upon the violent speed of fire, Fly with false aim; move the still-peering air, - That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord. Whoever shoots at him, I set him there; Whoever charges on his forward breast, I am the caitiff that do hold him to ’t; And, though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: better ’t were I met the ravin lion when he roar’d With sharp constraint of hunger; better ’t were That all the miseries which nature owes ACT III. Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousil- Whence honour but of danger wins a scar, {lon, As oft it loses all: I will be gone; My being here it is that holds thee hence: Shall I stay here to do ’t? no, no, although The air of paradise did fan the house And angels ofticed all: I will be gone, That pitiful ramour may report my flight, To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day! For with the dark, poor thief, I 711 steal away Hits SCENE III.—Florence. Before the Duke’s palace. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, Parolles, Soldiers, Drum and Trumpets. Duke. The general of our horse thou art; and we, Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence Upon thy promising fortune. Ber. Sir, it is A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet We’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake To the extreme edge of hazard. Duke. Then go thou forth ; And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm, As thy auspicious mistress! Ber. This very day, Great Mars, I put myself into thy file: Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove A lover of thy drum, hater of love. [ Hceunt. SCENE IV.— Rousillon. Enter Countess and Steward. Count. Alas! and would you take the letter of her ? Might you not know she would do as she has done, By sending me a letter? Read it again. Stew. [Reads] Tam Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious love hath so in me offended, That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon, With sainted vow my faults to have amended. Write, write, that from the bloody course of war My dearest master, your dear son, may hie: Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far His name with zealous fervour sanctify : His taken labours bid him me forgive ; I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth From courtly friends, with camping foes to live, Where death and danger dogs the heels of worth: He is too good and fair for death and me; Whom I myself embrace, to set him free. Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words! Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much, As letting her pass so: had I spoke with her, I could have well diverted her intents, Which thus she hath prevented. Stew. Pardon me, madam: If I had given you this at over-night, She might have been o’erta’en; and yet she writes, Pursuit would be but vain. Count. What angel shall Bless this unworthy husband ? he cannot thrive, Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo, To this unworthy husband of his wife; Let every word weigh heavy of her worth That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief, Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. Dispatch the most convenient messenger: When haply he shall hear that she is gone, He will return; and hope I may that she, Hearing so much, will speed her foot again, Led hither by pure love: which of them both Is dearest to me, I have no skill in sense The Count’s palace. ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE VY. To make distinction: provide this messenger : My heart is heavy and mine age is weak ; Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. [ Hxeunt. SCENE V.—Florence. Without the walls. A tucket afar off. Enter an old Widow of Florence, Diana,Violenta, and Mariana, with other Citizens. Wid. Nay, come; for if they do approach the city, we shall lose all the sight. Dia. They say the French count has done most honourable service. Wid. It is reported that he has taken their great- est commander; and that with his own hand he slew the duke’s brother. [ Tucket.] We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way: hark! you may know by their trumpets. Mar. Come, let ’s return again, and suffice our- selves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl: the honour of a maid is her name; and no legacy is so rich as honesty. Wid. I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited by a gentleman his companion. Mar. I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles: a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the young earl. Beware of them, Diana; their prom- ises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these en- gines of lust, are not the things they go under: many a maid hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that so terrible shows in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succession, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope I need not to advise you further; but I hope your own grace will keep you where you are, though there were no further danger known but the modesty which is so lost. Dia. You shall not need to fear me. Wid. I hope so. Enter Helena, disguised like a Pilgrim. Look, here comes a pilgrim: I know she will lie at my house; thither they send one another: I ’ll question her. God save you, pilgrim! whither are you bound ? Hel. To Saint Jaques le Grand. Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you ? Wid. At the Saint Francis here beside the port. Hel. Is this the way ? Wid. Ay, marry, is ’t. [A march afar.] Hark you! they come this way. If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, But till the troops come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodged; The rather, for I think I know your hostess As ample as myself. Fel. Is it yourself ? Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim. Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure. Wid. You came, I think, from France ? Hel. I did so. Wid. Here you shall see a countryman of yours That has done worthy service. el. His name, I pray you. Dia. The Count Rousillon: know you such a one? Hel. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him: His face I know not. Dia. Whatsome’er he is, He’s bravely taken here. He stole from France, As ’tis reported, for the king had married him Against his liking: think you it is so? Hel. Ay, surely, mere the truth: I know his lady. Dia. There is a RN ase that serves the count Reports but coarsely of her. Hel. What ’s his name ? Dia. Monsieur Parolles. 221 ACT III. Hel. O, I believe with him, in argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great count himself, she is too mean To have her name repeated: all her deserving Is a reserved honesty, and that I have not heard examined. Dia. Alas, poor lady! ’T is a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting lord. Wid. I warrant, good creature, wheresoe’er she is, Her heart weighs sadly: this young maid might do A shrewd turn, if she pleased. [her Hel. How do you mean ? May be the amorous count solicits her In the unlawful purpose. Wid. He does indeed ; And brokes with all that can in such a suit Corrupt the tender honour of a maid: But she is arm’d for him and keeps her guard In honestest defence. Mar. The gods forbid else! Wid. So, now they come: Drum and Colours. Enter Bertram, Parolles, and the whole army. That is Antonio, the duke’s eldest son; That, Escalus. Hel. Which is the Frenchman ? Dia. He; That with the plume: ’tis a most gallant fellow. I would he loved his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier: is ’t not a handsome gentle- Hel. I like him well. man ? Dia. ’T is pity he is not honest: yond ’s that same knave That leads him to these places: were I his lady, I would poison that vile rascal. Hel. Which is he ? Dia. That jack-an-apes with scarfs: why is he melancholy ? Hel. Perchance he’s hurt i’ the battle. Par. Lose our drum! well. Mar. He’s shrewdly vexed at something: look, he has spied us. Wid. Marry, hang you! Marv. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier ! [Hxeunt Bertram, Parolles, and army. Wid. The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you Where you shall host: of enjoin’d penitents There ’s four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound, Already at my house. Hel. I humbly thank you: Please it this matron and this gentle maid To eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me; and, to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this virgin Worthy the note. Both. We'll take your offer kindly. [ Exeunt. SCENE VI.— Camp before Florence. Enter Bertram and the two French Lords. Sec. Lord. Nay, good my lord, put him to ’t; let him have his way. First Lord. If your lordship find him not a hild- ing, hold me no more in your respect. Sec. Lord. On my life, my lord, a bubble. Ber. Do you think I am so far deceived in him ? Sec. Lord. Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman, he’s a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy your lord- ship’s entertainment. 222 ~ ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE VI. First Lord. It were fit you knew him; lest, re- posing too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he might at some great and trusty business in a main danger fail you. Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him. First Lord. None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you hear him so confidently under- take to do. Sec. Lord. I, with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly surprise him; such I will have, whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy: we will bind and hoodwink him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries, when we bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship present at his exami- nation: if he do not, for the promise of his life and in the highest compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you and deliver all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my judgment in any ab First Lord. O, for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum; he says he has a stratagem for ’t: when your lordship sees the bottom of his success in ’t, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of ore will be melted, if you give him not John Drum’s entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he comes. Enter Parolles. Sec. Lord. [Aside to Ber.] O, for the love of laugh- ter, hinder not the honour of his design: let him fetch off his drum in any hand. Ber. How now, monsieur! this drum sticks sorely in your disposition. First Lord. A pox on’t, let it go; *tis but a drum. Par. ‘Butadrum’! is’t ‘but adrum’? A drum so lost! There was excellent command,—to charge in with our horse upon our Own wings, and to rend our own soldiers! First Lord. That was not to be blamed in the command of the service: it was a disaster of war that Cesar himself could not have prevented, if he had been there to command. Ber. Well, we cannot greatly condemn our suc- cess: some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum; but it is not to be recovered. Par. It might have been recovered. Ber. It might; but it is not now. Par. It is to be recovered: but that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or another, or ‘hic jacet.’ Ber. Why, if you have a stomach, to ’t, monsieur : if you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into his native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise and go on; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speed well in it, the duke shall both speak of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your worthiness. Par. By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it. Ber. But you must not now slumber in it. Par. I°ll about it this evening: and I will pres- ently pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my certainty, put myself into my mortal prepara- tion; and by midnight look to hear further from me. Ber. May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it ? Par. I know not what the success will be, my lord; but the attempt I vow. Ber. I know thou’rt valiant; and, to the possi- bility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell. Par. I love not many words. [ Exit. Sec. Lord. No more than a fish loves water. Is ACT [V. ALLS WELIL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE I. not this a strange fellow, my lord, that so confi- dently seems to undertake this business, which he knows is not to be done; damns himself to do and dares better be damned than to do’t ? First Lord. You do not know him, my lord, as we do: certain it is, that he will steal himself into «a man’s favor and for a week escape a great deal of discoveries; but when you find him out, you have him ever after. Ber. Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of this that so seriously he does address himself unto ? Sec. Lord. None in the world; but return with an invention and clap upon you two or three prob- able lies: but we have almost embossed him; you shall see his fall to-night; for indeed he is not for your lordship’s respect. First Lord. We’ll make you some sport with the fox ere we case him. He was first smoked by the old lord Lafeu: when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall find him; which you shall see this very night. Sec. Lord. I must go look my twigs: he shall be caught. Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me. Sec. Lord. As’t please your lordship: Ill leave you. [ Hxit. Ber. Now will I lead you to the house, and show you The lass I spoke of. First Lord. But you say she’s honest. Ber. That’s all the fault: I spoke with her but once And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her, By this same coxcomb that we have i’ the wind, Tokens and letters which she did re-send; And this is all Ihave done. She’s a fair creature: Will you go see her ? First Lord. With all my heart, ad [ Exeunt. SCENE VII.— Florence. The Widow’s house. Enter Helena and Widow. - Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not she, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall lose the grounds I work upon. Wid. Though my estate be fallen, | was well born, Nothing acquainted with these businesses ; And would not put my reputation now In any staining act. Hel. Nor would I wish you. First, give me trust, the count he is my husband, And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken Is so from word to word; and then you cannot, By the good aid that I of you shall borrow, Err in bestowing it. : Wid. I should believe you; For you have show’d me that which well approves You ’re great in fortune. Hel. Take this purse of gold, And let me buy your friendly help thus far, Which I will over-pay and pay again [daughter, When [ have found it. The count he wooes your Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty, Resolved to carry her: let her in fine consent, As we’ll direct her how ’t is best to bear it. Now his important blood will nought deny That she ll demand: a ring the county wears, That downward hath succeeded in his house From son to son, some four or five descents Since the first father wore it: this ring he holds In most rich choice; yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seem too dear, Howe’er repented after. id. Now I see The bottom of your purpose. Hel. You see it lawful, then: it is no more, But that your daughter, ere she seems as won, Desires this ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, delivers me to fill the time, Herself most chastely absent: after this, To marry her, I’ll add three thousand crowns To what is past already. Wid. I have yielded: Instruct my daughter how she shall persever, That time and place with this deceit so lawful May prove coherent. Every night he comes With musics of all sorts and songs composed To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us To chide him from our eaves; for he persists As if his life lay on ’t. Hel. Why then to-night Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed And lawful meaning in a lawful act, Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact : But let ’s about it. [ Exeunt. AGGIE TNis SCENE I.— Without the Florentine camp. Enter Second French Lord, with five or six other Soldiers in ambush. Sec. Lord. He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner. When you sally upon him, speak what terrible language you will: though you un- derstand it not yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to understand him, unless some one among us whom we must produce for an interpreter. First Sold. Good captain, let me be the inter- preter. Sec. Lord. Art not acquainted with him? knows he not thy voice? First Sold. No, sir, I warrant you. Sec. Lord. But what linsey-woolsey hast thou to speak to us again ? . First Sold. E’en such as you speak to me. Sec. Lord. He must think ussome band of strangers i’ the adversary’s entertainment. Now he hatha smack of all neighbouring languages; therefore we must every one be a man of his own fancy, not to } purpose ? know what we speak one to another; so we seem to know, is to know straight our purpose: choughs’ language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you, interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch, ho! here he comes, to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies he forges. Enter Parolles. Par. Ten o’clock: within these three hours ’t will be time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It must be a very plausive invention that carries it: they begin to smoke me; and dis- graces have of late knocked too often at my door. i find my tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart hath the fear of Mars before it and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue. —- Sec. Lord. This is the first truth that e’er thine own tongue was guilty of. Par. What the devil should move me to under- take the recovery of this drum, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing [ had no such I must give myself some hurts, and say 992 ae AGT INV I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carry it; they will say, ‘Came you off with so little?’ and ereat ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what’s the instance ?. Tongue, | must put you into a butter- woman’s mouth and buy myself another of Bajazet’s mule, if you prattle me into these perils. Sec. Lord. Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is? Par. I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword. Sec. Lord. We cannot afford you so. Par. Or the baring of my beard; and to say it was in stratagem. Sec. Lord. ’T would not do. Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped. Sec. Lord. Hardly serve. Par. Though I swore I leaped from the window of the citadel — Sec. Lord. How deep ? Par. Thirty fathom. Sec. Lord. Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed. Par. I would I had any drum of the enemy’s: I would swear I recovered it. Sec. Lord. You shall hear one anon. Par. A drum now of the enemy’s,— [Alarum within. Sec. Lord. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo. All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo. Par. O, ransom, ransom! do not hide mine eyes. [ They seize and blindfold him. First Sold. Boskos thromuldo boskos. Par. I know you are the Muskos’ regiment: And I shall lose my life for want of language: If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speak to me; I ’ll Discover that which shall undo the Florentine. First Sold. Boskos vauvado: I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue. Kerelybonto, sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards are at thy dulche. Sec. Lord. Oscorbidulchos volivorco. [yet ; First Sold. The general is content to spare thee And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on 'To gather from thee: haply thou mayst inform Something to save thy life. Par. O, let me live! And all the secrets of our camp Ill show, Their force, their purposes; nay, I ’ll speak that Which you will wonder at. First Sold. But wilt thou faithfully ? Par. If I do not, damn me. _ First Sold. Acordo linta. Come on; thou art granted space. [EHait, with Parolles guarded. A short alarum within. Sec. Lord. Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my brother, [muffled We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him ‘Till we do hear from them. Sec. Sold. Captain, I will. Sec. Lord. A’ will betray us all unto ourselves: Inform on that. Sec. Sold. So I will, sir. Sec. Lord. Till then Ill keep him dark and safely lock’d. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.—Florence. The Widow’s house. Enter Bertram and Diana. Ber. They told me that your name was Fontibell. Dia. No, my good lord, Diana. 224 ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE II. Ber. Titled goddess ; And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul, In your fine frame hath love no quality ? If the quick fire of youth light not your mind, You are no maiden, but a monument: When you are dead, you should be such a one As you are now, for you are cold and stern ; And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet self was got. Dia. She then was honest. Ber. So should you be. Dia. No: My mother did but duty; such, my lord, As you owe to your wife. Ber. No more 0’ that; I prithee, do not strive against my vows; I was compell’d to her; but I love thee By love’s own sweet constraint, and will for ever Do thee all rights of service. Dia. Ay, SO you serve us Till we serve you; but when you have our roses, You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves And mock us with our bareness. Ber. How have I sworn! Dia. ’T isnot the many oaths that makes the truth, But the plain single vow that is vow’d true. What is not holy, that we swear not by, [me But take the High’st to witness: then, pray you, tell If I should swear by God’s great attributes, I loved you dearly, would you believe my oaths, When I did love you ill? This has no holding, To swear by him whom I protest to love, That I will work against him: therefore your oaths Are words and poor conditions, but unseal’d, At least in my opinion. Ber. Change it, change it; Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy; And my integrity ne’er knew the crafts That you do charge men with. Stand no more off, But give thyself unto my sick desires, Who then recover: say thou art mine, and ever My love as it begins shall so persever. Dia. I see that men make ropes in such a searre That we’ll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring. Ber. I'll lend it thee, my dear; but have no power To give it from me. Dia. Will you not, my lord ? Ber. It is an honour ‘longing to our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors; Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world In me to lose. Dia. Mine honour’s such a ring: My chastity ’s the jewel of our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors; Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world In me to lose: thus your own proper wisdom Brings in the champion Honour on my part, Against your vain assault. Gi, Here, take my ring: My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine, And I ’ll be bid by thee. [ber-window: Dia. When midnight comes, knock at my cham- I ’ll order take my mother shall not hear. Now will I charge you in the band of truth, When you have conquer’d my yet maiden bed, Remain there but an hour, nor speak tome: [them My reasons are most strong; and you shall know When back again this ring shall be deliver’d: And on your finger in the night I 71] put Another ring, that what in time proceeds May token to the future our past deeds. Adieu, till then; then, fail not. You have won A wife of me, though there my hope be done. Ber. A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee. [ Exit. Dia. For which live long to thank both heaven > You may so in the end. [and me! ACT IV. My mother told me just how he would woo, As if she sat in’s heart; she says all men Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me When his wife ’s dead; therefore Ill lie with him When Iam buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid, Marry that will, I live and die a maid: Only in this disguise I think ’t no sin To cozen him that would unjustly win. SCENE III.— The Florentine camp. Enter the two French Lords and some two or three Soldiers. First Lord. You have not given him his mother’s letter ? Sec. Lord. I have delivered itan hour since: there is something in ’t that stings his nature; for on the reading it he changed almost into another man. First Lord. He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a [ Haxit. ady. Sec. Lord. Especially he hath incurred the ever- lasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you. First Lord. When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, and I am the grave of it. Sec. Lord. He hath perverted a young gentle- woman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown ; and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he hath given her his monumental ring, oe thinks himself made in the unchaste composi- ion. First Lord. Now, God delay our rebellion! as we are ourselves, what things are we! Sec. Lord. ‘Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends, so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself. First Lord. Is it not meant damnable in us, to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night ? Sec. Lord. Not till after midnight ; for he is dieted to his hour. First Lord. That approaches apace; I would gladly have him see his company anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit. Sec. Lord. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other. First Lord. In the meantime, what hear you of these wars ? Sec. Lord. I hear there is an overture of peace. First Lord. Nay,I assure you, a peace concluded. Sec. Lord. What will Count Rousillon do then ? will he travel higher, or return again into France ? First Lord. I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether of his council. Sec. Lord. Let it be forbid, sir; so should I bea _ great deal of his act. First Lord. Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished ; and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven. Sec. Lord. How is this justified ? First Lord. The stronger part of it by her own letters, which makes her story true, even to the point of her death: her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully con- firmed by the rector of the place. Sec. Lord. Hath the count all this intelligence ? First Lord. Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity. 15 ALI’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE IIIf. ee Lord. I am heartily sorry that he ’ll be glad of this. First Lord. How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses! Sec. Lord. And how mightily some other times | we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample. First Lord. The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues. Enter a Messenger. How now! where’s your master ? Serv. He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom he hath taken a solemn leave: his lorship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king. Sec. Lord. They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend. First Lord. They cannot be too sweet for the king’s tartness. Here’s his lordship now. Enter Bertram. How now, my lord! is’t not after midnight ? Ber. I have to-night dispatched sixteen busi- nesses, a month’s length a-piece, by an abstract of success: L have congied' with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest; buried a wife, mourned for her; writ to my lady mother I am returning; en- tertained my convoy; and between these main par- cels of dispatch effected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet. Sec. Lord. If the business be of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship. Ber. I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dia- logue between the fool and the soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit module, has deceived me, like a double-meaning prophesier. Sec. Lord. Bring him forth: has sat i’ the stocks all night, poor gallant knave. Ber. No matter; his heels have deserved it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself ? Sec. Lord. I have told your lordship already, the stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would be understood ; he weeps like a wench that had shed her milk: he hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i’ the stocks: and what think you he hath confessed ? Ber. Nothing of me, has a’? Sec. Lord. His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face: if your lordship be in ’t, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it. Enter Parolles guarded, and First Soldier. Ber. A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of me: hush, hush ! First Lord. Hoodman comes! Portotartarosa. First Sold. He calls for the tortures: what will you say without ’em? Par. I will confess what I know without con- straint: if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no First Sold. Bosko chimurcho. [more. First Lord. Boblibindo chicurmurco. First Sold. You are a merciful general. Our general bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note. Par. And truly, as I hope to live. ‘ First Sold. [Reads] ‘First demand of him how pany horse the duke is strong.’ What say you to that : 225 ACT TV. Par. Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit and as I hope to live. First Sold. Shall I set down your answer so ? Par. Do: I'll take the sacrament on ’t, how and which way you will. Ber. All’s one to him. slave is this! First Lord. You ’re deceived, my lord: this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist,—that was his own phrase,—that had the whole theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger. ‘Sec. Lord. I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean, nor believe he can have every thing in him by wearing his apparel neatly. First Sold. Well, that ’s set down. Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said,—I will Pe ie thereabouts, set down, for Ill speak ruth. First Lord. He’s very near the truth in this. Ber. But Icon him no thanks for ’t, in the nature he delivers it. Par. Poor rogues, I pray you, say. First Sold. Well, that ’s set down. Par. [humbly thank you, sir: a truth ’s a truth, the rogues are marvellous poor. First Sold. [Reads] ‘Demand of him, of what strength they are a-foot.? What say you to that ? Par. By my troth, sir, if I were to live this pres- ent hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty ; Sebastian,so many; Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lod- owick, and Gratii, two hundred and fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred and fifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fif- teen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces. Ber. What shall be done to him ? First Lord. Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have with the duke. First Sold. Well, that’s set down. [Reads] ‘ You shall demand of him, whether one Captain Dumain be i’ the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke; what his valour, honesty, and expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to corrupt him toa revolt.’ What say you to this? what do you know of it ? Par. I beseech you, let me answer to the particu- lar of the inter’gatories: demand them singly. First Sold. Do you know this Captain Dumain ? Par. I know him: a’ was a botcher’s ’prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve’s fool with child,—a dumb innocent, that could not say him nay. Ber. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though Acai his brains are forfeit to the next tile that alls. First Sold. Well, is this captain in the duke of Florence’s camp ? Par. Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy. First Lord. Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon. First Sold. What is his reputation with the duke ? Par. The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine; and writ to me this other day to turn him out 0’ the band: I think I have his letter in my pocket. First Sold. Marry, we ’1] search. Par. In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there, or it is upon a file with the duke’s other let- ters in my tent. What a past-saving 226 ALLTL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE IIIf. First Sold. Here ’tis; here’s a paper: shall Iread it to you? Par. I do not know if it be it or no. Ber. Our interpreter does it well. First Lord. Excellently. First Sold. [Reads] ‘Dian, the count’s a fool, and full of gold,’— Par. That is not the duke’s letter, sir; that is an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish: I pray you, sir, put it up again. First Sold. Nay, I’ll read it first, by your favour. Par. My meaning in ’t, I protest, was very honest, in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity and devours up all the fry it Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue ! [finds. First Sold. [Reads] ‘When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it; After he scores, he never pays the score: Half won is match well made; match, and well make it; He ne’er pays after-debts, take it before; And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this, Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss: For count of this, the count ’s a fool, I know it, Who pays before, but not when he does owe it. Thine, as he vowed to thee in thine ear, PAROLLES.’ Ber. He shall be whipped through the army with this rhyme in’s forehead. Sec. Lord. This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist and the armipotent soldier. Ber. I could endure any thing before but a cat, and now he’s a cat to me. First Sold. I perceive, sir, by the general’s looks, we shall be fain to hang you. Par. My life, sir, in any case: not that I am afraid to die; but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature: let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or any where, so I may live. First Sold. We’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely; therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain: you have answered to his reputation with the duke and to his valour: what is his honesty ? Par. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus: he professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking ’em he is stronger than Hercules: he will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool: drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine- drunk ; and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bed-clothes about him; but they know his con- ditions and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty: he has every thing that an honest man should not have; what an honest man should have, he has nothing. First Lord. I begin to love him for this. Ber. For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him for me, he’s more and more a cat. First Sold. What say you to his expertness in war ? Par. Faith, sir, has led the drum before the Eng- lish tragedians; to belie him, I will not, and more of his soldiership I know not ; except, in that coun- try he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files: I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain. First Lord. He hath out-villained villany so far, that the rarity redeems him. Ber. A pox on him, he’s a cat still. First Sold. His qualities being at this poor price, [ need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt. Par. Sir, for a quart d’écu he will sell the fee- simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it: and a —— ACT IV. cut the entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for it perpetually. [Dumain ? First Sold. What’s his brother, the other Captain Sec. Lord. Why does he ask him of me ? First Sold. What ’s he ? Par. E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil: he excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is: ina retreat he outruns any lackey ; marry, in coming on he has the cramp. First Sold. If your life be saved, will you under- take to betray the Florentine ? [Rousillon. Par. Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count First Sold. I’l1 whisper with the general, and know his pleasure. Par. [Aside] L711 no more drumming; a plague of all drums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy the count, have I run into this danger. Yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken ? First Sold. There is no remedy, sir, but you must die: the general says, you that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army and made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head. Par. O Lord, sir, let me live,or let me see my death ! First Sold. That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends. [ Unblinding him. So, look about you: know you any here ? Ber. Good morrow, noble captain. Sec. Lord. God bless you, Captain Parolles. First Lord. God save you, noble captain. Sec. Lord. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? Iam for France. First Lord. Good captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon? an I were not a very coward, I’ld compel it of you: but fare you well. [| Hxeunt Bertram and Lords. First Sold. You are undone, captain, all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet. Par. Who cannot be crushed with a plot? First Sold. If you could find out a country where but women were that had received so much shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France too: we shall speak of you there. [ Exit, with Soldiers. Par. Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great, *T would burst at this. Captain Ill be no more; But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft As captain shall: simply the thing I am Shall make melive. Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this, for it will come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass. Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live Safest in shame! being fool’d, by foolery thrive! There ’s place and means for every man aves vit. Ill after them. SCENE IV.— Florence. The Widow’s house. Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana. Hel. That you may well perceive I have not wrong’d you, One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my surety; ’fore whose throne ’t is needful, Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel: Time was, I did him a desired office, Dear almost as his life; which gratitude Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would peep forth, And answer, thanks: I duly am inform’d His grace is at Marseilles; to which place We have convenient convoy. You must know, IT am supposed dead: the army breaking, ALI’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE V. My husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding, And by the leave of my good lord the king, We’ll be before our welcome. Wid. Gentle madam, You never had a servant to whose trust Your business was more welcome. Fel. Nor you, mistress, Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour To recompense your love: doubt not but heaven Hath brought me up to be your daughter’s dower, As it hath fated her to be my motive And helper to a husband. But, O strange men! That can such sweet use make of what they hate, When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts Defiles the pitchy night: so lust doth play With what it loathes for that which is away. But more of this hereafter. You, Diana, Under my poor instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalf. Dia. Let death and honesty Go with your impositions, I am yours Upon your will to suffer. Hel, Yet, I pray you: But with the word the time will bring on summer, When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns, And be as sweet as sharp. We must away; Our wagon is prepared, and time revives us: ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL: Still the fine’s the crown ; Whate’er the course, the end is the renown. [ Hxeunt. SCENE V.— Rousillon. Enter Countess, Lafeu, and Clown. Laf. No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt- taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more advanced by the king than by that red-tailed humble- bee I speak.of. Count. I would I had not known him; it was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating. If she had par- taken of my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a more rooted love. Laf. ’T was a good lady, ’t was a good lady: we may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb. Clo. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet-marjoram of the salad, or rather, the herb of grace. Laf. They are not herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs. Clo. 1am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in grass. Laf. Whether dost thou profess thyself, a knave or a fool? Clo. A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a knaye at a man’s. Laf. Your distinction ? Clo. I would cozen the man of his wife and do his service. Sa: Laf. So you were a knave at his service, indeed. Clo. And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service. Lay. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knave and fool. Clo. At your service. Laf. No, no, no. Clo. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a prince as you are. af. Who’s that ? a Frenchman ? : Clo. Faith, sir, a’ has an English name; but his fisnomy is more hotter in France than there. Laf. What prince is that ? 227 The Count’s palace. AC TO WS Clo. The black prince, sir; alias, the prince of darkness; alias, the devil. Laf. Hold thee, there ’s my purse: I give thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of; serve him still. Olo. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire; and the master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. But, sure, he is the prince of the world; let his nobility remain in ’s court. Iam for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp toenter: some that humble them- selves may: but the many will be too chill and tender, and they ‘ll be for the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire. Lat. Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee; and [ tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways: let my horses be well looked to, without any tricks. Clo. If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be jades’ tricks; which are their own right by the law of nature. [ Hxit. Laf. A shrewd knave and an unhappy. Count. So he is. My lord that’s gone made him- self much sport out of him: by his authority he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his sauciness; and, indeed, he has no pace, but runs where he will. Laf. I like him well; ’tis not amiss. And I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady’s death and that my lord your son was upon his re- turn home, I moved the king my master to speak in the behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority of them both, his majesty, out of a self-gracious remembrance, did first propose: his highness hath ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE II. promised me to do it: and, to stop up the displeas- ure he hath conceived against your son, there is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it ? Count. With very much content, my lord; and I wish it happily effected. Laf. His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as when he numbered thirty: he will be here to-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such intelligence hath seldom failed. Count. It rejoices me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here to-night: I shall beseech your lordship to remain with me till they meet together. Laf. Madam, [ was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted. Count. You need but plead your honourable privilege. Laf. Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but I thank my God it holds yet. Re-enter Clown. Clo. O madam, yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar under ’t or no, the velvet knows; but ’tis a goodly patch of velvet: his left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare. Laf. A scar nobly got, or a noble sear, is a good livery of honour; so belike is that. Clo. But it is your carbonadoed face. Laf. Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long to talk with the young noble soldier. Clo. Faith, there’s a dozen of ’em, with delicate fine hats and most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man. [ Exeunt. NEG TE VS SCENE I.— Marseilles. A street. Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two At- tendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night Must wear your spirits low; we cannot help it: But since you have made the days and nights as one, To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs, Be bold you do so grow in my requital As nothing can unroot you. In happy time; Enter a Gentleman. This man may help me to his majesty’s ear, If he would spend his power. God save you, sir. Gent. And you. Hel. Sir, I have seen you in the court of France. Gent. 1 have been sometimes there. Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen From the report that goes upon your goodness; And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The use of your own virtues, for the which I shall continue thankful. Gent. What’s your will? Hel. That it will please you To give this poor petition to the king, And aid me with that store of power you have To come into his presence. Gent. The king ’s not here. Hel. Not here, sir! Gent. Not, indeed: He hence removed last night and with more haste Than is his use. Wid. Lord, how we lose our pains! Hel. ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL yet, Though time seem so adverse and means unfit. I do beseech you, whither is he gone? 228 Gent. Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon; Whither I am going. Hel. I do beseech you, sir, Since you are like to see the king before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame But rather make you thank your pains for it. I will come after you with what good speed Our means will make us means. Gent. This I’) do for you. Hel. And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d, Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again. Go, go, provide. | Hxeunt. SCENE II.— Rousillon. Before the Count’s palace. Enter Clown, and Parolles, following. Par. Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu this letter: I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in fortune’s mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong dis- pleasure. Clo. Truly, fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speakest of: I will henceforth eat no fish of fortune’s buttering. Prithee, allow the wind. Par. Nay, you need, not to stop your nose, sir; I spake but by a metaphor. Clo. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man’s metaphor. Prithee, get thee further. Par, Fray you, sir, deliver me this paper. Clo. Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from for- tune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself. ‘HIT 9U9DS “A WV—"TTIAM SANA LVHL TIAA S. T1TV Pa A, <_ = = = AS so Oe t} | | | it [PAE i | : YZ Le = ee AR i ih } i i + i s iN eh aoe Bits ave | oe ff pith else 5 Nyt Pp eeras yo ona oo sae Yyy YY 19,6 Ie i i tl li l iia \ h WR r thy ACT VY. Enter Lafeu. Here is a purr of fortune’s, sir, or of fortune’s cat, —but not a musk-cat,—that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied withal: pray you, sir, use the carp as you may; for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingen- ious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort and leave him to your lord- ship. [ Hat. Par. My lord, 1 am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratched. Laf. And what would you have metodo? ’Tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with fortune, that she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady and would not have knaves thrive long under her? There’sa quart d’écu for you: let the justices make you and fortune friends: I am for other business. [word. Par. I beseech your honour to hear me one single Laf. You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha’t; save your word. Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles. Laf. You beg more than ‘ word,’ then. Cox my passion! give me your hand. How does your drum ? Par. O my good lord, you were the first that found me! [thee. Laf. Was I, in sooth ? and I was the first that lost Par. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out. Laf. Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of God and the devil ? One brings thee in grace and the other brings thee out. [Trumpets sound.| The king’s coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me; I had talk of you last night: though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat; go to, follow. Par. I praise God for you. SCENE III.— Rousillon. Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, the two French Lords, with Attendants. King. We lost a jewel of her; and our esteem Was made much poorer by it: but your son, As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know Her estimation home. Count. ’T is past, my liege; And I beseech your majesty to make it Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth; When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force, O’erbears it and burns on. King. My honour’d lady, I have forgiven and forgotten all; Though my revenges were high bent upon him, And watch’d the time to shoot. Laf. This I must say, But first I beg my pardon, the young lord Did to his majesty, his mother and his lady Offence of mighty note; but to himself The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife Whose beauty did astonish the survey Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive, Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve Humbly call’d mistress. King. Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither ; Weare reconciled, and the first view shall kill All repetition: let him not ask our pardon; The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper than oblivion we do bury The incensing relics of it: let him approach, A stranger, no offender; and inform him So ’tis our will he should. Gent. I shall, my liege. [Hvit. king. What says he to your daughter ? Have you spoke ? [ Hxeunt. The Count’s palace. ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE III. Laf. All that he is hath reference to your high- ness. King. Then shall we have a match. I have let- ters sent me That set him high in fame. Enter Bertram. Laf. He looks well on ’t. King. Iam not a day of season, For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail In me at once: but to the brightest beams Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth ; The time is fair again. Ber. i My high-repented blames, . Dear sovereign, pardon to me. King. All is whole; Not one word more of the consumed time. Let ’s take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time Steals ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this lord ? Ber. Admiringly, my liege, at first I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue Where the impression of mine eye infixing, Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me, Which warp’d the line of every other favour ; Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen ; Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous object: thence it came That she whom all men praised and whom myself, Since I have lost, have loved, was in mine eye The dust that did offend it. King. Well excused: That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offence, Crying, ‘ That ’s good that’s gone.’ Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious things we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave: Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, Destroy our friends and after weep their dust: Our own love waking cries to see what’s done, While shame full late sleeps out the afternoon. Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin: The main consents are had; and here we ’ll stay To see our widower’s second marriage-day. Count. Which better than the first, O dear heaven, Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse! __[bless! Laf. Come on, my son,in whom my house’s name Must be digested, give a favour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. [Bertram gives a ring. By my old beard, And every hair that’s on ’t, Helen, that’s dead, Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that e’er I took her leave at court, I saw upon her finger. Ber. Hers it was not. ring. Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to ’t. This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen, I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood Necessitied to help, that by this token [her I would relieve her. Had you that craft, to reave Of what should stead her most ? ‘ Ber. My gracious sovereign, Howe’er it pleases you to take it so, The ring was never hers. Count. Son, on my life, I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it At her life’s rate. ; Laf. I am sure I saw her wear it. | Ber. You are deceived, my lord; she never saw it: 229 ACT V. In Florence was it from a casement thrown me, Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name Of her that threw it: noble she was, and thought I stood engaged: but when I had subscribed To mine own fortune and inform’d her fully I could not answer in that course of honor As she had made the overture, she ceased In heavy satisfaction and would never Receive the ring again. King. Plutus himself, That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine, Hath not in nature’s mystery more science Than [have in this ring: ’t was mine, ’t was Helen’s, Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know That you are well acquainted with yourself, Confess ’t was hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her: she call’d the saints to surety That she would never put it from her finger Unless she gave it to yourself in bed, Where you have never come, or sent it us Upon her great disaster. Ber. She never saw it. Kting. Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour ; And makest conjectural fears to come into me, Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove That thou art so inhuman,—’t will not prove so; — And yet I know not: thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead; which nothing, but to close Her eyes myself, could win me to believe, More than to see this ring. Take him away. [Guards seize Bertram. _My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall, Shall tax my fears of little vanity, Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him! We’ll sift this matter further. Ber. If you shall prove This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she never was. [ Exit, guarded. King. Lam wrapp’d in dismal thinkings. Enter a Gentleman. Gent. ; Gracious sovereign, Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not: Here’s a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for four or five removes come short To tender it herself. I undertook it, Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech Of the poor suppliant, who by this I know Is here attending: her business looks in her With an importing visage; and she told me, In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern Your highness with herself. King. [Reads] Upon his many protestations to marry me when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Nowis the Count Rousillon a wid- ower: his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice: grant it me, O king! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. DIANA CAPILET. Laf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for this: Ill none of him. | [Lafeu, king. The heavens have thought well on thee, To bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors: Go speedily and bring again the count. I am afeard the life of Helen, lady, Was foully snatch’d. Count. Now, justice on the doers! fte-enter Bertram, guarded. King. I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to you And that you fly them as you swear them lordship, Yet you desire to marry. 230 ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE III. Enter Widow and Diana. What woman’s that ? Dia. Tam, my lord, a wretched Florentine, Derived from the ancient Capilet: My suit, as I do understand, you know, And therefore know how far I may be pitied. [our Wid. Lam her mother, sir, whose age and hon- Both suffer under this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedy. Kking. Come hither, count; do you know these women ? Ber. My lord, [neither can nor will deny [ther ? But that I know them: do they charge me fur- Dia. Why do you look so strange upon your wife ? Ber. She’s none of mine, my lord. Dia. If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and that is mine; You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine; You give away myself, which is known mine; For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you must marry me, Either both or none. Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter; you are no husband for her. Ber. My lord, this isa fond and desperate creature, Whom sometime I have laugh’d with: let your highness Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour Than for to think that I would sink it here. King. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend Till your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour Than in my thought it lies. Dia. Good my lord, Ask him upon his oath, if he does think He had not my virginity. ~ King. What say’st thou to her? Ber. She ’s impudent, my lord, And was a common gamester to the camp. Dia. He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so, He might have bought me at a common price: Do not believe him. O, behold this ring, Whose high respect and rich validity Did lack a parallel; yet for all that He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp, If I be one. Count. He blushes, and ’tis it: Of six preceding ancestors, that gem, Conferr’d by testament to the sequent issue, © Hath it been owned and worn. ‘This is his wife; That ring ’s a thousand proofs. King. Methought you said You saw one here in court could witness it. Dia. I did, my lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument: his name’s Parolles. Laf. I saw the man to-day, if man be he. King. Find him, and bring him hither. [Hxit an Attendant. Ber. What of him? He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave, With all the spots 0’ the world tax’d and debosh’d ; Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth. Am I or that or this for what he ’ll utter, That will speak any thing ? King. She hath that ring of yours. Ber. I think she has: certain it is I liked her, And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth: She knew her distance and did angle for me, Madding my eagerness with her restraint, As all impediments in fancy’s course Are motives of more fancy; and, in fine, Her infinite cunning, with her modern grace, Subdued me to her rate: she got the ring; And I had that which any inferior might | At market-price have bought. Dia. IT must be patient rer or v. You, that have turn’d off a first so noble wife, May justly diet me. I pray you yet; Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband; Send for your ring, I will return it home, And give me mine again. ers I have it not. King. What ring was yours, I pray you? Dia. Sir, much like The same upon your finger. [late. King. Know you this ring? this ring was his of Dia. And this was it I gave him, being abed. King. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a casement. Dia. J have spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ber. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers. King. You boggle shrewdly, every feather starts Is this the man you speak of ? [you. Dia. Ay, my lord. King. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I charge Not fearing the displeasure of your master, [you, Which on your just proceeding Ill keep off, By him and by this woman here what know you ? Par. So please your majesty, my master hath been an honourable gentleman: tricks he hath had in him, which gentlemen have. King. Come, come, to the purpose: did he love this woman ? Par. Faith, sir, he did love her; but how? King. How, I pray you? [woman. Par. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a King. How is that ? Par. He loved her, sir, and loved her not. Iting. As thou art a knave, and no knave. What an equivocal companion is this! [mand. Par. lama poor man, and at your majesty’s com- Laf. He’s a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator. Dia. Do you know he promised me marriage ? Par. Faith, I know more than Ill speak. King. But wilt thou not speak all thou knowest ? Par. Yes, so please your majesty. I did go be- tween them, as I said; but more than that, he loved her: for indeed he was mad for her, and talked of Satan and of Limbo and of Furies and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time that I knew of their going to bed, and of other mo- tions, aS promising her marriage, and things which would derive me ill will to speak of; therefore I will not speak what I know. King. Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say they are married: but thou art too fine in shy evidence; thereforestand aside. Thisring, you Say, Was yours ? Dia. Ay, my good lord. King.. Where did you buy it? or who gave it you ? Dia. It was not given me, nor I did not buy it. King. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither. King. Where did you find it, then ? Dia. I found it not. King. If it were yours by none of all these ways, How could you give it him ? Dia. I never gave it him. Laf. This woman’s an easy glove, my lord; she goes off and on at pleasure. Kking. Thisring was mine; I gave it his first wife. Dia. It might be yours or hers, for aught I know. King. Take her away; I do not like her now; To prison with her: and away with him. Mites Whi THAT ENDS WHLL, SCENE III. Unless thou tell ’st me where thou hadst this ring, Thou diest within this hour. Dia. I’ never tell you. King. Take her away. | Dia. I’ll put in bail, my liege King. I think thee now some common customer Dia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, ’t was you. King. Wherefore hast thou accused him all this while ? Dia. Because he’s guilty, and he is not guilty: He knows I am no maid, and he ’Il swear to’t; Ill swear I am a maid, and he knows not. Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life; I am either maid, or else this old man’s wife. King. She does abuse our ears: to prison with her. Dia. Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal sir: [Hxit Widow. The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this lord, Who hath abused me, as he knows himself, Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit him: He knows himself my bed he hath defiled ; And at that time he got his wife with child: Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick: So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick: And now behold the meaning. Re-enter Widow, with Helena. King. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes ? Is ’t real that I see? Fel. No, my good lord; T is but the shadow of a wife you see, The name and not the thing. er. Both, both. O, pardon! Hel. O my good lord, when I was like this maid, I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring; And, look you, here’s your letter; this it says: ‘When from my finger you can get this ring And are by me with child,’ &c. This is done: Will you be mine, now you are doubly won? Ber. If she, my lege, can make me know this I ’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly. [clearly, Hel. If it appear not plain and prove untrue, Deadly divorce step between me and you! O my dear mother, do I see you living ? Laf. Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon: ~ [To Parolles| Good Tom Drum, lend me a handker- cher: so, [thee: I thank thee: wait on me home, Ill make sport with Let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones. King. Let us from point to point this story know, To make the even truth in pleasure flow. [To Diana] If thou be’st yet afresh uncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Il] pay thy dower; For I can guess that by thy honest aid Thou kept’st a wife herself, thyself a maid. Of that and all the progress, more or less, Resolvedly more leisure shall express: All yet seems well; and if it end so meet, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. [ Flourish. EPILOGUE. King. The king ’s a beggar, now the play is done: All is well ended, if this suit be won, That you express content; which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts; Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts. [ Hxeunt, 231 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. DRAMATIS PERSON. Orsino, Duke of Illyria. Sebastian, brother to Viola. Antonio, a sea captain, friend to Sebastian. A Sea Captain, friend to Viola. Valentine, Curio, Sir Toby Belch, uncle to Olivia. Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Malvolio, steward to Olivia. gentlemen attending on the Duke. Fabian, Feste, a Clown, Olivia. Viola. Maria, Olivia’s woman. servants to Olivia. Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants. SCENE — A city in Illyria, and the sea-coast near tt. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LI.] ALOT: SCENE I.—The Duke’s palace. Enter Duke, Curio, and other Lords; Musicians attending. Duke. If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more: *T is not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou, That, notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soe’er, 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: O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purged the air of pestilence! That instant was I turn’d into a hart; And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me. Enter Valentine. How now! what news from her ? Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted; But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till seven years’ heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this to season A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance. Duke. O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else That live in her; when liver, brain and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill’d Hier sweet perfections with one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers: 232 Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow- [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— The sea-coast. Enter Viola, a Captain, and Sailors. Vio. What country, friends, is this ? Cap. This is Illyria, lady. Vio. And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. [ors ? Perchance he is not drown’d: what think you, sail- Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were saved. Vio. O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be. [chance, Cap. True, madam: and, to comfort you with Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you and those 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 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 ’t was 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. Whats 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 abjured the company And sight of men. Vio. O that I served that lady And might not be delivered to the world, ACTI. Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, What my estate is! Cap. That were hard to compass; Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the duke’s. Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain ; And though that nature with a beauteous wall Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee I will believe thou hast a mind that suits With this thy fair and outward character. I prithee, and Ill pay thee bounteously, Conceal me what I am, and be my aid For such disguise as haply shall become The form of my intent. Ill serve this duke: Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him: It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing And speak to him in many sorts of music That will allow me very worth his service. What else may hap to time I will commit; Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I’ll be: When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. Vio. I thank thee: lead me on. [ Hxeunt. SCENEH III. — 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 sure care’s an enemy to life. Mar. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier 0’ nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. ~ Sir To. Why, let her except, before excepted. Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. Sir To. Confine! Ill 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. ar. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a fool- ish knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer. Sir To. Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek ? Mar. Ay, he. Sir To. He’s as tall a man as any’s in I]lyria. Mar. 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. Fie, that you’ll say so! he plays o’ the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature. Mar. He hath indeed, almost natural: for besides that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, ’tis thought among the pru- dent he would quickly have the gift of a grave. Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors that say so of him. Who are they ? _ Mar. They that add, moreover, he ’s drunk nightly in your company. Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece: Ill drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria: he’s a coward and a coystrill that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ the toe like a parish-top. What, wench! Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir An- drew Agueface. Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew! [Belch ! Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenE ttt. Mar. And you too, sir. Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. Sir And. What’s that ? Sir To. My niece’s chambermaid. Sir And. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. Mar. My name is Mary, sir. Sir And. Good Mistress Mary Accost,— Sir To. You mistake, knight: ‘accost’ is front her, board her, woo her, assail her. Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of ‘ac- cost’ ? Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen. Sir To. An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again. Sir And. An you part so, mistress, 1 would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand ? Mar. 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 Mar. It’s dry, sir. [metaphor ? 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? Mar. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand,J am barren. [Hvit. Sir To. O knight, thou lackest a cup of canary: when did I see thee so put down ? Sir And. Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has: but Lam a great eater of beef, and I be- lieve that does harm to my wit. Sir To. No question. Sir And. An I thought that, I’ld forswear it. Il] ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. Sir To. Pourquoi, my dear knight ? Sir And. What is ‘pourquoi’? do or notdo? If would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing and bear-baiting: O, had I but followed the arts! Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent 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. ne And. But it becomes me well enough, does ’t not: Sir To. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff ; and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs and spin it off. Sir And. Faith, I ll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or if she be, it’s four to one she ’l] none of me; the count himself here hard by woos her. Sir To. She ’I1none o’ the count: she 71] not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear ’t. Tut, there’s life in ’t, an. Sir And. Ill 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 kickshawses, knight ? Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man. ( Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight ? Sir And. Faith, I can cut a caper. Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to’t. 233 ACT I. Sir And. And I think I have the back-trick sim- ply as strong as any man in Illyria. Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? where- fore have these gifts a curtain before ’em ? are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall’s picture ? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard and come home in a coranto ? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink- a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it aworld to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent con- stitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard. Sir And. Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels ? Sir To. What shall we do else ? were we not born under Taurus ? Sir And. Taurus! That’s sides and heart. Sir To. No,sir; it islegsand thighs. Let me see thee caper: ha! higher: ha, ha! excellent! [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.—The Duke’s palace. Enter Valentine, and Viola in man’s attire. Val. If the duke continue these favours 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 humour or my negli- gence, that you call in question the continuance of his love; is he inconstant, sir, in his favours ? Val. No, believe me. Vio. I thank you. Here comes the count. Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants. Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho ? Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here. Duke. Stand you awhile aloof. Cesario, Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d To thee the book even of my secret soul: Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her; Be not denied access, stand at her doors, And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow Till thou have audience. 10. Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me. Duke. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds Rather than make unprofited return. Vio. Say Ido speak with her, my lord, what then ? Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love, Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth Than in a nuncio’s of more grave aspect. Vio. I think not so, my lord. Duke. Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, That say thou art a man: Diana’s lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman’s part. 1 know thy constellation is right apt For this affair. Some four or five attend him; All, if you will; for I myself am best When least in company. Prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine. Vio. Ill do my best To woo your lady: [Aside] yet, a barful strife! Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Eweunt. SCENE V.— Olivia’s house. Enter Maria and Clown. Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may 234 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene v. enter in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence. Clo. Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours. Mar. 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 colours.’ Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary ? Mar. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery. Clo. Well, God 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 mar- riage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out. Mar. You are resolute, then ? [points. Clo. Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two Mar. That if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall. 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 oO’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best. [ Kxit. Clo. Wit, an ’t be thy will, put me into good fool- ing! 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 Quinapalus ? ‘ Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.’ Enter Lady Olivia with Malvolio. God bless thee, lady! Oli. Take the fool away. lady. Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the Oli. Go to, you’re a dry fool; I Il no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest. 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 himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest ; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing that’s mended is but patched: virtue that trans- gresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syl- logism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy ? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty ’s aflower. The lady bade take away the fool; there- fore, I say again, take her away. Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you. Clo. Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non facit monachum; that’s as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good ma- donna, give me leave to prove you a fool. Oli. Can you do it? Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna. Oli. Make your proof. Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna: good my mouse of virtue, answer me. Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I *l] bide your proof. Clo. Good madonna, why mournest thou ? Oli. Good fool, for my brother’s death. Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen. Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend ? Mal. Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the Se ACT I. 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 ? Mal. I marvel your ladyship takes delight 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 already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, heis gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ zanies. Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, 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-bullets: 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 gen- tleman much desires to speak with you. Oli. From the Count Orsino, is it ? Mar. I know not, madam: ’tisa fair young man, and well attended. Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay ? Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. Oli. Fetch him off, Il pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: fie on him! [Hat Maria.] Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [Hazt Malvolio.| Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with brains! for,— here he comes,— one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater. Enter Sir Toby. Oli. By mine honour, 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 0’ these pickle herring! How now, sot! Clo. Good Sir Toby! Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy ? Sir To. Lechery! at the gate. Oli. Ay, marry, what is he? Sir To. Let him be the devil, and he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one. [Hvit. Oli. What ’s a drunken man like, fool ? Clo. Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the sec- ond mads him; and a third drowns him. Oli. Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit 0’ my coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink, he’s drowned: go, look after him. Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [ Exit. I defy lechery. There’s one Re-enter Malvolio. Mal. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge 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. Mal. Has been told so; and he says, hell stand TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. SCENE V. at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the sup- porter to a bench, but he ’ll speak with you. Oli. What kind o’ man is he ? Mal. Why, of mankind. Oli. What manner of man ? Mal. Of very ill manner; he’ll speak with you, will you or no. Oli. Of what personage and years is he ? Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’t is a peas- cod, or a codling when ’tis almost an apple: ’tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured and he speaks very shrew- ishly; one would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him. Oli. Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman. Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [ Exit. Re-enter Maria. Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o’er my face. Well once more hear Orsino’s embassy. Enter Viola, and Attendants. Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is she? [will ? Oli. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your Vio. Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,—I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excel- lently well penned, 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. 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 you a comedian ? Vio. No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house ? 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. [poetical. Vio. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis 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 approach 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. Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger. Oli. Sure, you have some hideous matter to de- liver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your Office. Vio. It alone concerns yourear. I bring no over- ture of war,no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words areas full of peace as matter. Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you ? Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maiden- head; to your ears, divinity, to any other’s, prof- anation. Oli. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [Hxeunt Maria and Attendants.] Now, sir, what is your text ? 235 acrt ip ZDLWELFTH NIGHT; Ok, WHAT YOU WILL. scENeE 1. 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. Inhisbosom! In what chapter of his bosom? Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart. Oli. O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say ? Vio. 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 I was this present: is ’t not well done? [ Unveiling. Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. Oli. Tis in grain, sir; °t will endure wind and weather. Vio. ’T is beauty truly bent, whose red and white Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruell’st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy. Oli. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me ? Vio. I see you what you are, you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. My lord and master loves you: O, such love Could be but recompensed, though you were crown’d The nonpareil of beauty! li. How does he love me? Vio. With adorations, fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. Oli. 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 divulged, 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 would 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; Halloo your name to the reverberate hills And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out ‘ Olivia!’ O, you should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, mega should pity me! a What is your parentage ? Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: 1 am a gentleman. Oli. Get you to your lord; I cannot love him: let him send no more; Unless, perchance, you come to me again, To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: I thank you for your pains: spend this for me. Vio. I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse: My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love make his heart of flint that you shall love; And let your fervour, like my master’s, be Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [zit. Oli. ‘ What is your parentage ?’ ‘ Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I ama gentleman.’ Ill 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! Re-enter Malvolio. al. Here, madam, at your service. Oli. Run after that same peevish messenger, The county’s man: he left this ring behind him, Would I or not: tell him I’ 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, I ’ll give him reasons for *t: hie thee, Malvolio. Mal. Madam, I will. [ Heit. Oli. I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe; What is decreed must be, and be this so. [ Hxit. You might do much. ALO i SCENE I.— The sea-coast. Enter Antonio and Sebastian. Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you? Seb. By your patience, no. Mystars shine darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper 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. No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so ex- cellent a touch of modesty, 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 Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sis- 236 ter, both born in an hour: if the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered 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 beauti- ful: 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, though I seem to drown her remem- brance again with more. Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. Seb. O 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 kindness, and I am yet so near the manners of my ACTII. mother, that upon the least occasion more mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino’s court: farewell. [ Kxit. 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. SCENE II.—A street. Enter Viola, Malvolio following. Mal. Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia ? Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither. Mal. 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 into a desperate assurance she will none of him: 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. Receive it so. Vio. She took the ring of me: I ll none of it. Mal. 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. left noring 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. What will become of this? As Iam man, My state is desperate for my master’s love; As lam woman,—now alas the day! — What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time! thou must untangle this, not I: It is too hard a knot for me to untie! [ Exit. SCENE III.— Olivia’s house. Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. 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 un- filled can. To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is early: so that to go to bed after mid- night is to go to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the four elements ? Sir And. Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking. Sir To. Thou ’rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine! [ Kavi. Enter Clown. Sir And. Here comes the fool, i’ faith. Clo. How now, my hearts! did you never see the picture of ‘ we three’ ? Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenettt. 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 Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; ’t was very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: hadst it ? Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. Sir And. Excellent! why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. Sir To. Come on; there is 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. Ay, ay: I care not for good life. Clo. [Sings] O mistress mine, whére are you roaming ? O, stay and hear; your true love’s coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know. Sir And. Excellent good, i’ faith. Sir To. Good, good. Clo. [Sings] What is love? ’tis not hereafter ; Present mirth hath present laughter ; What ’s to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty ; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth ’s a stuff will not endure. 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 dulecet in con- tagion. But shall we make the welkin dance in- deed ? 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, ‘Thou knave.’ Clo. ‘ Hold thy peace, thou knave,’ knight ? I shall ‘| be constrained in ’t to call thee knave, knight. Sir And. ’T is not the first time I have constrained 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. Come, ba atch sung. Enter Maria. a thee Mar. What a caterwauling 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 Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and ‘ Three merry men be we.’ Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tillyvally. Lady! [Sings] ‘There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!’ fing. Clo. Beshrew me, the knight ’s in admirable fool- Sir And. Ay, he does well enough if he be dis- posed, and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural. Sir To. [Sings] * O, the twelfth day of December,’— Mar. For the love 0’ God, peace! Enter Malvolio. Mal. My masters, are you mad ? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gab- 237 AGT LT, TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene tv. ble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches without any mitigation or re- morse of voice? Is there no respect of place, per- sons, nor time in you? Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up! Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she’s nothing allied to your dis- orders. If you can separate yourself and your mis- demeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. Sir To. ‘ Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.’ Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby. Clo. ‘ His eyes do show his days are almost done.’ Mal. Is’t even so? Sir To. ‘ But I will never die.’ Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. Mal. This is much credit to you. Sir To. ‘Shall I bid him go?’ Clo. ‘What an if you do ?’ Sir To. ‘Shall I bid him go, and spare not ?’ Clo. ‘O no, no, no, no, you dare not.’ Sir To. Out o’ tune, sir: ye lie. Art any 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. Thou’rt i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crums. A stoup of wine, Maria! Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand. [ Hxit. Mar. Go shake your ears. Sir And. ’T were as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and Aen. to break promise with him and make a fool of 1im. Sir To. Do’t, knight: I ll write thee a challenge; or 1’ll deliver thy indignation 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 ismuch out of quiet. For Monsieur Mal- volio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recrea- tion, 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. ake Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of pu- ritan. Ses And. O, if I thought that, I ld 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. Mar. 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 grounds of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause Sir To. What wilt thou do ? [to work. Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure 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 lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. 238 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’s in love with him. Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour. Sir And. And your horse now would make him an ass. Mar. Ass, I doubt not. Sir And. O, ’t will be admirable! Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter: observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Fare- well. [ 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 0’ 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, lam 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 you will. Sir To. Come, come, I ’ll go burn some sack; ’tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— The Duke’s palace. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others. Duke. Give me some music. Now, good morrow, Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, [friends. 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: Come, but one verse. Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. Duke. Who was it? Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady Olivia’sfather took much delight in. He is about the house. Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. [Exit Curio. Music plays. Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me; For such as I am all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune ? Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is throned. Duke. Thou dost speak masterly : My life upon ’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay’d upon some favour that it loves: Hath it not, boy ? Vio. A little, by your favour. Duke. What kind of woman is ’t ? 10. Of your complexion Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith ? Vio. About your years, my lord. [take Duke. Too old, by heaven: let still the woman 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. =a Se peas aa ACT II. 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. O, 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 Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, [bones And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age. Clo. Are you ready, sir ? Duke. Ay; prithee, sing. [ Music. SONG. Clo. 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! Duke. There ’s for thy pains. Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. Duke. 1°11 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 protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing and their intent every where; for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. [Eeit. Duke. Let all the rest give place. [Curio and Attendants retire. Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty: Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her, ~ Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune; But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems That nature pranks her in attracts my soul. Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir ? Duke. 1 cannot be so answer’d. Vio. Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell 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 retention. Alas, their love may be call’d appetite, No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene vy. ~ And can digest as much: make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia. Vi Ay, but I know — i0. 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 loved 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 pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed ? We men may say more, swear more: but indeed Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy ? Vio. I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady ? Duke. Ay, that’s the theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel; say, My love can give no place, bide no denay. [Exeunt. SCENE V.— Olivia’s garden. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. Fab. Nay, 1’ll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. Sir To. Wouldst 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 He out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting ere. 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. Sir To. Here comes the little villain. Enter Maria. How now, my metal 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 behaviour to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there [throws down a letter|; for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [H7zit. Enter Malvolio. Mal. ’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. O, 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. Mal. To be Count Malvolio! Sir To. Ah, rogue! Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. Sir To. Peace, peace! Mal. There is example for’t; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel! 239 ACT II. Fab. O, peace! now he’s deeply in: look how imagination blows him. Mal. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,— Sir To. O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye! Mal. Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping,— Sir To. Fire and brimstone! Fab. O, peace, peace! Mal. And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, 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. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. Mal. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: I frown the while; and per- chance wind up my watch, or play with my— some rich jewel. ‘Toby approaches; courtesies there to Sir To Shall this fellow live ? [me,— Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace. Mal. L extend my hand to him thus, quenching Eee ap smile with an austere regard of con- rol,— Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then ? Mal. Saying, ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece give me this prerogative of Sir To. What, what ? [speech ,’— Mal. ‘ You must amend your drunkenness.’ Sir To. Out, scab! [plot. Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our Mal. ‘ Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight,’— Sir And. That’s me, I warrant you. Mal. ‘One Sir Andrew,’— [fool. Sir And. I knew ’t was I; for many do call me Mal. What employment have we here ? [Taking up the letter. Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. Sir To. O, peace! and the spirit of humours inti- mate reading aloud to him! Mal. By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be her very C’s, her U’s and her T’s; and thus makes she her great P’s. Itis,in contempt of question, her hand. a: Her O©’s, her U’s and her T’s: why at t Mal. [Reads] ‘ To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes:’—her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: ’tismy lady. To whom should this be ? Fab. This wins him, liver and all. Mal. [Reads] Jove knows I love: But who? Lips, do not move; No man must know. ‘No man must know.’ What follows? the num- bers altered! ‘Noman must know:’ if this should be thee, Malvolio ? Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock! Mal. [Reads] I may command where I adore; But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore: M, O, A, I, doth sway my life. Fab. A fustian riddle! Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. Mal. ‘M,O, A, 1, doth sway my life.’ Nay, but first, let me see, let me see, let me see. Fab. What dish 0’ poison has she dressed him! ae To. And with what wing the staniel checks at i 240 TWELFTH NIGHT; Ok, WHAT YOU WILL. SCENE V. Mal. ‘I may command where 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 obstruction in this: and the end,—what should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me,— Softly! M, ? b) J ee To. O, ay, make up that: he is now at a cold scent. Fab. Sowter will cry upon ’t for all this, though it be as rank as a fox. [name. Mal. M,—Malvolio; M,—why, that begins my Fab. Did not I say he would work it out ? the cur is excellent at faults. Mal. M,—but then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: A should fol- low, but O does. Fab. And O shall end, I hope. [ery O! Sir To. Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him Mal. And then I comes behind. Fab. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than for- tunes before you. Mal. M,O, A, I; this simulation is not as the for- mer: and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft! here follows prose. [ Reads] ‘If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of great- ness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them; and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with ser- vants; let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity: she thus ad- vises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who com- mended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: Isay, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee, THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.’ Daylight and champain discovers not more: this is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaint- ance, I will be point-devise 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 commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being 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, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a postscript. [Reads] ‘ Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well; therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.’ Jove, I thank thee: I willsmile; I will do every- thing that thou wilt have me. [ Hxit. Fab. JI 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. Sir And. Nor I neither. Fab. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. Re-enter Maria. Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot 0’ my neck? Sir And. Or 0’ mine either ? AG EE TV ie hii TEL Ped bee Mn dis | Ii Nt | iit! ih SS Sg norte é qr re 7 4 ar A Q L 2 fe) a I > 4 d e) G s ie > a wo re) o D 0 RIA) i \ . = fe : ; Lee MAP? CC® LL IAD LY me ACT III. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. SCENE I. 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, e 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-vitze with a midwife. Mar. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, inark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’t is a colour she ab- hors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so un- suitable to her disposition, being addicted to a mel- ancholy 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 excel- lent devil of wit! Sir And. I ll make one too. [ Hxeunt. be OAS Dei Gia 00 Be SCENE I.— Olivia’s garden. Enter Viola, and Clown with a tabor. Vio. Save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by thy tabor ? Clo. 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. Vio. So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if abeggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church. Clo. You have said, sir. To see this age! A sen- tence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit: how quickly the wrong side may be turned outward ! Vio. Nay, that’s certain: they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton. Clo. I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir. Vio. Why, man? Clo. Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals since bonds disgraced Vio. Thy reason, man ? them. Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them. Vio. I warrant thou art a merry fellow and carest for nothing. Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for something; 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 her- rings; the husband’s the bigger: I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s. Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun, it shines every where. 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, Ill no more with thee. Hold, there ’s expenses for thee. Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard! Vio. By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one; [Aside] though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within? Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir ? Vio. Yes, being kept together and put to use. Clo. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. Vio. I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged. Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, beg- ging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My jJady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence 16 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 is 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 labour as a wise man’s art: For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit. Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. Sir To. Save you, gentleman. Vio. And you, sir. Sir And. Dieu vous garde, monsieur. Vio. Et vous aussi; votre 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. Iam bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the list of my voyaye. 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 Sir To. I mean, to go, sir, to enter. [my legs. _ Vio. I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we are prevented. Enter Olivia and Maria. Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you! Sir And. That youth’s a rare courtier: ‘ Rain odours ;’ well. Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. Sir And.‘ Odours,’‘ pregnant’ and ‘ vouchsafed :’ Il get ’em all three all ready. Oli. Let the garden-door be shut, and leave me to my hearing. [Hxeunt 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. Oli. My servant, sir! ’T was never merry world Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment : You ’re servant to the Count Orsino, youth. [yours: Vio. And he is yours, and his must needs be Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam. Oli. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, Would they were blanks, rather than fill’d with me! Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts On his behalf. Oli. O, by your leave, I pray you, I bade you never speak again of him: But, would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that saa music from the spheres. i0. Oli. Give me leave, beseech you. 241 Dear lady,— I did send, AGT Wits 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 cunning, Which you knew none of yours: what might you think ? Have you not set mine honour 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 cypress, not a bosom, Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak. Vio. I pity you. Oli. That ’s a degree to love. Vio. No, not a grize; for tis a vulgar proof, That very oft we pity enemies. Oli. Why, then, methinks ’t is time to smile again. O 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! Attend your ladyship! Youll nothing, madam, to my lord by me? Oli. Stay: I prithee, tell me what thou think’st of me. __[are. Vio. That you do think you are not what you Oli. If I think so, I think the same of you. Vio. Then think you right: Iam 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. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip! A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon Than love that would seem hid: love’s night is Cesario, by the roses of the spring, [noon. By maidhood, honour, truth and everything, I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause; But rather reason thus with reason fetter, Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, - I have one heart, one bosom and one truth, And that no woman has; nor never none Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. And so adieu, good madam: never more Will I my master’s tears to you deplore. [move Oli. Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. | Exeunt. SCENE II.— Olivia’s house. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. Sir And. No, faith, I ll not stay a jot longer. [sition Grace and good dispo- Sir To. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason. | Fab. You must needs yield your reason, Sir | Andrew. Sir And. Marry,I saw your niece do more favours 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. Kab. This was a great argument of love in her toward you. Sir And. ’Slight, will you make an ass 0’ me? fab. 1 will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason. 242 b = TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene tt. Sir To. And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor. Fab. She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dor- mouse valour, to put. fire in your heart, and brim- stone in your liver. Youshould 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 balked: the double gilt of this opportu- nity 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 attempt either of valour or policy. Sir And. An’t be any way, it must be with val- our; for policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician. Sir To. Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the count’s youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s commendation with woman than report of valour. Fab. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew. ir 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 how witty, so it be elo- quent and full of invention: taunt him with the license of ink: if thou thou’st 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 find you ? Sir To. We'll call thee at the cubiculo: go. [Exit Sir Andrew. 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 you ’ll not deliver ’t ? 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, Ill eat the rest of the anatomy. Fab. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty. from him: but 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. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings. Sir To. And cross-gartered ? Mar. Most villanously; 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 is in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such a thing as ’tis. I can hardly forbear hurl- ing things at him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do, hell smile and take ’t for a great favour. Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he is. [ Hxeunt. me ACT Itl. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene ry. SCENH III.—A street. Enter Sebastian and Antonio. Seb. IT 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, Unguided 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 . . . oft 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. Iam 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. nt. Would you ‘ld pardon me; I do not without danger walk these streets: Once, in a sea-fight, ’gainst the count his galleys 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. Ant. The offence is not of such a bloody nature; Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel Might well have given us bloody argument. It might have since been answer’d in repaying What we took from them; which, for traffic’s sake, Most of our city did: only myself stood out; For which, if I be lapsed in this place, I shall pay dear. Seb. Do not then walk too open. Ant. It doth not fitme. Hold,sir, here’smy 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 ? Ant. 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. Ill be your purse-bearer and leave you For an hour. | Ant. To the Elephant. Seb. Idoremember. [Exeuwnt. SCENE IV .— Olivia’s garden. Enter Olivia and Maria. Oli. I have sent after him: he says he ’ll come; How shall I feast him? what bestow of him ? For youth is bought more oft than begg’d or bor- I speak too loud. [row’d. Where is Malvolio? he is sad and civil, And suits well for a servant with my fortunes: Where is Malvolio ? Mar. He’s coming, madam; but in very strange manner. He is, sure, possessed, madam. Oli. Why, what’s the matter ? does he rave ? Mar. No, madam, he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best to have some guard about ak if he come; for, sure, the man is tainted in’s wits. Oli. Go call him hither. mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be. [Hxit Maria.] ILamas Re-enter Maria, with Malvolio. How now, Malvolio! Mal. Sweet lady, ho, ho. Oli. Smilest thou ? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. Mal. 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.’ Oli. Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee? Mal. 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 Roman hand. Oli. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio ? [thee. Mal. To bed! ay, sweet-heart, and I’ll come to Oli. God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so and kiss thy hand so oft ? Mar. How do you, Malvolio? [daws. Mal. At your request! yes; nightingales answer Mar. Why appear you with this ridiculous bold- ness before my lady ? Mal. ‘ Be not afraid of greatness:’ ’t was well writ. Oli. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio ? Mal. ‘Some are born great,’— Oli. Ha! Mal. ‘Some achieve greatness,’— Oli. What sayest thou ? Mal. ‘And some have greatness thrust upon them.’ Oli. Heaven restore thee! [stockings,’— Mal. ‘Remember who commended thy yellow Oli. Thy yellow stockings! Mal. ‘ And wished to see thee cross-gartered.’ Oli. Cross-gartered ! € SO; Mal. ‘Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to Oli. Am I made? Mal. ‘ If not, let me see thee a servant still.’ Oli. Why, this is very midsummer madness. Enter Servant. Ser. Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s is returned: I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship’s pleasure. Oli. 1711 come to him. [Hxit Servant.] Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where’s my cousin Toby ? Letsome of my people havea special care of him: I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. [Hxeunt Olivia and Maria. Mal. O,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 may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. ‘Cast thy humble slough,’ says she; ‘be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang with arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity; ’ and consequently sets down the manner how; as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some 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 fellow be looked to:’ fellow! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why every thing ad- heres together, that no dram of a scruple,no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe 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. Re-enter Maria, with Sir Toby and Fabian. Sir To. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity ? If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Le- gion himself possessed him, yet I’ll speak to him. ACTITII. Fab. Here he is, here he is. sir? how is’t with you, man? , Mal. Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my pri- vate: go off. Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. Mal. Ah,ha! does she so? Sir To. Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal gently with him: let me alone. How do you, Mal- volio? how is’t with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he’s an enemy to mankind. Mal. Do you know what you say ? Mar. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray God, he be not bewitched! Fab. Carry his water to the wise woman. Mar. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than I ’ll say. Mal. How now, mistress! Mar. O Lord! Sir To. Prithee, 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 ? Mal. Sir! Sir To. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What,man! *t is not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: hang him, foul collier! Mar. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray. Mal. My prayers, minx! [liness. Mar. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of god- Mal. Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shal- low things: I am not of your element: you shall know more hereafter. [ Hacit. Sir To. Is’t possible ? Fab. 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. Mar. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint. Fab. Why, we shall make him mad indeed. Mar. The house will be the quieter. Sir To. Come, we’ll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he’s 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. How is’t with you, Enter Sir Andrew. Fab. More matter for a May morning. Sir And. Here’s the challenge, read it: I war- rant there ’s vinegar and pepper in ’t. Fab. Is’t so saucy ? : Sir And. Ay, is’t, I warrant him: do but read. Sir To. Give me. [Reads] ‘ Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.’ Fab. Good, and valiant. Sir To. | Reads] *‘ Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for ’t.’ Fab. A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law. Sir To. | Reads] ‘Thou comest to the lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for.’ [less. Fab. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense — Sir To. [Reads] ‘I will waylay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me,’— 244 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenetyv. — Fab. Good. Sir To. [Reads] ‘ Thou killest me likea rogue and a Villain.’ rood od. Fab. Still you keep o’ the windy side of nee: Sir To. [Reads] ‘ Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, ANDREW AGUECHEEK.’ If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: Ill give ’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 bum-baily: so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou drawest, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft that a terri- ble 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 swearing. [Hvit. Sir To. Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less: therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, 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 Aguecheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, as I know his youth will aptly receive it, into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury and impetu- osity. This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. Re-enter Olivia, with Viola. Fab. 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 hor- rid message for a challenge. [Hxeunt Sir Toby, Fabian, and Maria. Oli. I have said too much unto a heart of stone And laid mine honour too unchary out: There ’s something in me that reproves my fault; But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof. [bears Vio. With the same ’haviour that your passion Goes on my master’s grief. Oli. Here, wear this jewel for me, ’t is my picture ; Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you; And I beseech you come again to-morrow. What shall you ask of me that I ’ll deny, That honour saved may upon asking give? Vio. Nothing but this; your true love for my master. Oli. How with mine honour may I give him that Which I have given to you? Vio. .L will acquit you. Oli. Well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well: A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. [Hzit. Re-enter Sir Toby and Fabian. Sir To. Gentleman, God save thee. Vio. And you, sir. Sir To. That defence thou hast, betake thee tot: ~ of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard- end: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful and deadly. Vio. You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me: my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence 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 —- . a ACT III. TWHKLFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. screneEtv. what youth, strength, skill and wrath can furnish man withal. Vio. I pray you, sir, what is he? Sir To. He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier and on carpet consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl; souls and bodies hath he di- vorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word; give’t or take ’t. Vio. I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady. Iam no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels pur- posely on others, to taste their valour: belike this is a man of that quirk. Sir To. Sir,no; his indignation derives 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: there- fore, on, or strip your sword stark naked ; for med- dle you must, that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about you. Vio. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, 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 willdo so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. [ Heit. Vio. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter ? Fab. I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more. Vio. 1 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 valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody and fatal opposite that you could pos- sibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can. Vio. I shall be much bound to you for’t: I am one that had rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my met- tle. [ Hxeunt. Re-enter Sir Toby, with Sir Andrew. Sir To. Why, man, he’s a very devil; I have not seen such a firago. 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 the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy. Sir And. Pox on’t, Ill not meddle with him. Sir To. Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fa- bian can scarce hold him yonder. Sir And. Plague on’t, an I thought he had been valiant and so cunning in fence, I "ld have seen him damned ere I’ld have challenged him. Let him o Peco slip, and Ill give him my horse, grey apilet. : Sir To. Ill make the motion: stand here, make a good show on ’t: this shall end without the perdi- tion of souls. [Aside] Marry, Il] ride your horse as well as I ride you. _ Re-enter Fabian and Viola. [To Fab.] I have his horse to take up the quarrel: I have persuaded him the youth ’s a devil. fab. He is as horribly conceited of him; and eset and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels, _ Sir To. [To Vio.] There ’s no remedy, sir; he will fight with you for ’s oath sake: marry, he had better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you. Vio. [Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much IJ lack of a man. Fab. Give ground, if you see him furious. Sir To. Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy; the gentleman will, for his honour’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 God, he keep his oath! Vio. I do assure you, ’tis against my will. di A Enter Antonio. MRA ENS Ant. Put up your sword. If this young gentle- Have done offence, I take the fault on me: [man If you offend him, I for him defy you. 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 you be an undertaker, I am for fine Enter Officers. Me Mes Fab. O good Sir Toby, hold! here come the officers. Sir To. 1711 be with you anon. , Vio. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please. Sir And. Marry, will I, sir; and, for that I prom- ised you, I’ll be as good as my word: he will bear you easily and reins well. First Off. This is the man; do thy office. Sec. Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of Count Orsino. Ant. You do mistake me, sir. [well, First Off. No, sir, no jot; I know your favour Though now you have no sea-cap on your head. Take bim away: he knows I know him well. Ant. I must obey. [Zo Vio.] 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 amazed; But be of comfort. Sec. Off. Come, sir, away. Ant. I must entreat of you some of that money. Vio. What money, sir ? For the fair kindness you have show’d me here, And, part, being prompted by your present trouble, Out of my lean and low ability I’ lend you something: my having is not much; I ll make division of my present with you: Hold, there’s 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, drunkenness, Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood. Ant. O heavens themselves ! Sec. Off. Come, sir, I pray you, go. [see here Ant. Let me speak a little. This youth that you I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death, Relieved him with such sanctity of love, And to his image, which methought did promise Most venerable worth, did I devotion. [away ! First Off. What’s thattous? The time goes by: Ant. But O 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 unkind: 245 ACTIV. Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil Are empty trunks o’erflourish’d by the devil. First Off. The man grows mad: away with him! Come, come, sir. Ant. Lead me on. :; [Exit with Officers. Vio. Methinks his words do from such passion fly, That he believes himself: so do not I. Prove true, imagination, O, prove true, That I, dear brother, be now ta’en for you! Sir To. Come hither, knight; come hither, Fa- bian: we’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two of most sage saws. io. He named Sebastian: I my brother know Yet living in my glass; even such and so In favour was my brother, and he went Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, | yet. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenett. For him I imitate: O, if it prove, Tempests are kind and salt waves fresh in ee vil. Sir To. A very dishonest paltry boy, and Sl a coward than a hare: his dishonesty appears in leay- ing his friend here in necessity and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. Fab. A coward, a most devout coward, religious n it. Sir And. ’Slid, Ill after him again and beat him. Sir To. Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword. Sir And. An I do not,— [ Exit. Fab. Come, let ’s see the event. Sir To. I dare lay any money ’t will be nothing [ Exewnt. i a CR Ta By: SCENE I.— Before Olivia’s house. Enter Sebastian and Clown. Clo. Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you ? Seb. 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. Seb. I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else: Thou know’st not me. Clo. Vent my folly! he has heard that word of some great man and now applies it toa fool. Vent my folly! Iam afraid this great lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness and tell me what I shall vent to my lady: shall I vent to her that thou art coming? Seb. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me: There ’s 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 them- ss ffi lem a good report—after fourteen years’ pur- chase. Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian. Sir And. Now, sir, have I met you again ? there ’s for you. Seb. Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there. Are all the people mad ? Sir To. Hold, sir, or Ill 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. [Hzxit. Sir To. Come on, sir; hold. 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 now ? If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword. Sir To. What, what? Nay,then I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. Enter Olivia. Oli. Hold, Toby; on thy life I charge thee, hold! Sir To. Madam! . 246 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 Be not offended, dear Cesario. [sight ! Rudesby, be gone! |Hxeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. I prithee, gentle friend, 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 Mayst 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. Seb. 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 prithee; would thou ’ldst be ruled by me! Seb. Madam, I will. | Oli. O, say so, and so be! [Hveunt. SCENES II.— Olivia’s house. Enter Maria and Clown. Mar. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate : do it quickly; I ’ll call Sir Toby the Mae vit. Clo. Well, I ‘ll put it on, and I will dissemble my- self in ’t; and I would I were the first that ever dis- sembled in such a gown. Iam 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 acareful man and a great scholar. The com- petitors enter. Enter Sir Toby and Maria. Sir To. Jove bless thee, master Parson. . Clo. 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, ‘ That that is is;’ so I, being master Parson, am master Parson; for, what is ‘that’ but ‘that,’ and ‘is’ but ‘is’? Sir To. To him, Sir Topas. Clo. What, ho, I say! peace in this prison! Sir To. The knave counterfeits well; a good Mal. [ Within] Who calls there ? [knave. Clo. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to yisit Malvolio the lunatic. Mal. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady. oo activ. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenett1. Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man! talkest thou nothing but of ladies ? Sir To. Well saia, master Parson. Mal. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged: good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad: they have laid me here in hideous darkness. Clo. 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 : sayest thou that house is dark ? Mal. As hell, Sir Topas. Clo. Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clearstores toward the south north are as lustrous as ebony ; and yet complainest thou of obstruction ? Mal. I am not mad, Sir Topas: I say to you, this house is dark. Clo. Madman, thou errest : I say, there is no dark- ness but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog. Mal. I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are: make the trial of it in any con- stant question. Clo. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concern- ing wild fowl ? Mal. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird. Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion ? Mal. I think nobly of the soul, and no way ap- prove his opinion. Clo. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in dark- ness: thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a wood- cock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well. Mal. Sir Topas, Sir Topas! Sir To. My most exquisite Sir Topas! Clo. Nay, I am for all waters. Mar. Thou mightst 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 we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently de- livered, I would he were, for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and by tomy chamber. [Hzeunt Sir Toby and Maria. Clo. [Singing] ‘ Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, Tell me how thy lady does.’ Mal. Fool! . Clo. ‘ My lady is unkind, perdy.’ Mal. Fool! Clo. ‘ Alas, why is she so?’ Mal. Fool, I say! Clo. ‘She loves another ’"— Who calls, ha ? Mal. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink and paper: as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thank- ful to thee for ’t. Clo. Master Malvolio ? Mal. Ay, good fool. Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits ? Mal. Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused: I am as well 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. Mal. 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. lo. Advise you what you say; the minister is here. Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens re- store! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble babble. Mal. Sir Topas! Clo. Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God be wi’ you, good Sir Topas. Marry,amen. I will, sir, I will. Mal. Fool, fool, fool, I say! Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking to you. Mal. Good fool, help me to some light and some paper: I tell thee, Iam as well in my wits as any man in Illyria. Clo. Well-a-day that you were, sir! ; Mal. 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 bearing of letter did. Clo. I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed ? or do you but counterfeit ? Mal. Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true. Clo. Nay, Ill ne’er believe a madman till I see his brains. Iwill fetch you light and paper and ink. Mal. Fool, Ill requite it in the highest degree: I prithee, be gone. Clo. [Singing] I am gone, sir, And anon, sir, I’ be with you again, In a trice, Like to the old Vice, Your need to sustain ; Who, with dagger of lath, In his rage and his wrath, Cries, ah, ha! to the devil: Like a mad lad, Pare thy nails, dad; Adieu, good man devil. SCENE ITI.—Olivia’s garden. Enter Sebastian. Seb. This is the air; that is the glorious 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 not 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 madness, Yet doth this accident and fiood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes And wrangle with my reason that persuades me To any other trust but that I am mad Or else the lady’s mad: yet, if *twere so, [lowers, She could not sway her house, command her fol- Take and give back affairs and their dispatch With such a smooth, discreet and stable bearing As I perceive she does: there ’s something in ’t That is deceivable. But here the lady comes. [ Exctt. Enter Olivia and Priest. Oli. Blame not this haste of mine. 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 peace. 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? Seb. 1 Il follow this good man, and go with you, And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. Oli. Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine, : That they may fairly note this act of mine! [| Hxeunt. If you mean 247 ACT V. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene t. ee Ve SCENE I.— Before Olivia’s house. Enter Clown and Fabian. Fab. Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter. Clo. Good Master Fabian, grant me another re- Fab. Any thing. [quest. Clo. Do not desire to see this letter. Fab. This is, to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and Lords. Duke. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends ? Clo. Ay, Sir: we are some of her trappings. Duke. I know thee well; how dost thou, my good fellow ? Clo. Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my friends. Duke. ‘Just the contrary; the better for thy Clo. No, sir, the worse. [friends. 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 myself, and by my friends I am abused; so that, conclusions 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-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another. Duke. O, 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 sinner, 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 triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint 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. Vio. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me. Enter Antonio and Officers. Duke. That face of his I do remember well ; Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear’d As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war: A bawbling vessel was he captain of, For shallow draught and bulk unprizable ; With which such scathful grapple did he make With the most noble bottom of our fleet, That very envy and the tongue of loss [ter ? Cried fame and honour on him. What ’s the mat- First 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 Titus lost his leg: Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, In private brabble did we apprehend him. Vio. He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side; But in conclusion put strange speech upon me: 1 know not what ’t was but distraction. Duke. Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief! 248 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 pleased that I shake off 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 enraged 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 cunning, Not meaning to partake with me in danger, Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, 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 ? Duke. When came he to this town ? [fore, Ant. To-day, my lord, and for three months be- No interim, not a minute’s vacancy, Both day and night did we keep company. Enter Olivia and Attendants. Duke. Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth. [ness : But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are mad- Three months this youth hath tended upon me; But more of that anon. Take him aside. [have, Oli. What would my lord, but that he may not Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ? ; Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. Vio. Madam! Duke. Gracious Olivia,— Oli. What do you say, Cesario ? Good my lord,— Vio. My lord would speak; my duty hushes me. Oli. If it be ought to the old tune, my lord, It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear As howling after music. Duke. Still so cruel ? Oli. Still so constant, lord. Duke. What, to perverseness ? you uncivil lady, To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars My soul the faithfull’st offerings hath breathed out That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do? Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall be- come him. Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to do it, Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death, Kill what I love ?—a savage jealousy That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this: Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, And that I partly know the instrument That screws me from my true place in your favour, 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 mis- I ’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, [chief : To spite a raven’s heart within a dove. Vio. And I, most jocund, apt and willingly, To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. Oli. Where goes Cesario ? Vio. After him I love More than I love these eyes, more than my life, Fe ACT V. 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! Oli. Ay me, detested! how am I beguiled! Vio. Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong : Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself ? is it so long ? Call forth the holy father. Duke. Come, away ! 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 know’st thou art, and then thou art As great as that thou fear’st. Enter Priest. O, welcome, father ! Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence, Here to unfold, though lately we intended To keep in darkness what occasion now Reveals before ’t is 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 by interchangement of your rings; And all the ceremony of this compact Seal’d in my function, by my testimony: [grave Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my I have travell’d but two hours. Duke. O 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 overthrow ? Farewell, and take her: but direct thy feet Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. Vio. My lord, I do protest — Oli. O, do not swear! Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear. Enter Sir Andrew. Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby. Oli. What ’s the matter ? Sir And. He has broke my head across and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too: for the love of Ged, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home. Oli. Who has done this, Sir Andrew ? Sir And. The count’s gentleman, one Cesario: we took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incar- Duke. My gentleman, Cesario ? [dinate. Sir And. °Od’s lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for nothing; and that that I did, I was set on to do ’t by Sir Toby. Vio. Why do you speak to me? [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 and Clown. Here comes Sir Toby halting; you shall hear more : but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled you othergates than he did. Duke. How now, gentleman! howis’t with you? Sir To. That ’s all one: has hurt me, and there ’s the end on’t. Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot ? Clo. O, 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 panyn: I hate a drunken rogue. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. SCENE I, Oli. Away withhim! Who hath made this havyoe 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 cox- comb and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull! Oli. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look’d to. [Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby, and Sir A. Ws Enter Sebastian. eee Seb. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kins- But, had it been the brother of my blood, [man ; 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 offended you: Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows We made each other but so late ago. [persons, Duke. One face, one voice, one habit, and two A natural perspective, that is and is not! Seb. Antonio, O my dear Antonio! How have the hours rack’d and tortured 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 every where. I had a sister, Whom the blind waves and surges have devour’d. Of charity, what kin are you to me? 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. Seb. A spirit I am indeed; But am in that dimension grossly clad Which from the womb I did participate. Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, And say ‘ Thrice-welcome, drowned Viola!’ Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow. Seb. And so had mine. [birth Vio. And died that day when Viola from her Had number’d thirteen years. Seb. O, 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 circumstance Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump That Iam 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 preserved to serve this noble count. All the occurrence of my fortune since Hath been between this lady and this lord. Seb. [To Olivia] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook: 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 amazed; right noble is his plood. If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, A I shall have share in this most happy wreck. [times [To Viola] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand Thou never shouldst 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. 249 ACT V. Duke. 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. Oli. He shall enlarge him: fetch Malvolio hither : And yet, alas, now Il remember me, They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract. Re-enter Clown with a letter, and Fabian. A most extracting frenzy of mine own From my remembrance clearly banish’d his. How does he, sirrah ? _ Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the staves’s end as well as a man in his case may do: has here writ a letter to you; I should have given *t you to-day morning, but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are Oli. Open ’t, and read it. [delivered. Clo. Look then to be well edified when the fool delivers the madman. [Reads]’ By the Lord, mad- Oli. How now! art thou mad ? [am,’— Clo. No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must li. Prithee, read i’ thy right wits. [allow Vox. Clo. So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to read thus: therefore perpend, my prin- cess, and give ear. Oii. Read it you, sirrah. [To Fabian. Fab. [Reads|*‘ By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it: though you have put me into darkness and given your drunken cou- sin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of and speak out of my injury. THE MADLY-USED MALVOLIO.’ Oli. Did he write this ? Clo. Ay, madam. Duke. This savours not much of distraction. Oli. See him deliver’d, Fabian; bring him hither. . Exit Fabian. My lord, so please you, these things further thought To think me as well a sister as a wife, [on, One day shall crown the alliance on ’t, so please you, Here at my house and at my proper cost. (offer. Duke. Madam, I am most apt to,embrace your [To Viola] Your master quits you; and for your service done him, So much against the mettle of your sex, So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, And since you éall’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. Re-enter Fabian, with Malvolio. Duke. Is this the madman ? 4: Ay, my lord, this same. How now, Malvolio! Mal Madam, you have done me wrong, Notorious wrong. ‘: Have I, Malvolio? no. Mal. Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that You must not now deny it is your hand: __ [letter. Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase; Or say ’t is not your seal, not your invention: You can say none of this: well, grant it then And tell me, in the modesty of honour, Why you have given me such clear lights of favour, 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, 250 TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. a lie 5 SCENE I. ——— Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d, - Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, And made the most notorious geck and gull That e’er invention play’d on? tell me why. Oli. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, Though, I confess, much like the character: But out of question ’t is Maria’s hand. And now I do bethink me, it was she [ine, First told me thou wast mad; then camest in smil- And in such forms which here were presupposed Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content: This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee; But when we know the grounds and authors of it, Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge Of thine own cause. 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 importance; Jn recompense whereof he hath married her. How with a sportful malice it was follow’d, May rather pluck on laughter than revenge ; If that the injuries be justly weigh’d That have on both sides pass’d. Oli. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee! Clo. Why, ‘some are born 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 allone. ‘ By the Lord, fool, Iam not mad.’ But doyouremember? ‘ Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you smile not, he’s gagged:’ and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. Mal. 1711 be revenged on the whole pack of pe vit. Oli. He hath been most notoriously abused. 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 convents, A solemn combination shall be made Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister, We will not part from hence. Cesario, come ; For so you shall be, while you are a man; But when in other habits you are seen, Orsino’s mistress and his fanecy’s queen. [Exeunt all, except Clown. Clo. [Sings] When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came to man’s estate, With hey, ho, &c. ’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their For the rain, &ce. [gate, But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, &c. By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain, &c. But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, &e. With toss-pots still had drunken heads, For the rain, &c. A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, &ce. But that’s all one, our play is done, And we ’ll strive to please you every day. (Bait. Ss ft Ewe FZ PING RSTO RAO) RY Gor LES 4 pg) S cy Gy) - Bes di SY] GS Lie ORES NN ASN THE WINTER’S TALE. DRAMATIS PERSON. Leontes, King of Sicilia. Mamillius, young Prince of Sicilia. Camillo, Antigonus, | Bien Cleomenes, [ Four Lords of Sicilia. Dion, J Polixenes, King of Bohemia. Florizel, Prince of Bohemia. Archidamus, a Lord of Bohemia. Old Shepherd, reputed father of Perdita. Clown, his son. Autolycus, a rogue. A Mariner. A Gaoler. Hermione, queen to Leontes. Perdita, daughter to Leontes and Hermione. Paulina, wife to Antigonus. Emilia, a lady attending on Hermione. MODES \ Shepherdesses. Dorcas, }j Other Lords and Gentlemen, Ladies, Officers, and Ser- vants, Shepherds, and Shepherdesses. Time, as Chorus. SCENE — Sicilia, and Bohemia. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page L1.] Gigs Tec SCENE I.— Antechamber in Leontes’ palace. Enter Camillo and Archidamus. Arch. If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bo- hemia, on the like occasion whereon 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, 1 speak it in the freedom 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, unintelligent of our insufficience, 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 understanding in- structs 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 affection, which cannot choose but branch now. Since their more mature dignities and royal necessities made separation of their society, their encounters, though not personal, have been royally attorneyed 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 unspeak- able comfort of your young prince Mamillius: it is a gentleman 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. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— A room of state in the same. Enter Leontes, Hermione, Mamillius, Po- lixenes, Camillo, and Attendants. Pol. Nine changes of the watery star hath been The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne Without a burthen: time as long again Would be fill’d up, my brother, with our thanks; And yet we should, for perpetuity, Go hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher, Yet standing in rich place, I multiply With one ‘ We thank you’ many thousands moe 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 ‘This 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 Ill no gainsaying. Pol Press me not, beseech you, so. There is no tongue world, So soon as yours could win me: so it should now, Were there necessity in your request, although °T were 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. that moves, none, none i’ the 201 AGT, De Leon. Tongue-tied our queen ? speak you. Her. I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until [sir, You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sure All in Bohemia’s well; this satisfaction 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; But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, We’ll thwack him hence with distaffs. Yet of your royal presence I ’ll adventure The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia You take my lord, Ill give him my commission To let him there a month behind the gest Prefix’d for ’s parting: yet, good deed, Leontes, I love thee not a jar o’ the clock behind What lady-she her lord. Youll stay? Pol. No, madam. Her. Nay, but you will ? Pol. Her. Verily! You put me off with limber vows; but I, [oaths, Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with Should yet say, ‘Sir, no going.’ Verily, You shall not go: a lady’s ‘ Verily ’’s 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 [you ? When you depart, and save your thanks. How say 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 offending ; Which is for me less easy to commit yes you to punish. er I may not, verily. : Not your gaoler, then, But your kind hostess. Come, Ill question you Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were boys : You were pretty lordings then ? Ol: 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 0’ the two ? [the sun, Pol. We were as twinn’d lambs that did frisk i’ And bleat the one at the other: what we changed Was innocence for innocence; we knew not The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream’d That any did. Had we pursued that life, And our weak spirits ne’er been higher rear’d With stronger blood,weshould haveanswer’d heaven Boldly ‘ not guilty;’ the imposition clear’d Hereditary ours. Velig By this we gather You have tripp’d since. Pol. O my most sacred lady! Temptations have since then been born to’s; for In those unfledged 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. Deon. Is he won yet ? Her. He’ll stay, my lord. Leon. At my request he would not. Hermione, my dearest, thou never spokest To better purpose. Her. Never ? 202 THE WINTER’S TALE. SCENE II. Leon. Never, but once. Her. What! have I twice said well ? when was ’t before ? I prithee tell me; cram ’s with praise and make’s As fat as tame things: one good deed dying tongue- Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. ess Our praises are our wages: you may ride’s 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: O, would her name were Grace! But once before I spoke to the purpose: when ? Nay, let me have ’t; I long. eon. Three crabbed months had death, Ere I could make thee open thy white hand And clap thyself my love: then didst thou utter ‘Il am yours forever.’ Her. *T is grace indeed. Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice: The one for ever earn’d a royal husband; The other for some while a friend. Leon. [ Aside] Too hot, too hot! To mingle friendship far 1s mingling bloods. I have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances; But not for joy; not joy. This entertainment May a free face put on, derive a liberty From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom, And well become the agent; ’t may, I grant; But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers, As now they are, and making practised smiles, As in a looking-glass, and then to sigh, as *t were The mort o’ the deer; O, that is entertainment My bosom likes not, nor my brows! Mamillius, Art thou my boy ? Why, that was when sour’d themselves to Mam. Ay, my good lord. Leon. I’ fecks! Why, that’s my bawcock. What, hast smutch’d thy nose ? They say it is 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 Upon his palm !— How now, you wanton calf! Art thou my calf? Mam. Yes, if you will, my lord. Leon. 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 any thing: but were they false As o’er-dyed blacks, as wind, as waters, false - As dice are to be wish’d by one that fixes No bourn ’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! my collop! Can thy dam ?—may ’t Affection! thy intention stabs the centre: [be?— Thou dost make possible things not so held, Communicatest with dreams ;—how can this be ?— With what ’s unreal thou coactive art, And fellow’st nothing: then ’t is very credent Thou mayst 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. What means Sicilia ? Her. He something seems unsettled. Pol. How, my lord! What cheer? how is ’t with you, best brother ? er. You look As if you held a brow of much distraction : Are you moved, my lord ? Leon. No, in good earnest. How sometimes nature will betray its folly, ACT I. Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech’d, In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled, 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. [brother, Leon. You will! why, happy man be’s dole! My Ayre you so fond of your young prince as we Do seem to be of ours ? ol. If at home, sir, He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter, 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 Officed with me: we two will walk, my lord, And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione, How thou lovest 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, Weare yours i’ the garden: shall ’s attend you there? Leon. To your own bents dispose you: youll be found, Be you beneath the sky. [Aside] I am angling now, Though you perceive me not how I give line. Go to, go to! How she holds up the neb, the bill to him! And arms her with the boldness of a wife To her allowing husband! [| Kxeunt Poliaenes, Hermione, and Attendants. Gone already ! Inch-thick, knee-deep, o’er head and ears a fork’d Go, play, boy, play: thy mother plays, and I [one! Play too, but so disgraced a part, whose issue Will hiss me to my grave; contempt and clamour Will be my knell. Go, play, boy, play. There have Or I am much deceived, cuckolds ere now; [been, And many a man there is, even at this present, Now while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm, That little thinks she has been sluiced in ’s absence And his pond fish’d by his next neighbor, by ‘Sir Smile, his neighbour: nay, there ’s comfort in ’t W hiles other men have gates and those gates open’d, As mine, against their will. Should all despair That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind Would hang themselves. Physic for ’t there is none; It is a bawdy planet, that will strike Where ’tis predominant; and ’t is powerful, think it, From east, west, north and south: be it concluded, No barricado for a belly; know ’t; It will let in and out the enemy With bag and baggage: many thousand on’s 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. [Hxit Mamillius. Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer. Cam. Youhad 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 petitions; made His business more material. Leon. Didst perceive it ? [Aside] They ’re here with me already, whispering, ‘Sicilia is a so-forth:’ ’tis far gone, [rounding THE WINTERS TALE. SCENE II. 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 per- But, so it is, itisnot. Wasthistaken — [tinent; 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. Cam. Leon. Ay, but why ? Cam. To satisfy your highness and the entreaties Of our most gracious mistress. Leon. Satisfy ! The entreaties of your mistress! satisfy! Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo, With all the nearest things to my heart, as well My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou Hast cleansed my bosom, I from thee departed Thy penitent reform’d: but we have been Deceived in thy integrity, deceived In that which seems so. Cam. Be it. forbid, my lord! Leon. To bide upon ’t, thou art not honest, or, If thou inclinest that way, thou art a coward, Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining From course required ; 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 takest it all for 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, Among the infinite doings of the world, Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord, If ever I were wilful-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, W hereof the execution did cry out Against the non-performance, ’t was a fear Which oft infects the wisest: these, my lord, Are such allow’d infirmities that honesty Is never free of. But, beseech your grace, Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass By its own visage: if I then deny it, *T is none of mine. Leon. Ha’ 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 rumour Cannot be mute, —or thought,—for cogitation Resides not in that man that does not think,— 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 hobby-horse, deserves a name As rank as any flax-wench that puts to Before her troth-plight: say ’t and justify ’t. 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 ? Ts leaning cheek to cheek ? is meeting noses ? Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career Of laughing with a sigh ?—a note infallible 253 Ha! Stays here longer. ACT lI. Of breaking honesty—horsing foot on foot ? Skulking in corners? 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 noth- If this be nothing. fings, Cam. Good my lord, be cured Of this diseased opinion, and betimes; For *t is most dangerous. Leon. Cam. No, no, my lord. Leon. It is; you lie, you lie: I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee, Pronounce 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 wears her like her medal, About his neck, Bohemia: who, if I {hanging Had servants true about me, that bare eyes To see alike mine honour as their profits, Their own particular thrifts, they would do that Which should undo more doing: ay, and thou, His cup-bearer,— whom I from meaner form Have bench’d and rear’d to worship, who mayst see Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven, How I am galled,—mightst 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 lingering dram that should not work Maliciously like poison: but I cannot Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, So sovereignly being honourable. I have loved thee,— Leon. Make that 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 0’ 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 removed, 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 kingdoms Known and allied to yours. Leon. Thou dost advise me Even so as I mine own course have set down: Ill give no blemish to her honour, 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 cupbearer: 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. Ill do ’t, my lord. Leon. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advised me. [ Exit. Can. O miserable lady! But, for me, What case stand lin? I must be the poisoner Of good Polixenes; and my ground to do ’t 254 Say it be, tis true. THE WINTER’S TALE. SCENE II. 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 example Of thousands that had struck anointed kings And flourish’d after, I ’ld not do ’t; but since Nor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not one, Let villany itself forswear ’t. I must Forsake the court: to do’t, or no, is certain To me a break-neck. Happy star reign now! Here comes Bohemia. Re-enter Polixenes. Pol. This is strange: methinks My favour 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 Loved as he loves himself: even now I met him With customary compliment; when he, Wafting his eyes to the contrary and falling A lip of much contempt, speeds from me and So leaves me to consider what is breeding That changeth thus his manners. Cam. I dare not know, my lord. Pol. How! dare not! donot. Do you know, and dare not? Be intelligent to me: *t is thereabouts: For, to yourself, what you do know, you must, And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo, Your changed complexions are to me a mirror Which shows me mine changed too; for I must be A party in this alteration, finding Myself thus altered with ’t. Cam. There is a sickness Which puts some of us in distemper, but I cannot name the disease; and it is caught Of you that yet are well. Polen How! caught of me! Make me not sighted like the basilisk: r I have looked on thousands, who have sped the bet- By my regard, but kill’?d none so. Camillo,— 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 beseech you, If you know ought which does behove my knowl- Thereof to be inform’d, imprison ’t not [edge- In ignorant concealment. Cam. I may not answer. Pol. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well! I must be answer’d. Dost thou hear, Camillo, I conjure thee, by all the parts of man Which honour does acknowledge, whereof the least Is not this suit of mine, that thou declare 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 will tell you; Since I am charged in honour and by him (sel, That I think honourable: therefore mark my coun- 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 mee or what? [swears, To vice you to ’t, that you have touched his queen Forbiddenly. ACT II. Pol. O, then my best blood turn To an infected jelly and my name Be yoked with his that did betray the Best! Turn then my freshest reputation to A savour that may strike the dullest nostril Where I arrive, and my approach be shunn’d, Nay, hated too, worse than the great’st 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 piled upon his faith and will continue The standing of his body. Pol. How should this grow ? Cam. I know not; but I am sure ’t is safer to Avoid what ’s grown than question how ’t is 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 business, 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 THE WINTER’S TALE. SCENE I. By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain; For, by the honour 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 His execution sworn. | Pol. I do believe thee: I saw his heart in ’s face. Give me thy hand: Be pilot to me and thy places shall Still neighbour 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 conceive He is dishonour’d by a man which ever Profess’d to him, why, his revenges must In that be mide more bitter. Fear o’ershades me: Good expedition bi my friend, and comfort The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing Of his ill-ta’en suspicion! Come, Camillo; I will respect thee as a father if Thou bear’st my life off hence: let us avoid. Cam. It is in mine authority to command The keys of all the. posterns: please your highness To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away. [Hzeunt. mouth, [thereon 110 NE i SCENE I.—A room in Leontes’ palace. Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies. Her. Take the boy to you: he so troubles me, *T is past enduring. _ First Lady. Come, my gracious lord, Shall I be your playfellow ? Mam. No, Ill none of you. First 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. Sec. Lady. And why so, my 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 semicircle, Or a half-moon made with a pen. Sec. Lady. Who taught you this ? Mam. I learnt it out of women’s faces. Pray now What colour are your eyebrows? First Lady. Blue, my lord. Mam. Nay, that’s a mock: I have seen a lady’s nose That has been blue, but not her eyebrows. First Lady. Hark ye; The queen your mother rounds apace: we shall Present our services to a fine new prince One of these days; and then you ld wantc 1 with us, If we would have you. Sec. Lady. She is spread of late Into a goodly bulk: good time encounter her! Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, lam for you again: pray you, sit by us, [sir, now And tell’s a tale. Mam. Merry or sad shall ’t be? Her. As merry as you will. Mam. A sad tale’s best for winter: I have one Of sprites and goblins. Her. Let’s have that, good sir. Come on, sit down: come on, and do your best To fright me with your sprites; you’re powerful Mam. There was a man — [at it. Her. Nay, come, sit down; then on. Mam. Dwelt by achurchyard: I will tell it softly ; Yond crickets shall not hear it. Her. Come on, then, And give ’t me in mine ear. Enter Leontes, with Antigonus, Lords, and others. Leon. Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him ? [never First Lord. Behind the tuft of pines I met them ; Saw I men scour so on their way: 1 eyed them Even to their ships. Leon. How blest am I In my just censure, in my true opinion! Alack, for lesser knowledge! how accursed In being so blest! There may be in the cup A spider steep’d, and one may drink, depart, And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge Is not infected: but if one present The abhorr’d ingredient to his eye, make known How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides, With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the Camillo was his help in this, his pander: _[spider. There is a plot against my life, my crown; - All’s true that is mistrusted: that false villain Whom I employ’d was pre-employ’d by him: He has discover’d my design, and I Remain a pinch’d thing; yea, a very trick For them to play at will. How came the posterns So easily open ? First Lord. By his great authority ; Which often hath no less prevail’d than so On your command. Leon. I know ’t too well. Give me the boy: I am glad you did not nurse him; Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you Have too much blood in him. Her. What is this ? sport ?” Leon. Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her; Away with him! and let her sport herself With that she’s big with; for ’tis Polixenes Has made thee swell thus. But I ld say he had nof, Her. And Ill be sworn you would believe my saying, Howe’er you lean to the nayward. Leon. You, my lords, 255 ACT II. Look on her, mark her well; be but about To say ‘she is a goodly lady,’ and The justice of your hearts will thereto add ‘oT is pity she’s not honest, honourable: ’ Praise her but for this her without-door form, Which on my faith deserves high speech, and straight The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands That calumny doth use—O, I am out — That mercy does, for calumny will sear Virtue itself: these shrugs, these hums and ha’s, When you have said ‘she’s goodly,’ come between Ere you can say ‘she’s honest: ’ but be *t known, From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, She ’s an adulteress. Her. Should a villain say so, The most replenish’d villain in the world, He were as much more villain: you, my lord, Do but mistake. Leon. You have mistook, my lady, Polixenes for Leontes: O thou thing! Which I ’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 adulteress; 1 have said with whom: More, she’s a traitor and Camillo is A federary with her, and one that knows What she should shame to know herself But with her most vile principal, that she ’s A bed-swerver, even as bad as those That vulgars give bold’st titles, ay, and privy To this their late escape. Her. No, by my life, Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you, When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that You thus have publish’d me! Gentle my lord, You scarce can right me throughly then to say You did mistake. Leon. No; if I mistake In those foundations which I build upon, The centre is not big enough to bear A school-boy’s top. Away with her! to prison! He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty But that he speaks. Her. There ’s some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords, I am not prone to weeping, as our sex Commonly are; the want of which vain dew Perchance shall dry your pities: but I have That honourable grief lodged here which burns Worse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords, With thoughts so qualified as your charities Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so The king’s will be perform’d! Leon. Shall I be heard ? Her. Who is ’t that goes with me? Beseech your highness, My women may be with me; for you see My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools; There is no cause: when you shall know your mis- tress Has deserved prison, then abound in tears As I come out: this action I now go on Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord: I never wish’d to see you sorry; now I trust I shall. My women, come; you have leave. Leon. Go, do our bidding; hence! [Exit Queen, guarded; with Ladies. First Lord. Beseech your highness, call the queen again. Ant. Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice Prove violence; in the which three great ones suffer, Yourself, your queen, your son. First Lord. For her, my lord, 256 THE WINTER’S TALE. SCENE I dare my life lay down and will do ’t, sir, Please you to accept. it, that the queen is spotiess I’ the eyes of heaven and to you; I mean, In this which you accuse her. Ant. If 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 farther trust her ; For every inch of woman in the world, Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh is false, If she be. Leon. Hold your peaces. First Lord. Good my lord,— Ant. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves: You are abused and by some putter-on That will be damn’d for ’t ; would I knew the villain, I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw’d, I have three daughters; the eldest is eleven ; The second and the third, nine, and some five; If this prove true, they ’1] pay for ’t: by mine honour, I'll geld ’em all; fourteen they shall not see, To bring false generations: they are co-heirs; And I had rather glib myself than they Should not praduce fair issue. Leon. Cease; no more. You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man’s nose: but I do see ’t and feel ’t, As you feel doing thus; and see withal The instruments that feel. Ant. If it be so, We need no grave to bury honesty: There ’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten Of the whole dungy earth. Leon. What! lack I credit? First Lord. I had rather you did lack than I, my lord, Upon this ground; and more it would content me To have her honour true than your suspicion, Be blamed for ’t how you might. Leon. Why, what need we Commune with you of this, but rather follow Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness Imparts this; which if you, or stupified Or seeming so in skill, cannot or will not Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves We need no more of your advice: the matter, The loss, the gain, the ordering on ’t, is all Properly ours. Ant. And I wish, my liege, You had only in your silent judgment tried it, Without more overture. Leon. How could that be ? Either thou art most ignorant by age, Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight, Added to their familiarity, Which was as gross as ever touch’d conjecture, That lack’d sight only, nought for approbation But only seeing, all other circumstances Made up to the deed, doth push on this proceeding: Yet, for a greater confirmation, For in an act of this importance ’t were Most piteous to be wild, I have dispatch’d in post To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple, Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know Of stuff’d sufficiency: now from the oracle They will bring all; whose spiritual counsel had, Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well? First Lord. Well done, my lord. Leon. Though I am satisfied and need no more Than what I know, yet shall the oracle Give rest to the minds of others, such as he Whose ignorant credulity will not Come up to the truth. So have we thought it good From our free person she should be confined, Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence Be left her to perform. Come, follow us; THE We are to speak in public; for this business Will raise us all. Ant. [Aside] To laughter, as I take it, If the good truth were known. SCENE II.— A prison. Enter Paulina, a Gentleman, and Attendants. Paul. The keeper of the prison, call to him; Let him have knowledge who I am. [Haut Gent. : Good lady, No court in Europe is too good for thee; What dost thou then in prison ? ACT II. [ Hxeunt. Re-enter Gentleman, with the Gaoler. Now, good sir, You know me, do you not ? Gaol. For a worthy lady And one whom much I honour. Paul. Pray you then, Conduct me to the queen. aol. I may not, madam: To the contrary I have express commandment. Paul. Here’s ado, To lock up honesty and honour from The access of gentle visitors! Is ’t lawful, pray you, To see her women? any of them? Emilia? Gaol. So please you, madam, To put apart these your attendants, I Shall bring Emilia forth. Paul. Withdraw yourselves. [Hxeunt Gentleman and Attendants. Gaol. And, madam, I must be present at your conference. Paul. Well, be ’t so, prithee. [Exit Gaoler. Here’s such ado to make no stain a stain As passes colouring. I pray now, call her. Re-enter Gaoler, with Emilia. Dear gentlewoman, How fares our gracious lady ? Emil. As well as one so great and so forlorn May hold together: on her frights and griefs, Which never tender lady hath borne greater, She is something before her time deliver’d. Paul. A boy? Enil. A daughter, and a goodly babe, Lusty and like to live: the queen receives Much comfort in ’t; says ‘ My poor prisoner, I am innocent as you.’ Paul. I dare be sworn: [them! These dangerous unsafe lunes i’ the king, beshrew He must be told on ’t, and he shall: the office Becomes a woman best; Ill take ’t upon me: If I prove honey-mouth’d, let my tongue blister And never to my red-look’d anger be The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia, Commend my best obedience to the queen: If she dares trust me with her little babe, 1’ll show ’t the king and undertake to be Her advocate to the loud’st. We do not know How he may soften at the sight o’ the child: The silence often of pure innocence Persuades when speaking fails. Emil. Most worthy madam, Your honour and your goodness is so evident That your free undertaking cannot miss A thriving issue: there is no lady living So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship To visit the next room, Ill presently Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer ; Who but to-day hammer’d of this design But durst not tempt a minister of honour, Lest she should be denied. Paul. Tell her, Emilia, I’) use that tongue I have: if wit flow from ’t 17 WINTER'S TALE. SCENE III. As boldness from my bosom, let ’t not be doubted I shall do good. Emil. Now be you blest for it! Ill to the queen: please you, come something nearer. Gaol. Madam, if ’t please the queen to send the I know not what I shall incur to pass it, [babe. Having no warrant. Paul. You need not fear it, sir: This child was prisoner to the womb and is’ By law and process of great nature thence Freed and enfranchised, not a party to The anger of the king nor guilty of, If any be, the trespass of the queen. Gaol. I do believe it. Paul. Do not you fear: upon mine hononr, I Will stand betwixt you and danger. [ Hxeunt. SCENE III.— A room in Leontes’ palace. Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and Servants. Leon. Nor night nor day no rest: it is but weakness To bear the matter thus; mere weakness. The cause were not in being,— part 0’ the cause, She the adulteress; for the harlot king Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she I can hook to me: say that she were gone, Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest . Might come to me again. Who’s there? First Serv. Leon. How does the boy ? First Serv. He took good rest to-night ; *T is hoped his sickness is discharged. _Leon. To see his nobleness! Conceiving the dishonour of his mother, He straight declined, droop’d, took it deeply, Fasten’d and fix’d the shame on ’t in himself, Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, And downright languish’d. Leave me solely: go, See how he fares. [Exit Serv.] Fie, fie! no thought of The very thought of my revenges that way [him: Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty, And in his parties, his alliance; let him be Until a time may serve: for present vengeance, Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes Laugh at me, make their pastime at my sorrow: They should not laugh if I could reach them, nor Shall she within my power. My lord ? Enter Paulina, with a child. First Lord. You must not enter. Paul. Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, [me: Than the queen’s life? a gracious innocent soul, More free than he is jealous. nt. Sec. Serv. Madam, he hath None should come at him. Paul. Not so hot, good sir: IT come to bring him sleep. ’T is such as you, That creep like shadows by him and do sigh At each his needless heavings, such as you Nourish the cause of his awaking: I Do come with words as medicinal as true, Honest as either, to purge him of that humour That presses him from sleep. Leon. What noise there, ho ? Paul. No noise, my lord; but needful conference About some gossips for your highness. Leon. How! Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus, I charged thee that she should not come about me: I knew she would. Ant. I told her so, my lord, On your displeasure’s peril and on mine, She should not visit you. 207 That ’s enough. not slept to-night ; [commanded ACT If. THE WINTER’S TALE. 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 honour, trust it, He shall not-rule me. nt. La 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 [1] off; But first 1711 do my errand. The good queen, For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter ; Here ’tis; commends it to your blessings. [Laying down the child. Leon. Out! A mankind witch! Hence with her, out 0’ door: A most intelligencing bawd! Paul. Not so: I am as ignorant in that as you In so entitling me, and no less honest Than you are mad; which is enough, I ’ll warrant, As this world goes, to pass for honest. Leon. Traitors! ° Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard. Thou dotard! thou art woman-tired, unroosted By thy dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard; Take ’t up, I say; give ’t to thy crone. Paul. Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou Takest up the princess by that forced baseness Which he has put upon ’t! Leon. He dreads his wife. Paul. SoI would you did; then ’t were past all You 71d call your children yours. [doubt For ever Leon. A nest of traitors! Ant. Iam none, by this good light. Paul. Nor I, nor any | But one that ’s here, and that ’s himself, for he The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s, His hopeful son’s, his babe’s, betrays to’slander, Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will | For, as the case now stands, it is a curse He cannot be compell’d to ’t—once remove The root of his opinion, which is rotten As ever oak or stone was sound. [not —- con. A callat Of Dg tongue, who late hath beat her hus- anc And now baits me! This brat is none of mine; It is the issue of Polixenes: Hence with it, and together with the dam Commit them to the fire! . Paul. It is yours ; And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge, So like you, ’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 ’s frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, | The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, : His smiles, ‘The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger: And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it | So like to him that got it, if thou hast . The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all colours 208 | With what thou else call’st thine. Of any point in ’t shall not only be | Death to thyself but to thy lewd-tongued wife, SCENE III. No yellow in ’t, lest she suspect 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 cannot do that feat, you ’ll leave yourself Hardly one subject. Leon. Once more, take her hence. Paul. A most unworthy and unnatural lord Can do no more. I’ll ha’ thee burnt. as he does, Leon. Paul. It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in ’t. Ill not call you tyrant ; But this most cruel usage of your queen, Not able to produce more accusation [vours Than your own weak-hinged fancy, something sa- Of tyranny and will ignoble make you, I care not: | Yea, scandalous to the world. Leon. On your allegiance, Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant, Where were her life? she durst not call me so, If she did know me one. Away with her! Paul. I pray you, do not push me; 171] be gone. Look 9 your babe, my lord; ’tis yours: Jove send er A better guiding spirit! What needs these hands ? You, that are thus so tender o’er his follies, Will never do him good, not one of you. So, so: farewell; we are gone. [ Kat. Leon. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. My child? away with ’t! Even thou, that hast A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence And see it instantly consumed with fire; Even thou and none but thou. Take it up straight: Within this hour bring me word ’tis done, And by good testimony, or IL ’ll seize thy life, 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; I did not, sir: | For thou set’st on thy wife. Ant. _ These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, Can clear me in ’t. Lords. We can: my royal liege, He is not guilty of her coming hither. Leon. You’re liars all. [credit : First Lord. Beseech your highness, give us better _ We have always truly served you, and beseech you | So to esteem of us, and on our knees we beg, As recompense of our dear services Past and to come, that you do change this purpose, Which being so horrible, so bloody, must Lead on to some foul issue: we all kneel. Leon. Iam a feather for each wind that blows: Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel And call me father ? better burn it now Than curse it then. But be it; let it live. It shall not neither. You, sir, come you hither; You that have been so tenderly officious | With Lady Margery, your midwife there, | To save this bastard’s life,—for ’t is a bastard, | So sure as this beard ’s grey,—what will you adven- To save this brat’s life ? [ture AW Any thing, my lord, | That my ability may undergo , _ And nobleness impose: at least thus much : Ill pawn the little blood which I have left To save the innocent: any thing possible. Leon. It shall be possible. Swear by this sword | Thou wilt perform my bidding. Ant. ‘I will, my lord. Leon. Mark and perform it, see’st thou: for el ai AGSlI I, THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE II. a i NN SS Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee, As thou art liege-man 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 that there thou leave it, Without more mercy, to its own protection And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune It came to us, I do in justice charge thee, On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, That thou commend it strangely to some place Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up. Ant. I swear to do this, though a present death Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe: Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say, Casting their savageness aside have done Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous In more than this deed does require! And blessing Leon. No, Ill not rear Another’s issue. Enter a Servant. Serv. Please your highness, posts From those you sent to the oracle are come An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion, Being well arrived from Delphos, are both landed, Hasting to the court. First Lord. So please you, sir, their speed Hath been beyond account. Leon. Twenty-three days They have been absent: ’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 accused, so shall she have A just and open trial. While she lives Against this cruelty fight on thy side, My heart will be a burthen to me. Leave me, Poor thing, condemn’d to loss! [Exit with the child. | And think upon my bidding. [Hxeunt. Zeck ©. Tei Bo lg Ti SCENE I.—A sea-port in Sicilia. Enter Cleomenes and Dion. Cleo. The climate’s delicate, the air most sweet, Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing The common praise it bears. Dion. I shall report, For most it caught me, the celestial habits, Methinks Iso should term them, and the reverence Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice! How ceremonious, solemn and unearthly It was i’ the offering! Cleo. But of all, the burst And the ear-deafening voice 0’ the oracle, Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surprised my sense, That I was nothing! Dion. If the event 0’ the journey Prove as successful to the queen,—O be ’t so! — As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, The time is worth the use on ’t. Cleo. Great Apollo Turn all to the best! These proclamations, So forcing faults upon Hermione, I little like. 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! [Hxeunt. SCENE II. — A court of Justice. Enter Leontes, Lords, and Officers. Leon. This sessions, to our great grief we pro- nounce, Even pushes ’gainst our heart: the party tried The daughter of a king, our wife, and one Of us too much beloved. Let us be clear’d Of being tyrannous, since we so openly Proceed in justice, which shall have due course, Even to the guilt or the purgation. Produce the prisoner. Off. It is his highness’ pleasure that the queen Appear in person here in court. Silence! Enter Hermione guarded; Paulina and Ladies attending. Leon. Read the indictment. Off. [Reads] Hermione, queen to the worthy Leon- tes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and ar- raigned of high treason, in committing adultery with Polixenes, king of Bohemia, and conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for their better safety, to fly away by night. Her. Since what I am to say must be but that Which contradicts my accusation and The testimony on my part no other But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me To say ‘not guilty:’ mine integrity Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, Be so received. But thus: if powers divine Behold our human actions, as they do, I doubt not then but innocence shall make False accusation blush and tyranny Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know, Who least will seem to do so, my past life Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, As [am now unhappy; which is more Than history can pattern, though devised And play’d to take spectators. For behold me A fellow of the royal bed, which owe A moiety of the throne, a great king’s daughter, The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing To prate and talk for life and honour ’fore Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour, ’T is a derivative from me to mine, And only that I stand for. I appeal To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes Came to your court, how I was in your grace, How merited to be so; since he came, With what encounter so uncurrent I Have strain’d to appear thus: if one jot beyond The bound of honour, or in act or will That way inclining, harden’d be the hearts Of all that hear me, and my near’st of kin Cry fie upon my grave! Leon. IT ne’er heard yet That any of these bolder vices wanted Less impudence to gainsay what they did Than to perform it first. X Her. That ’s true enough ; Though ’t is a saying, sir, not due to me. Leon. You will not own it. Her. More than mistress of Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, 259 ACT III. With whom I am accused, I do confess I loved him as in honour he required, With such a kind of love as might become A lady like me, with a love even such, So and no other, as yourself commanded : Which not to have done I think had been in me Both disobedience and ingratitude [spoke, To you and toward your friend, whose love had Even since it could speak, from an infant, freely That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, I know not how it tastes; though it be dish’d For me to try how: all I know of it Is that Camillo was an honest man; And why he left your court, the gods themselves, Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. Leon. You knew of his departure, as you know What you have underta’en to do in’s absence. Her, Sir, You speak a language that I understand not: My life stands in the level of your dreams, Which I?ll lay down. Leon. Your actions are my dreams ; You had a bastard by Polixenes, And I but dream’dit. As you were past all shame,— Those of your fact are so—so past all truth: Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself, No father owning it,— which is, indeed, More criminal in thee than it,—so thou Shalt feel our justice, in whose easiest passage Look for no less than death. Her. Sir, spare your threats: The bug which you would fright me with I seek. To me can life be no commodity : The crown and comfort of my life, your favour, I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, But know not how it went. My second joy And first-fruits of my body, from his presence Lam barr’d, like one infectious. My third comfort, Starr’d most unluckily, is from my breast, The innocent milk in it most innocent mouth, Haled out to murder: myself on every post Proclaimed a strumpet: with immodest hatred The child-bed privilege denied, which longs To women of all fashion; lastly, hurried Here to this place, i’ the open air, before I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege, Tell me what blessings I have here alive, That I should fear to die ? Therefore proceed. But yet hear this; mistake me not; no life, I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour, Which I would free, if I shall be condemn’d Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you *T is rigour and not law. Your honours all, I do refer me to the oracle: Apollo be my judge! First Lord. This your request Is altogether just: therefore bring forth, And in Apollo’s name, his oracle. [Hxeunt certain Officers. Her. The Emperor of Russia was my father: O 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! Re-enter Officers, with Cleomenes and Dion. Off. You here shall swear uponthis swordof justice, That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought This seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d Of great Apollo’s priest and that since then You have not dared to break the holy seal Nor read the secrets in ’t. Cleo. Dion. All this we swear. Leon. Break up the seals and read. 260 THE WINTER’S TALE SCENE Il. Off. [Reads] Hermione is chaste ; Polixenes blame- less; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous ty- rant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not found. Lords. Now blessed be the great Apollo! Her. Praised! Leon. Hast thou read truth ? Mf. Ay, my lord; even so As it is here set down. Leon. There is no truth at all i’ the oracle: The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood. Enter Servant. Serv. My lord the king, the king! Leon. What is the business ? Serv. O sir, I shall be hated to report it! The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear Of the queen’s speed, is gone. Leon. How! gone! Serv. Is dead. Leon. Apollo’s angry; and the heavens themselves Do strike at my injustice. [Hermione swoons.]| How now there! [down Paul. This news is mortal to the queen: look And see what death is doing. Leon. Take her hence: Her heart is but o’ercharged; she will recover: I have too much believed mine own suspicion: Beseech you, tenderly apply to her Some remedies for life. [Exeunt Paulina and Ladies, with Hermione. Apollo, pardon | My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle! I ll reconcile me to Prolixenes, New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo, Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy; For, being transported by my jealousies To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose Camillo for the minister to poison My friend Polixenes: which had been done, But that the good mind of Camillo tardied My swift command, though I with death and with Reward did threaten and encourage him, Not doing ’t and being done: he, most humane And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest Unclasp’d my practice, quit his fortunes here, Which you knew great, and to the hazard Of all incertainties himself commended, No richer than his honour: how he glisters Thorough my rust! and how his piety Does my deeds make the blacker! Re-enter Paulina. Paul. Woe the while! O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, Break too! First Lord. What fit is this, good lady ? Paul. What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels ? racks? fires ? what flaying ? boiling ? In leads or oils ? what old or newer torture Must I receive, whose every word deserves To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny Together working with thy jealousies, Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle For girls of nine, O, think what they have done And then run mad indeed, stark mad! for all Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. That thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’t was nothing ; That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant And damnable ingrateful: nor was ’t much, Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honour, To have him kill a king; poor trespasses, More monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon The casting forth to crows thy baby-daughter To be or none or little; though a devil Would have shed water out of fire ere done ’t: ACT III. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE ITI, Nor is ’t directly laid to thee, the death Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts, Thoughts high for one so tender, cleft the heart That could conceive a gross and foolish sire Blemish’d his gracious dam: this is not, no, Laid to thy answer: but the last, —O lords, When I have said, cry ‘ woe! ’"—the queen, the queen, The sweet’st, dear’st creature ’s dead, and vengeance Not dropp’d down yet. [for ’t First Lord. The higher powers forbid ! Paul. I say she’s dead; I’ll swear’t. If word Prevail not, go and see: if youcan bring [nor oath Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye, Heat outwardly or breath within, I ’ll serve you As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant! Do not repent these things, for they are heavier Than all thy woes can stir: therefore betake thee To nothing but despair. A thousand knees Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, Upon a barren mountain, and still winter In storm perpetual, could not move the gods To look that way thou wert. Leon. Go on, go on: Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserved All tongues to talk their bitterest. First Lord. Say no more: Howe’er the business goes, you have made fault I’ the boldness of your speech. Paul. IT am sorry for ’t: All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, Idorepent. Alas! I have show’d too much The rashness of a woman: he is touch’d {help To the noble heart. What ’s gone and what ’s past Should be past grief: do not receive affliction At my petition; I beseech you, rather Let me be punish’d, that have minded you Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege, Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman: The love I bore your queen —lo, fool again ! — I?ll speak of her no more, nor of your children; Ill not remember you of my own lord, Who is lost too: take your patience to you, And Ill say nothing. eon. Thou didst speak but well When most the truth; which I receive much better Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me To the dead bodies of my queen and son: One grave shall be for both: upon them shall The causes of their death appear, unto Our shame perpetual. Once a day I’ visit The chapel where they lie, and tears shed there Shall be my recreation: so long as nature Will bear up with this exercise, so long I daily vow to use it. Come and lead me Unto these sorrows. [ Hxeunt. SCENE ITI.— Bohemia. A desert country near the sea. Enter Antigonus with a child, and a Mariner. Ant. Thou art perfect then, our ship hath touch’d The deserts of Bohemia ? [upon Mar. Ay, my lord; and fear We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly And threaten present blusters. In my conscience, The heavens with that we have in hand are angry And frown upon’s. Ant. Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard; Look to thy bark: Ill not be long before I call upon thee. Har. Make your best haste, and go not Too far i’ the land: ’tis like to be loud weather ; Besides, this place is famous for the creatures Of pres that keep upon ’t. mnt. Ill follow instantly. Mar. I am glad at heart To be so rid 0’ the business. aa Go thou away : [ Hait. Ant. Come, poor babe: I have heard, but not believed, the spirits o’ the dead May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother Appear’d to me last night, for ne’er was dream So like a waking. To me comes a creature, Sometimes her head on one side, some another; I never saw a vessel of like sorrow, So fill’d and so becoming: in pure white robes, Like very sanctity, she did approach ‘ My cabin where I lay ; thrice bow’d before me, And gasping to begin some speech, her eyes Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon Did this break from her: ‘Good Antigonus, Since fate, against thy better disposition, Hath made thy person for the thrower-out Of my poor babe, according to thine oath, Places remote enough are in Bohemia, There weep and leave it crying; and, for the babe Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, I prithee, call’t. For this ungentle business, Put on thee by my lord, thou ne’er shalt see Thy wife Paulina more.’ And so, with shrieks, She melted into air. Affrighted much, I did in time collect myself and thought This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys: Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously, I will be squared by this. I do believe Hermione hath suffer’d death, and that Apollo would, this being indeed the issue Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid, Either for life or death, upon the earth Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well! There lie, and there thy character: there these; Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still rest thine. The storm begins: poor wretch, That for thy mother’s fault art thus exposed To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds; and most accursed am I To be by oath enjoin’d to this. Farewell! [have The day frowns more and more: thou ’rt like to A lullaby too rough: I never saw The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour! Well may I get aboard! This is the chase: I am gone for ever. [Hxcit, pursued by a bear. Enter a Shepherd. Shep. I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the an- cientry, stealing, fighting — Hark younow! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two- and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master: if any where I have them, ’tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an’t be thy will! what have we here ? Mercy on’s, a barne; a very pretty barne! A boy or a child, I wonder? > ACT IV. In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine Does change my disposition. Fl What you do 0. Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, I ld have you do it ever: when you sing, I ld 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 deed, That all your acts are queens. Per. O Doricles, Your praises are too large: but that your youth, And the true blood which peepeth fairly through ’t, Do plainly give you out an unstain’d shepherd, With wisdom [I might fear, my Doricles, You woo’d me the false way. Filo. 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. Il] swear for ’em. Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the green-sward : nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too noble for this place. Cam. He tells her something That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is The queen of curds and cream. Clo. Come on, strike up! Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic, To mend her kissing with! Mop. Now, in good time! Clo. Not a word, a word; we stand upon our man- Come, strike up! [ners. [Music. Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses. Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this Which dances with your daughter ? Shep. They call him Doricles; and boasts himself To have a worthy feeding: but I have it Upon his own report and I believe it; He looks likesooth. Hesays he loves my daughter : I think so too; for never gazed the moon Upon the water as he ’ll stand and read As ’t were my daughter’s eyes: and, to be plain, I think there is not half a kiss to choose Who loves another best. ol. She dances featly. Shep. So she does anything; though I report it, That should be silent: if young Doricles Do light upon her, she shall bring him that Which he not dreams of. Enter Servant. Serv. O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you: he Sings several tunes faster than you’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 lovea ballad but even too well, if it be dole- ful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably. Serv. He hath songs for man or woman, of all sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers with gloves: he has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate burthens of dildos and fadings, ‘jump her and thump her;’ and where some stretch-mouthed rascal would, as it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to THE WINTER’S TALE. SCENE IV. answer ‘ Whoop, do me no harm, good man;°’ puts him off, slights him, with ‘ Whoop, do me no harm, good man.’ Pol. This is a brave fellow. Clo. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares ? Serv. He hath ribbons of all the colours i’ the rainbow; points more than all the lawyers in Bohe- mia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the gross: inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: why, he sings ’em over as they were gods or god- desses; you would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on’t. _Clo. Prithee bring him in; and let him approach singing. Per. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in ’s tunes. [Hxit Servant. Clo. You have of these pedlars, that have more in them than you’ld think, sister. Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think. Enter Autolycus, singing. Lawn as white as driven snow; Cyprus black as e’er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses ; Masks for faces and for noses; Bugle bracelet, necklace amber, Perfume for a lady’s chamber ; Golden quoifs and stomachers, For my lads to give their dears: Pins and poking-sticks of steel, What maids lack from head to heel: Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: Come buy. Clo. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain rib- bons. and gloves. Mop. I was promised them against the feast ; but they come not too late now. Dor. He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars. . Mop. He hath paid you all he promised you: may be, he has paid you more, which will shame you to give him again. Clo. Is there no manners left among maids? will they wear their plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests 2 *t is well they are whispering: clamour your tongues, and not a word more. Mop. I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry-lace and a pair of sweet gloves. Clo. Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way and lost all my money ? Aut. And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; therefore it behoves men to be wary. [here. Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing Aut. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge. Clo. What hast here? ballads ? Mop. Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print o’ life, for then we are sure they are true. Aut. Here’s one to a very doleful tune, how a usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty money- bags at a burthen, and how she longed to eat ad- ders’ heads and toads carbonadoed. Mop. Is it true, think you ? Aut. Very true, and but a month old. Dor. Bless me from marrying ausurer! Aut. Here’s the midwife’s name to’t, one Mis- tress Tale-porter, and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad ? Mop. Pray you now, buy it. 265 ACT IV. THE WINTER’S TALE. SCENE IV. Olo. Come on, lay it by: and let’s first see more ballads; we’ll buy the other things anon. Aut. Here’s another ballad of a fish, that ap- peared upon the coast on Wednesday the four-score of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids: it was thought she was a woman and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her: the ballad is very pitiful and as Dor. Is it true too, think you ? [true. Aut. Five justices’ hands at it, and witnesses more than my pack will hold. Clo. Lay it by too: another. Aut. This isamerry ballad, but a very pretty one. Mop. Let ’s have some merry ones. Aut. Why, this is a passing merry one and goes to the tune of ‘Two maids wooing a man:’ there’s scarce a maid westward but she sings it; ’tis in request, I can tell you. Mop. Wecan both sing it: if thou It bear a part, thou shalt hear; ’t is in three parts. Dor. We had the tune on ’t a month ago. Aut. I can bear my part; you must know ’tis my occupation; have at it with you. SONG. A. Get you hence, for I must go Where it fits not you to know. D. Whither? M. O, whither ? D. Whither ? M. It becomes thy oath full well, Thou to me thy secrets tell. D. Me too, let me go thither. M. Or thou goest to the grange or mill. D. If to either, thou dost ill. Neither. D. What, neither? A. Neither. D. Thou hast sworn my love to be. M. Thou hast sworn it more to me: Then whither goest ? say, whither ? Clo. We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves: my father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we’ll not trouble them. Come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches,I’ll buy for you both. Pedlar, let ’s have the first choice. Follow me, girls. [| Hxit with Dorcas and Mopsa. Aut. And you shall pay well for ’em. [follows singing. AS Will you buy any tape, Or lace for your cape, My dainty duck, my dear-a ? Any silk, any thread, Any toys for your head, Of the new’st and fines , finest wear-a ? Come to the pedlar ; Money ’s a medler, That doth utter all men’s ware-a. [ Exit. Re-enter Servant. Serv. Master, there is three carters, three shep- herds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair, they call themselves Saltiers, and they have a dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, be- cause they are not in ’t; but they themselves are 0’ the mind, if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling, it will please plentifully. Shep. Away! we’ll none on’t: here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you. Pol. You weary those that refresh us: pray, let’s see these four threes of herdsmen. Serv. One three of them, by their own report, sir hath danced before the king; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squier. Shep. Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now. Serv. Why, they stay at door, sir. | Exit. 266 Here a dance of twelve Satyrs. Pol. O, father, you’ll know more of that here- after. [ To Core) Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part them He’s simple and tellsmuch. [Yo Flor.] Hownow, fair shepherd ! Your heart is full of something that does take Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young And handed love as you do, I was wont [sack’d To load my she with knacks: I would have ran- The pedlar’s silken treasury and have pour’d it To her acceptance; you have let him go And nothing marted with him. If your lass Interpretation should abuse and call this Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited For a reply, at least if you make a care Of happy holding her. Flo Old sir, I know She prizes not such trifles as these are: The gifts she looks from me are pack’d and lock’d Up in my heart; which I have given abe |. But not deliver’d. O, hear me breathe my life Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, Hath sometime loved! I ke thy hand, this hand, As soft as dove’s down and as white as it, [bolted Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow that’s By the northern blasts twice o’er. Pol. What follows this ? How prettily the young swain seems to wash The hand was fair before! I have put you out: But to your protestation; let me hear What you profess. Flo, Do, and be witness to ’t. Pol. And this my neighbour too ? Flo, And he, and more Than he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and all: That, were I crown’d the most imperial monarch, Thereof, most worthy, were I the fairest youth _ That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowl- edge More than was ever man’s, I would not prize them Without her love; for her employ them all; Commend them and condemn them to her service Or to their own perdition. l Fairly offer’d. Ol. Cam. This shows a sound affection. Shep. But, my daughter, Say you the like to him ? Per. I cannot speak So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better: By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out The purity of his. Shep. Take hands, a bargain! And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to ’t: I give my daughter to him, and will make Her portion equal his. Flo. O, that must be I’ the virtue of your daughter: one being dead, I shall have more than you can dream of yet ; Enough then for your wonder. But, come on, Contract us fore these witnesses. Shep. Come, your hand; And, daughter, yours. Pol. Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you; Have you a father ? Flo. I have: but what of him ? Pol. Knows he of this ? 0. 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 Withageand altering rheums ? can hespeak ? hear? | Know man from man? dispute his own estate ? SS ae pe ACTIV. THE WINTER’S TALE. SCENETIV. Lies he not bed-rid ? and again does nothing But what he did being childish ? Flo. No, good sir; He has his health and ampler strength indeed Than most have of his age. Pol. By my white beard, You offer him, if this be so, a wrong : Something unfilial: reason my son Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason The father, all whose joy is nothing else But fair posterity, should hold some counsel In such a business. Flo. I yield all this; But for some other reasons, my grave sir, Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint My father of this business. Pol. Flo. He shall not. Pol. Let him know ’t. Prithee, let him. Filo. No, he must not. Shep. Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve At knowing of thy choice. Flo. Come, come, he must not. Mark our contract. Ol, Mark your divorce, young sir, [Discovering himself. Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base To be acknowledged: thou a sceptre’s heir, That thus affect’st a sheep-hook! Thou old traitor, Iam sorry that by hanging thee I can But shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh piece Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know The royal fool thou copest with, — O, my heart! Shep. Pol. I'll have thy beauty scratch’d with briers, and made More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy, lf 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 honour therein, Unworthy thee,—if ever henceforth thou These rural latches to his entrance open, Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, I will devise a death as cruel for thee As thou art tender to ’t. Per. Even here undone! I was not much afeard; for once or twice I was about to speak and tell him plainly, The selfsame sun that shines upon his court Hides not his visage from our cottage but Looks on alike. Will’t please you, sir, be gone? I told you what would come of this: beseech you, Of your own state take care: this dream of mine,— Being now awake, Ill queen it no inch farther, But milk my ewes and weep. Cam. Why, how now, father! Speak ere thou diest. ee I cannot speak, nor think, Nor dare to know that which I know. O sir! You have undone a man of fourscore three, That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea, To die upon the bed my father died, To lie close by his honest bones: but now Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay me Where no priest shovels in dust. O cursed wretch, That knew’st this was the prince, and wouldst ad- venture To mingle faith with him! Undone! undone! If I might die within this hour, I have lived To die when I desire. [ Heit. [Eait. | Flo. Why look you so upon me ? I am but sorry, not afeard; delay’d, But nothing alter’d: what I was, I am; More straining on for plucking back, not following My leash unwillingly. Cam. Gracious my lord, You know your father’s temper: at this time He will allow no speech, which I do guess You do not purpose to him; and as hardly Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear: Then, till the fury of his highness settle, Come not before him. Flo. I not purpose it. I think, Camillo? Cam. Even he, my lord. Per. How often have I told you ’t would be thus! How often said, my en would last But till ’t were known ! Flo. It cannot fail but by The violation of my faith: and then Let nature crush the sides 0’ the earth together And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks: From my succession wipe me, father; 1 Am heir to my affection. Cam. Be advised. Flo. Tam, and by my fancy: if my reason Will thereto be obedient, I have reason; If not, my senses, better pleased with madness, Do bid it welcome. 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 sea hides In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath To this my fair beloved: therefore, I pray you, As you have ever been my father’s honour’d friend, When he shall miss me,—as, in faith, I mean not To see him any more,— cast your good counsels Upon his passion: let myself and fortune Tug for the time to come. This you may know And so deliver, I am put to sea With her whom here I cannot hold on shore; And most opportune to our need I have A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared For this design. What course I mean to hold Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor Concern me the reporting. Cam. O my lord! I would your spirit were easier for advice, Or stronger for your need. Hark, Perdita [Drawing her aside. and by. an. He’s irremoveable, Resolved for flight. Now were I happy, if His going I could frame to serve my turn, Save him from danger, do him love and honour, Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia And that unhappy king, my master, whom Iso much thirst to see. Flo. Now, good Camillo; IT am so fraught with curious business that I leave out ceremony. Cam. Sir, I think You have heard of my poor services, i’ the love That I have borne your father ? Flo, Very nobly Have you deserved: it is my father’s music To speak your deeds, not little of his care To have them recompensed as thought on. . Cam. . Well, my lord, If you muy please to think Ilove 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, 267 0. I’ll hear you by ACT IV. THE WINTER'S TALE SCENE IV. Ill 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 forefend!— your ruin; marry her, And, with my best endeavours in your absence, Your discontenting father strive to qualify And bring him up to liking. Flo. How, Camillo, May this, almost a miracle, be done ? That I may call thee something more than man And after that trust to thee. Cam. Have you thought on A place whereto you ’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 weeping His welcomes forth; asks thee the son forgiveness, As ’t were i’ the father’s person; kisses the hands Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides him *Twixt his unkindness and his kindness: the one He chides to hell and bids the other grow Faster than thought or time. Flo. Worthy Camillo, What colour for my visitation shall I Hold up before him ? Cam. Sent by the king your father To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir, The manner of your bearing towards him, with What you as from your father shall deliver, Things known betwixt us three, I 711 write you down: The which shall point you forth at every sitting What you must say; that he shall not perceive But that you have your father’s bosom there And speak his very heart. Flo. I am bound to you: There is some sap in this. Cam. A cause more promising Than a wild dedication of yourselves To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores, most certain To miseries enough; no hope to help you, But as you shake off one to take another; Nothing so certain as your anchors, who Do their best office, if they can but stay you Where you ’II be loath to be: besides you know Prosperity ’s the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters. er. One of these is true: 1 think affliction may subdue the cheek, But not take in the mind. Cam. Yea, say you so? There shall not at your father’s house these seven years Be born another such. Flo. My good Camillo, She is as forward of her breeding as She is i’ the rear our birth. Cam. I cannot say ’tis pity She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress To most that teach. evar Your pardon, sir; for this L Cite you thanks. 0. My prettiest Perdita! But O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo, Preserver of my father, now of me, The medicine of our house, how shall we do? | 268 We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son, Nor shall appear in Sicilia. | Cam. My lord, Fear none of this: I think you know my fortunes Do all lie there: it shall be so my care To have you royally appointed as if The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir, That you may know you shall not want, one word. [ They talk aside. Re-enter Autolycus. Aut. Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn- ring, to keep my pack from fasting: they throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer: by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw,.to my good use I remem- bered. My clown, who wants but something to be a reasonable man, grew so in love with the wenches’ song, that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words; which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket, it was senseless ; ’t was nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I could have filed keys off that hung in chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s song, and admiring the nothing of it. So that in this time of lethargy I picked and cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come in with a whoo-bub against his daughter and the king’s son and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army. [Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita come forward. ee 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. All that you speak shows fair. Cam. Happy be you! Who have we here ? [Seeing Autolycus. We’ll make an instrument of this, omit Nothing may give us aid. [ing. Aut. If they have overheard me now, why, hang- Cam. How now, good fellow! why shakest thou so? Fear not, man; here’s no harm intended to Aut. Iam a poor fellow, sir. {thee. Cam. Why, be so still; here’s nobody will steal that from thee: yet for the outside of thy poverty we must make an exchange; therefore discase thee instantly,—thou must think there’s a necessity in ’t,— and change garments with this gentleman: though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there ’s some boot. Aut. I am a poor fellow, sir. [Aside] I know ye well enough. Cam. Nay, prithee, dispatch: the gentleman is half flayed already. Aut. Are you in earnest, sir? [Aside] I smell the trick on ’t. Flo. Dispatch, I prithee. Aut. Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot with conscience take it. Cam. Unbuckle, unbuckle. [Florizel and Autolycus exchange garments. Fortunate mistress,—let my prophecy Come home to ye! —you must retire yourself Into some covert: take your sweetheart’s hat And pluck it o’er your brows, muffle your face, Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken The truth of your own seeming; that you may— ACT IV. THE WINTER’S TALE. SCENE IV. For I do fear eyes over —to shipboard Get undescried. Per. I see the play so lies That I must bear a part. Cam. Have you done there ? Flo. Should I now meet my father, He would not call me son. Cam. Nay, you shall have no hat. [Giving it to Perdita. Farewell, my friend. ut. Adieu, sir. Flo. O Perdita, what have we twain forgot! Pray you, a word. {king Cam. [Aside] What I do next shall be to tell the Of this escape and whither they are bound; Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail To force him after: in whose company I shall review Sicilia, for whose sight I have a woman’s longing. Flo. Fortune speed us! Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side. Cam. The swifter speed the better. [| Exeunt Florizel, Perdita, and Camillo. Aut. I understand the business, I hear it: to have an open ear,a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is nec- essary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot! Whata boot is here with this exchange! Sure the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity, stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels: if I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it; and therein am I constant to my profession. No remedy. Come, lady, come. Re-enter Clown and Shepherd. Aside, aside; here is more matter for a hot brain: every lane’s end, every shop, church, session, hang- ing, yields a careful man work. Clo. See, see; what aman you are now! There is no other way but to tell the king she’s a change- ay and none of your flesh and blood. hep. Nay, but hear me. Clo. Nay, but hear me. Shep. Go to, then. Clo. She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the king; and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her, those secret things, all but what she has with her: this being done, let the law go whistle: I warrant you. Shep. I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and his son’s pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man, neither to his father, nor to me, to go about to make me the king’s brother-in-law. Clo. Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have been to him and then your blood had been the dearer by I know how much an ounce. Aut. [Aside] Very wisely, puppies! Shep. Well, let us to the king: there is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard. Aut. [Aside] I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master. Clo. Pray heartily he be at palace. Aut. [Aside] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance: let me pocket up my pedlar’s excrement. | Takes off his false beard.] How now, rustics! whither are you bound ? Shep. To the palace, an it like your worship. Aut. Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your names, your ages, of what having, breeding, and any thing that is fitting to be known, discover. Clo. We are but plain fellows, sir. Aut. A lie; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying: it becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie; but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel: there- fore they do not give us the lie. Clo. Your worship had like to have given us one, if you had not taken yourself with the manner. Shep. Are you a courtier, an °t like you, sir? Aut. Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfold- ings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? receives not thy nose court-odour from me? reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt ? Thinkest thou, for that I insinuate, or toaze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-a-pe; and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there: whereupon I command thee to open thy affair. Shep. My business, sir, is to the king. Aut. What advocate hast thou to him ? Shep. I know not, an’t like you. Clo. Advocate ’s the court-word for a pheasant: say you have none. [hen. Shep. None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor Aut. How blessed are we that are not simple men! Yet nature might have made me as these are, Therefore I will not disdain. Clo. This cannot be but a great courtier. Shep. His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely. Clo. He seems to be the more noble in being fan- tastical: a great man, 171] warrant; I know by the picking on’s teeth. Aut. The fardel there? what’s i’ the fardel? Wherefore that box ? Shep. Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box, which none must know but the king; and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to the speech of him. Aut. Age, thou hast lost thy labour. Shep. Why, sir? Aut. The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air him- self: for, if thou beest capable of things serious, thou must know the king is full of grief. Shep. So ’tis said, sir; about his son, that should have married a shepherd’s daughter. Aut. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly: the curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster. Clo. Think you so, sir? Aut. Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter; but those that are ger- mane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hangman: which though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned ; but that death is too soft for him, say I: draw our throne into asheep-cote ! all deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy. Clo. Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you hear, an ’t like you, sir? Aut. He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then *nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp’s nest; then stand till he be three-quarters and adram dead; then recovered again with aqua-vitz or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick-wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me, for you seem to be honest plain men, what you have to the king: being something gently considered, I 711 269 ACT. Vs bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs; and if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, here is man shall do it. Clo. He seems to be of great authority: close with him, give him gold; and though authority be a stub- born bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold: show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember ‘ stoned,’ and ‘ flayed alive.’ Shep. An ’t please you, sir, to undertake the busi- ness for us, here is that gold I have: Ill make it as: much more and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you. Aut. After I have done what I promised ? Shep. Ay, sir. . Aut. Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this business ? Clo. In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it. Aut. O, that’s the case of the shepherd’s son: hang him, he ’ll be made an example. Clo. Comfort, good comfort! We must to the THE WINTER'S TALE SCENE I. king and show our strange sights: he must know tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does when the business is performed, and re- main, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you. Aut. I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side; go on the right hand: I will but look upon the hedge and follow you. {blest. Clo. We are blest in this man, as I may say, even Shep. Let’s before as he bids us: he was provided to do us good. [Exeunt Shepherd and Clown. Aut. If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would not suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion, gold and a means to do the prince my master good; which who knows how that may turn back to my advance- ment? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him: if he think it fit to shore them again and that the complaint they have to the king concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far officious; for 1am proof against that title and what shame else belongs to’t. To him will | I present them: there may be matter init. [Hzit. 02.00 Dai SCENE I.— A room in Leontes’ palace. Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, and Servants. ' Cleo. Sir, you have done enough, and have per- form’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 Destroy’d 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 kill’d Would be unparallel’d. I think so. Kill’d! eon. She I kill’d! I did so: but thou strikest me Sorely, to say I did; it is as bitter Upon thy tongue as in my thought: now, good now, Say so but seldom. Cleo. Not at all, good lady: You might have spoken a thousand things that would Have done the time more benefit and graced Your kindness better. Paul. You are one of those Would have him wed again. Dion. If you would not so, You pity not the state, nor the remembrance Of his most sovereign name; consider little What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue, May drop upon his kingdom and devour Incertain lookers on. What were more holy Than to rejoice the former queen is well ? What holier than, for royalty’s repair, For present comfort and for future good, To bless the bed of majesty again With a sweet fellow to ’t? Paul. Respecting her that ’s gone. 270 There is none worthy, Besides, the gods Will have fulfill’d their secret purposes; For has not the divine Apollo said, Ist not the tenour of his oracle, That King Leontes shall not have an heir Till his lost child be found ? which that it shall, Is all as monstrous to our human reason As my Antigonus to break his grave And come again to me; who, on my life, Did perish with the infant. ’T is your counsel My lord should to the heavens be contrary, Oppose against their wills. [Zo Leontes.] Care not for issue; The crown will find an heir: great Alexander Left his to the worthiest; so his successor Was like to be the best. Leon. Good Paulina, Who hast the memory of Hermione, I know, in honour, O, that ever I Had squared me to thy counsel! then, even now, I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes, Have taken treasure from her lips— Paul. And left them More rich for what they yielded. Leon. Thou speak’st truth. No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse, And better used, would make her sainted spirit Again possess her corpse, and on this stage, Where we ’re offenders now, appear soul-vex’d, And begin, ‘ Why to me?’ Paul. Had she such power, She had just cause. Leon. She had; and would incense me To murder her I married. Paul. I should so. Were I the ghost that walk’d, I ld bid you mark Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in ’t You chose her; then I ld shriek, that even your ears Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow’d Should be ‘Remember mine.’ Leon. And all eyes else dead coals! Ill have no wife, Paulina. Paul. Will you swear Never to marry but by my free leave ? Leon. Never, Paulina; so be blest my spirit! Paul. Then, good my lords, bear witness to his Cleo. You tempt him over-much. [oath. Paul. Unless another, Stars, stars, Fear thou no wife ; ACT V. As like Hermione as is her picture, Affront his eye. 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. con. My true Paulina, We shall not marry till thou bid’st us. Paul. That Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath; Never till then. Enter a Gentleman. _ Gent. One that gives out himself Prince Florizel, Son of Polixenes, with his princess, she The fairest I have yet beheld, desires access To your high presence. eon. What with him? he comes not Like to his father’s greatness: his approach, So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us *T is not a visitation framed, but forced By need and accident. What train ? Gent. But few, And those but mean. Leon. His princess, say you, with him ? Gent. Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think, That e’er the sun shone bright on. Paul. O Hermione, As every present time doth boast itself Above a better gone, so must thy grave Give way to what’s seen now! Sir, you yourself Have said and writ so, but your writing now is colder than that theme, ‘She had not been, Nor was not to be equall’d;’—thus your verse Flow’d with her beauty once: ’t is shrewdly ebb’d, To say you have seen a better. Gent. Pardon, madam : The one I have almost forgot, —your pardon, — The other, when she has obtain’d your eye, Will have your tongue too. This is a creature, Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal Of all professors else, make proselytes Of who she but bid follow. Paul. How! not women ? Gent. Women will love her, that she is a woman More worth than any man; men, that she is The rarest of all women. Leon. Go, Cleomenes; Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends, Bring them to our embracement. Still, ’tis strange [ Exeunt Cleomenes and others. He thus should steal upon us. Paul. Had our prince, Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had pair’d Well with this lord: there was not full a month Between their births. Leon. Prithee, no more; cease; thou know’st He dies to me again when talk’d of: sure, When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches Will bring me to consider that which may Unfurnish me of reason. They are come. te-enter Cleomenes and others, with Florizel and Perdita. 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 wildly By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome! And your fair princess,— goddess!—O, alas! I lost a couple, that ’twixt heaven and earth Might thus have stood begetting wonder as THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE TI. You, gracious couple, do: and then I lost — All mine own folly —the society, Amity too, of your brave father, whom, Though bearing misery, I desire my life Once more to look on him. Flo. By his command Have I here touch’d Sicilia and from him Give you all greetings that a king, at friend, Can send his brother: and, but infirmity Which waits upon worn times hath something seized His wish’d ability, he had himself The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and his Measured to look upon you; whom he loves — He bade me say so — more than all the sceptres And those that bear them living. Leon. O my brother, Good gentleman! the wrongs I have done thee stir Afresh within me, and these thy offices, So rarely kind, are as interpreters Of my behind-hand slackness. Welcome hither, As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too Exposed this paragon to the fearful usage, At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune, To greet a man not worth her pains, much less The adventure of her person ? Flo. Good my lord, She came from Libya. Leon. Where the warlike Smalus, That noble honour’d lord, is fear’d and loved ? Flo. Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose daughter His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her: thence, A prosperous south wind friendly, we have cross’d, To execute the charge my father gave me For visiting your highness: my best train I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d ; Who for Bohemia bend, to signify Not only my success in Libya, sir, But my arrival and my wife’s in safety Here where we are. Leon. The blessed gods Purge all infection from our air whilst you Do climate here! You have a holy father, A graceful gentleman; against whose person, So sacred as it is, I have done sin: For which the heavens, taking angry note, Have left me issueless; and your father’s blest, As he from heaven merits it, with you Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, Might I a son and daughter now have look’d on, Such goodly things as you! Enter a Lord. Lord. Most noble sir, That which I shall report will bear no credit, Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, Bohemia greets you from himself by me; Desires you to attach his son, who has — His dignity and duty both cast off — Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with A shepherd’s daughter. Leon. Where ’s Bohemia? speak. Lord. Here in your city; I now came from him: I speak amazedly; and it becomes My marvel and my message. To your court Whiles he was hastening, in the chase, it seems, Of this fair couple, meets he on the way The father of this seeming lady and Her brother, having both their country quitted With this young prince. Flo. Camillo has betray’d me; Whose honour and whose honesty till now Endured all weathers. Lord. Lay ’t so to his charge: He’s with the king your father. Leon. Who? Camillo ? Lord. Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now © 271 ACT ¥; Has these poor men in question. Never saw I Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth ; Forswear themselves as often as they speak: Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them With divers deaths in death. er. O my poor father! The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have Our contract celebrated. eon. You are married ? Flo. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be; The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first : The odds for high and low’s alike. Leon. My lord, Is this the daughter of a king ? Flo. She is, When once she is my wife. [speed, Leon. That ‘once,’ I see by your good father’s Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, Most sorry, you have broken from his liking Where you were tied in duty, and as sorry Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, That you might well enjoy her. Flo. Dear, look up: Though Fortune, visible an enemy, Should chase us with my father, power no jot Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir, Remember since you owed no more to time Than I do now: with thought of such affections, Step forth mine advocate; at your request My father will grant precious things as trifles. Leon. Would he do so, I’ld beg your precious Which he counts but a trifle. [mistress, Paul. Sir, my liege, Your eye hath too much youth in ’t: not a month ’Fore your queen died, she was more worth such Than what you look on now. [gazes Leon. I thought of her, Even in these looks I made. [Zo Florizel.] But your petition Is yet unanswer’d. I will to your father: Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires, I am friend to them and you: upon which errand I now go toward him; therefore follow me And mark what way I make: come, good my lord. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— Before Leontes’ palace. Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman. Aut. Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation ? First Gent. I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it: whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber; only this Sena eae I heard the shepherd say, he found the child. Aut. I would most gladly know the issue of it. First Gent. I make a broken delivery of the busi- ness; but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration: they seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture; they looked as they liad heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed: a notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say if the importance were joy or sorrow; but in the extremity of the one, it must needs be. Enter another Gentleman. Here comes a gentleman that haply knows more. The news, Rogero ? Sec. Gent. Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is ful- filled; the king’s daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad- makers cannot be able to express it. 272 THE WINTER’S TALE. SCENE Ii. Enter a third Gentleman. Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward : he can de- liver you more. How goes it now, sir? this news which is called true is so like an old tale, that the verity of it is in strong suspicion: has the king found his heir ? Third Gent. Most true, if ever truth were preg- nant by circumstance: that which you hear you ‘Il swear you see, there issuch unity inthe proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it which they know to be his character, the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother, the af- fection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the king’s daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings? Sec. Gent. No. Third Gent. Then have you lost a sight, which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenances of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his — found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries ‘O, thy mother, thy mother!’ then asks Bohemia forgiveness ; then embraces his son-in-law ; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it and undoes descrip- tion to do it. Sec. Gent. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child ? Third Gent. Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this avouches the shepherd’s son; who has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows. First Gent. What became of his bark and his fo!- lowers ? Third Gent. Wrecked the same instant of their master’s death and in the view of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the ora- cle was fulfilled: she lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart that she might no more be in danger of losing. First Gent. The dignity of this act was worth the poets of kings and princes; for by such was it acted. Third Gent. One of the. prettiest touches of all and that which angled for mine eyes, caught the water though not the fish, was when, at the relation of the queen’s death, with the manner how she came to ’t bravely confessed and lamented by the king, how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an ‘ Alas,’ I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed : if all the world could have seen ’t, the woe had been universal. First Gent. Are they returned to the court ? Third Gent. No: the princess hearing of her moth- er’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina,—a piece many years in doing and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had ACT V. he himself eternity and could put breath into his work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so per- fectly he is her ape: he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer: thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup. Sec. Gent. I thought she had some great matter there in hand; forshe hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither and with our com- pany piece the rejoicing ? First Gent. Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? every wink of an eye some new grace will be born: our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let ’salong. [Hxeunt Gentlemen. Aut. Now, had f not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what : but he at that time, overfond of the shepherd’s daughter, so he then took her to be, who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, ex- tremity of weather continuing, this mystery re- mained undiscovered. But ’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. Shep. Come, boy; I am past moe children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born. Clo. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day, because I was no gentleman 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 gen- tleman born. Aut. I know you are nov, sir, a gentleman born. ' Clo. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours. | Shep. And so have I, boy. Clo. So you have: but I was a gentleman born _ before my father; for the king’s son took me by the hand, and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother ; and then the prince my brother and the princess my sister called my father father; and so we wept, and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed. Shep. We may live, son, to shed many more. Clo. Ay; or else *t were hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are. Aut. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship and to give me your good report to the prince my master. Shep. Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen. Clo. Thou wilt amend thy life ? Aut. Ay, an it like your good worship. Clo. Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bo- hemia. Shep. You may say it, but not swear it. Clo. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman ? boors and franklins say it, Il] swear it. Shep. How if it be false, son ? Clo. If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend: and Ill swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk: but Ill swear it, and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands. 18 Let THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE III. Aut. I will prove so, sir, to my power. Clo. Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how thou darest venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the queen’s picture. Come, follow us: we’ll be thy good masters. [ Hxeunt. SCENE III.—A chapel in Paulina’s house. Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Ca- millo, Paulina, Lords, and Attendants. Leon. O grave and good Paulina, the great com- That I have had of thee! [fort Paul. What, sovereign sir, I did not well I meant well. All my services You have paid home: but that you have vouch- safed, [tracted With your crown’d brother and these your con- Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit, It is a surplus of your grace, which never My life may last to answer. Leon. O Paulina, We honour you with trouble: but we came To see the statue of our queen: your gallery Have we pass’d through, not without much content In many singularities; but we saw not That which my daughter came to look upon, The statue of her mother. Paul. As she lived peerless, So her dead likeness, I do well believe, Excels whatever yet you look’d upon Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare To see the life as lively mock’d as ever Still sleep mock’d death: behold, and say ’t is well. [Paulina draws a curtain, and discovers Hermione standing like a statue. I like your silence, it the more shows off Your wonder: but yet speak; first, you, my liege. Comes it not something near ? Leon. Her natural posture! Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she In thy not chiding, for she was as tender As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing So aged as this seems. Pol. O, not by much. Paul. So much the more our carver’s excellence; Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her As she lived now. Leon. AS now she might have done, So much to my good comfort, as it is Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty, warm life, As now it coldly stands, when first I woo’d her! I am ashamed: does not the stone rebuke me For being more stone than it? O royal piece There ’s magic in thy majesty, which has My evils conjured to remembrance and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee. er. And give me leave, And do not say ’t is superstition, that I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, Dear queen, that ended when I but began, Give me that hand of yours to kiss. Paul. . O, patience ! The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour ’s Not dry. Cam. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers dry: scarce any joy Did ever so long live; no sorrow But kill’d itself much sooner. LOU, Dear my brother, 273 ACT: ¥z Let him that was the cause of this have power To take off so much grief from you as he Will piece up in himself. Paul. Indeed, my lord, If I had thought the sight of my poor image Would thus have wrought you,—for the stone is I’ld not have show’d it. [mine — Leon. Do not draw the curtain. Paul. No longer shall you gaze on ’t, lest your May think anon it moves. [fancy Leon. Let be, let be. Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already — What was he that did make it? See, my lord, Would you not deem it breathed? and that those Did verily bear blood ? [veins Pol. Masterly done: The very life seems warm upon her lip. Leon. The fixure of her eye has motion in ’t, As we are mock’d with art. Paul. I’l] draw the curtain: My lord ’s almost so far transported that He ’1l think anon it lives. Leon. O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together! No settled senses of the world can match The pleasure of that madness. Let ’t alone. Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: I could afflict you farther. [but Leon. Do, Paulina; For this affliction has a taste as sweet As any cordial comfort. Still, methinks, There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her. Paul. Good my lord, forbear: The ruddiness upon her lip is wet ; You ’ll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain ? Leon. No, not these twenty years. Per. So long could I Stand by, a looker on. Paul. Either forbear, Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you For more amazement. If you can behold it, I ’ll make the statue move indeed, descend And take you by the hand: but then you 7ll think— Which I protest against —I am assisted By wicked powers. Leon. What you can make her do, I am content to look on: what to speak, I am content to hear; for ’t is as easy To make her speak as move. Paul. It is required You do awake your faith. Then all stand still; On: those that think it is unlawful business I am about, let them depart. Leon. No foot shall stir. Paul. Music, awake her; strike! [Music. ’T is time; descend; be stone no more: approach ; Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come, Tl] fill your grave up: stir, nay, come away, 274 Proceed: THE WINTER'S TALE. | And made between ’s by vows. SCENE IIlf. Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs: [Hermione comes down. Start not; her actions shall be holy as You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her Until you see her die again; for then You kill her double. Nay, present your hand: When she was young you woo’d her; now in age Is she become the suitor ? Leon. O, she’s warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating. Pol. She embraces him. Cam. She hangs about his neck : If she pertain to life let her speak too. Pol. Ay,and make ’t manifest where she has lived, Or how stolen from the dead. Paul. That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale: but it appears she lives, : Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. Please you to interpose, fair madam: kneel And pray your mother’s blessing. Turn, good lady ; Our Perdita is found. Her. You gods, look down And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter’s head! Tell me, mine own, Where hast thou been preserved ? where lived ? how found Thy father’s court ? for thou shalt hear that I, Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved Myself to see the issue. Paul. There ’s time enough for that ; Lest they desire upon this push to trouble Your joys with like relation. Go together, You precious winners all: your exultation Partake to every one. I, an old turtle, Will wing me to some wither’d bough and there My mate, that ’s never to be found again, Lament till I am lost. Leon. O, peace, Paulina ! Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, As I by thine a wife: this is a match, [mine ; Thou hast found But how, is to be question’d; for I saw her, As I thought, dead, and have in vain said many A prayer upon her grave. Ill not seek far— For him, I partly know his mind — to find thee An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty Is richly noted and here justified By us, a pair of kings. Let ’s from this place. What! look upon my brother: both your pardons, That e’er I put between your holy looks My ill suspicion. This is your son-in-law And son unto the king, who, heavens directing, Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely Each one demand and answer to his part Perform’d in this wide gap of time since first We were dissever’d: hastily lead away. [Hzewnt. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN. DRAMATIS PERSON 4. King John. Prince Henry, son to the king. Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, nephew to the king. The Earl of Pembroke. The Karl of Essex. The Earl of Salisbury. The Lord Bigot. Hubert de Burgh. Robert Faulconbridge, son to Sir Robert Faul- conbridge. Philip the Bastard, his half-brother. James Gurney, servant to Lady Faulconbridge. Peter of Pomfret, a prophet. Philip, King of France. Lewis, the Dauphin. Lymoges, Duke of Austria. Cardinal Pandulph, the Pope’s legate. Melun, a French Lord. Chatillon, ambassador from France to King Joha, Queen Elinor, mother to King John. Constance, mother to Arthur. Blanch of Spain, niece to King John. Lady Faulconbridge. Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants, SCENE — Partly in England, and partly in Franee, [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LII.] ot Od Daa i SCENE I.—King John’s palace. Enter King John, Queen Elinor, Pembroke, Essex, Salisbury, and others, with Chatillon. K. John. Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us? [France Chat. Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of In my behaviour to the majesty, The borrow’d majesty, of England here. Eli. A strange beginning: ‘borrow’d majesty!’ Kk. John. Silence, good mother; hear the embassy. Chat. Philip of France, in right and true behalf Of thy deceased brother Geffrey’s son, Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim To this fair island and the territories, To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, Desiring thee to lay aside the sword Which sways usurpingly these several titles, And put the same into young Arthur’s hand, Thy nephew and right royal sovereign. Kk. John. What follows if we disallow of this ? Chat. The proud control of fierce and bloody war, To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld. a 58 as Here have we war for war and blood for 00 ; Controlment for controlment: so answer France. Chat. Then take my king’s defiance from my The farthest limit of my embassy. [mouth, K. John. Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace: Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France; For ere thou canst report I will be there, The thunder of my cannon shall be heard: So hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath And sullen presage of your own decay. An honourable conduct let him have: Pembroke, look to ’t. Farewell, Chatillon. [ Exeunt Chatillon and Pembroke. Eli. What now, my son! have I not ever said How that ambitious Constance would not cease Till she had kindled France and all the world, Upon the right and party of her son? This might have been prevented and made whole With very easy arguments of love, Which now the manage of two kingdoms must With fearful bloody issue arbitrate. eid kK. John. Our strong possession and our right for Eli. Your strong possession much more than your right, Or else it must go wrong with you and me: So much my conscience whispers in your ear, Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear. Enter a Sheriff. _ Hssex. My liege, here is the strangest controversy Come from the country to be judged by you That e’er I heard; shall I produce the men ? K. John. Let them approach. Our abbeys and our priories shall pay This expedition’s charge. Enter Robert Faulconbridge, and Philip his bastard brother. What men are you? Bast. Your faithful subject I, a gentleman Born in Northamptonshire and eldest son, As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge, A soldier, by the honour-giving hand Of Cceur-de-lion knighted in the field. Kk, John. What art thou ? Rob. The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge. K. John. Is that the elder, and art thou the heir ? You came not of one mother then, it seems. Bast. Most certain of one mother, mighty king; That is well known; and, as I think, one father: But for the certain knowledge of that truth I put you o’er to heaven and to my mother: Of that I doubt, as all men’s children may. [mother Eli. Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy And wound her honour with this diffidence. Bast. I, madam? no, I have no reason for it; ‘That is my brother’s plea and none of mine; The which if he can prove, a’ pops me out At least from fair five hundred pound a year: Heaven guard my mother’s honour and my land! K. John. A good blunt fellow. Why,being younger Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance ? born, 275 ACT. I. KING JOHN. SCENE I. Bast. I know not why, except to get the land. But once he slander’d me with bastardy: But whether I be as true begot or no, That still I lay upon my mother’s head, But that I am as well begot, my liege, — Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me! — Compare our faces and be judge yourself. If old sir Robert did beget us both And were our father and this son like him, O old sir Robert, father, on my knee I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee! 5c. John. Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here ! Eli. He hath a trick of Coeur-de-lion’s face ; The accent of his tongue affecteth him. Do you not read some tokens of my son In the large composition of this man ? Kk. John. Mine eye hath well examined his parts And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak, What doth move you to claim your brother’s land ? Bast. Because he hath a half-face, like my father. With half that face would he have all my land: A half-faced groat five hundred pound a year! Rob. My gracious liege, when that my father lived, Your brother did employ my father much, — Bast. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land: Your tale must be how he employ’d my mother. Rob. And once dispatch’d him in an embassy To Germany, there with the emperor To treat of high affairs touching that time. The advantage of his absence took the king And in the mean time sojourn’d at my father’s; Where how he did prevail I shame to speak, But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores Between my father and my mother lay, As I have heard' my father speak himself, When this same lusty gentleman was got. Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath’d His lands to me, and took it on his death That this my mother’s son was none of his; And if he were, he came into the world Full fourteen weeks before the course of time. Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine, My father’s land, as was my father’s will. kK. John. Sirrah, your brother is legitimate; Your father’s wife did after wedlock bear him, And if she did play false, the fault was hers; Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands That marry wives. ‘Tell me, how if my brother, Who, as you say, took pains to get this son, Had of your father claim’d this son for his ? In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept This calf bred from his cow from all the world; In sooth he might; then, if he were my brother’s, My brother might not claim him; nor your father, Being none of his, refuse him: this concludes; My mother’s son did get your father’s heir; Your father’s heir must have your father’s land. Rob. Shall then my father’s will be of no force To dispossess that child which is not his ? Bast. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, Than was his will to get me, as I think. [bridge Eli. Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulcon- And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land, Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion, : Lord of thy presence and no land beside ? Bast. Madam, an if my brother had my shape, And I had his, sir Robert’s his, like him; And if my legs were two such riding-rods, My arms such eel-skins stuff’d, my face so thin That in mine ear I durst not stick arose [goes!’ Lest men should say ‘ Look, where three-farthings And, to his shape, were heir to all this land, Would I might never stir from off this place, I would give it every foot to have this face; I would not be sir Nob in any case. [tune, | Eli. I like thee well: wilt thou forsake thy for- | 276 Bequeath thy land to him and follow me? I am a soldier and now bound to France. [chance. Bast. Brother, take you my land, I’ll take my © Your face hath got five hundred pound a year, Yet sell your face for five pence and ’tis dear. Madam, I ll follow you unto the death. Eli. Nay, I would have you go before me thither. Bast. Our country manners give our betters way. K. John. What is thy name: Bast. Philip, my liege, so is my name begun; Philip, good old sir Robert’s wife’s eldest son. kK. John. From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bear’st: Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great, Arise sir Richard and Plantagenet. [hand . Bast. Brother by the mother’s side, give me your My father gave me honour, yours gave land. | Now blessed be the hour, by night or day, When I was got, sir Robert was away! Eli. The very spirit of Plantagenet! Iam thy grandam, Richard; call meso. [though? Bast. Madam, by chance but not by truth; what Something about, a little from the right, In at the window, or else o’er the hatch: Who dares not stir by day must walk by night, And have is have, however men do catch: Near or far off, well won is still well shot, And I am I, howe’er I was begot. {desire ; kk. John. Go, Faulconbridge: now hast thou thy A landless knight makes thee a landed squire. Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed For France, for France, for it is more than need. Bast. Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee! For thou wast got i’ the way of honesty. [ Exeunt all but Bastard. A foot of honour better than I was; But many a many foot of land the worse. Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. ‘Good den, sir Richard ! ’—‘ God-a-mercy, fellow ! ’— And if his name be George, Ill call him Peter; For new-made honour doth forget men’s names; ’T is too respective and too sociable For your conversion. Now your traveller, He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess, And when my knightly stomach is sufficed, Why then I suck my teeth and catechize My picked man of countries: ‘ My dear sir,’ Thus, leaning on mine elbow, I begin, ‘I shall beseech you ’—that is question now; And then comes answer like an Absey book: ‘O sir,’ Says answer, ‘at your best command ; At your employment; at your service, sir:’ ‘No, sir,’ says question, ‘I, sweet sir, at yours: ’ And so, ere answer knows what question would, Saving in dialogue of compliment, And talking of the Alps and Apennines, The Pyrenean and the river Po, It draws toward supper in conclusion so. But this is worshipful society And fits the mounting spirit like myself, For he is but a bastard to the time That doth not smack of observation ; And so am I, whether I smack or no; And not alone in habit and device, Exterior form, outward accoutrement, But from the inward motion to deliver Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth: Which, though I will not practise to deceive, - Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn; For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising. But who comes in such haste in riding-robes ? What woman-post is this ? hath she no husband That will take pains to blow a horn before her ? Enter Lady Faulconbridge and James Gurney. O me! it is my mother. How now, good lady! What brings you here to court so Hastily ? ad Lise — ACTII. KING JOHN. SCENE I. Lady F. Where is that slave, thy brother? where | Legitimation, name and all is gone: is he, Then, good my mother, let me know my father; That holds in chase mine honour up and down ? Some proper man, I hope: who was it, mother ? Bast. My brother Robert ? old sir Robert’s son ? Lady F. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulcon- Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man ? Bast. As faithfully as I deny the devil. [bridge ? Is it sir Robert’s son that you seek so? [boy, Lady F. King Richard Cceur-de-lion was thy Lady F. Sir Robert’s son! Ay, thou unreverend father : Sir Robert’s son: why scorn’st thou at sir Robert ? | By long and vehement suit I was seduced He is sir Robert’s son, and so art thou. [awhile ? | To make room for him in my husband’s bed: Bast. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave | Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge! Gur. Good leave, good Philip. Thou art the issue of my dear offence, Bast. Philip! sparrow: James, | Which was so strongly urged past my defence. | There ’s toys abroad: anon I’1] tell thee more. Bast. Now, by this light, were I to get again, [Hxit Gurney. | Madam, I would not wish a better father. | Madam, I was not old sir Robert’s son: Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, Sir Robert might have eat his part in me And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly: Upon Good-Friday and ne’er broke his fast: Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, Sir Robert could do well: marry, to confess, Subjected tribute to commanding love, Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it: Against whose fury and unmatched force We know his handiwork: therefore, good mother, | The aweless lion could not wage the fight, To whom am I beholding for these limbs ? Nor keep his princely heart from Richard’s hand. Sir Robert never holp to make this leg. [too, | He that perforce robs lions of their hearts Lady F. Hast thou conspired with thy brother | May easily win a woman’s. Ay, my mother, That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine} With all my heart I thank thee for my father! honour ? [knave ? | Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well What means this scorn, thou most untoward | When I was got, Ill send his soul to hell. Bast. Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like. | Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin; What! Iam dubb’d! I have it on my shoulder. And they shall say, when Richard me begot, But, mother, I am not sir Robert’s son; If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin: I have disclaim’d sir Robert and my land; Who Says it was, he lies; I say ’t was not. [Ezeunt. CoN G4 Dia? bel SCENE I.—France. Before Angiers. Aust. The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their j é | In such a just and charitable war. [swords Enter Austria and forces, drums, &c., on one side: on the K. Phi. Well then, to work: our cannon shall be aad ae ap of a rae we his power; Lewis, | A oainst the brows of this resisting town. [bent a oa one Shen cans. Call for our chiefest men of discipline, Lew. Before Angiers well met, brave Austria. ‘| To cull the plots of best advantages: Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, We'll lay before this town our royal bones, Richard, that robb’d the lion of his heart Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen’s blood, And fought the holy wars in Palestine, But we will make it subject to this boy. By this brave duke came early to his grave: Const. Stay for an answer to your embassy, And for amends to his posterity, Lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood: At our importance hither is he come, My Lord Chatillon may from England bring To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf, That right in peace which here we urge in war, And to rebuke the usurpation And then we shall repent each drop of blood Of thy unnatural uncle, English John: That hot rash haste so indirectly shed. Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither. Arth. God shall forgive you Cceur-de-lion’s death Enter Chatillon. The rather that you give his offspring life, kK. Phi. A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish, Shadowing their right under your wings of war: Our messenger Chatillon is arrived! I give you welcome with a powerless hand, What England says, say briefly, gentle lord; But with a heart full of unstained love: We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak. Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke. Chat. Then turn your forces from this paltry siege. Lew. A noble boy! Who would not do thee | And stir them up against a mightier task. right ? England, impatient of your just demands, Aust. Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss, Hath put himself in arms: the adverse winds, As seal to this indenture of my love, Whose leisure I have stay’d, have given him time That to my home I will no more return, To land his legions all as soon as I; Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France, His marches are expedient to this town, Together with that pale, that white-faced shore, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides | With him along is come the mother-queen, And coops from other lands her islanders, An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife; Even till that England, hedged in with the main, | With her her niece, the Lady Blanch of Spain; That water-walled bulwark, still secure With them a bastard of the king’s deceased ; And confident from foreign purposes, And all the unsettled humours of the land, Even till that utmost corner of the west Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, Salute thee for her king: till then, fair boy, With ladies’ faces and fierce dragons’ spleens, Will I not think of home, but follow arms. Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Const. O, take his mother’s thanks, a widow’s | Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, thanks, To make a hazard of new fortunes here: — Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength | In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits To make a more requital to your love! Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er 277 ACT II. KING Did never float upon the swelling tide, To do offence and scath in Christendom. [Drum beats. The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand, To parley or to fight; therefore prepare. kk. Phi. How much unlook’d for is this expedition ! Aust. By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence; For courage mounteth with occasion: Let them be welcome then; we are prepared. Enter King John, Elinor, Blanch, the Bastard, Lords, and forces. Kk. John. Peace be to France, if France in peace Our just and lineal entrance to our own; [permit If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven, Whiles we, God’s wrathful agent, do correct Their proud contempt that beats His peace to heaven. kK. Phi. Peace be to England, if that war return From France to England, there to live in peace. England we love; and for that England’s sake With burden of our armour here we sweat. This toil of ours should be a work of thine; But thou from loving England art so far, That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king, Cut off the sequence of posterity, Out-faced infant state and done a rape Upon the maiden virtue of the crown. Look here upon thy brother Geffrey’s face ; These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his: This little abstract doth contain that large Which died in Geffrey, and the hand of time Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume. That Geffrey was thy elder brother born, And this his son; England was Geffrey’s right And this is Geffrey’s: in the name of God How comes it then that thou art call’d a king, When living blood doth in these temples beat, Which owe the crown that thou o’ermasterest ? K. John. From whom hast thou this great com- mission, France, 7 To draw my answer from thy articles ? ix. Phi. From that supernal judge, that stirs good in any breast of strong authority, [thoughts To look into the blots and stains of right: that judge hath made me guardian to this boy: Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong And by whose help I mean to chastise it. K. John. Alack, thou dost usurp authority. kk. Phi. Excuse; it is to beat usurping down. Eli. Who is it thou dost call usurper, France ? Const. Let me make answer; thy usurping son. Eli. Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king, That thou mayst be a queen, and check the world! Const. My bed was ever to thy son as true As thine was to thy husband; and this boy Liker in feature to his father Geifrey Than thou and John in manners; being as like AS rain to water, or devil to his dam. My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think His father never was so true begot: It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother. Eli. There’s a good mother, boy, that blots thy father. [blot thee. Const. There’s a good grandam, boy, that would Aust. Peace! Bast. Hear the crier. Aust. What the devil art thou ? Bast. One that will play the devil, sir, with you, An a’ may catch your hide and you alone: You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard: Ill smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right; Sirrah, look to ’t; i’ faith, I will, i’ faith. Blanch. O, well did he become that lion’s robe That did disrobe the lion of that robe! Lend 27 JOHN. Bast. It lies as sightly on the back of him As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass: But, ass, Ill take that burthen from your back, Or lay on that shall make your shoulders erack. Aust. What cracker is this same that deais our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath ? Phi. Lewis, determine what we shall do straight. fence. Lew. Women and fools, break off your confer- King John, this is the very sum of all; England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, In right of Arthur do I claim of thee: Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms? ik. John. My life as soon: I do defy thee, France. Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand; And out of my dear love Ill give thee more Than e’er the coward hand of France can win: Poe thee, boy. ili SCENET,. : Come to thy grandam, child. Const. Do, child, go to it grandam, child; Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig: There ’s a good grandam. Arth. Good my mother, peace! I would that I were low laid in my graye: I am not worth this coil that ’s made for me. Eli. His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps. for no! Const. Now shame upon you, whether she does His grandam’s wrongs, and not his mother’s shames, Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee; [eyes, Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be bribed To do him justice and revenge on you. Eli. Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth! [earth ! Const. Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and Call not me slanderer; thou and thine usurp The dominations, royalties and rights Of this oppressed boy: this is thy eld’st son’s son, Infortunate in nothing but in thee: Thy sins are visited in this poor child; The canon of the law is laid on him, Being but the second generation Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb. kK. John. Bedlam, have done. Const. I have but this to say, That he is not only plagued for her sin, But God hath made her sin and her the plague On this removed issue, plagued for her And with her plague; her sin his injury, Her injury the beadle to her sin, All punish’d in the person of this child, And all for her; a plague upon her! Eli. Thou unadvised scold, I can produce A will that bars the title of thy son. [will ; Const. Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked A woman’s will; a canker’d grandam’s will! kK. Phi. Peace, lady! pause, or be more temper- It ill-beseems this presence to cry aim [ate: To these ill-tuned repetitions. Some trumpet summon hither to the walls These men of Angiers: let us hear them speak Whose title they admit, Arthur’s or John’s. Trumpet sounds. Enter certain Citizens upon the wails. First Cit. Who is it that hath warn’d us to the . kK. Phi. ’T is France, for England. [walls ? KK. John. England, for itself. You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects,— kK. Phi. You loving men of Angiers, Arthur’s subjects, Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle — Ts we For our advantage; therefore hear us rst. These flags of France, that are advanced here KING Before the eye and prospect of your town, Have hither march’d to your endamagement : The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, And ready mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation ’gainst your walls: All preparation for a bloody siege And merciless proceeding by these French Confronts your city’s eyes, your winking gates; And but for our approach those sleeping stones, That as a waist doth girdle you about, By the compulsion of their ordinance By this time from their fixed beds of lime Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made For bloody power to rush upon your peace. But on the sight of us your lawful king, Who painfully with much expedient march Have brought a countercheck before your gates, To save unscratch’d your city’s threatened cheeks, Behold, the French amazed vouchsafe a parle ; And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d in fire, To make a shaking fever in your walls, They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke, To make a faithless error in your ears: Which trust accordingly kind citizens, And let us in, your king, whose labour’d spirits, Forwearied in this action of swift speed, Crave harbourage within your city walls. kK. Phi. When [have said, make answer to us both. Lo, in this right hand, whose protection Is most divinely vow’d upon the right Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet, Son to the elder brother of this man, And king o’er him and all that he enjoys: For this down-trodden equity, we tread In warlike march these greens before your town, Being no further enemy to you Than the constraint of hospitable zeal In the relief of this oppressed child Religiously provokes. Be pleased then To pay that duty which you truly owe To him that owes it, namely this young prince: And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, Save in aspect, hath all offence seal’d up; Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven ; And with a blessed and unvex’d retire, With unhack’d swords and helmets all unbruised, We will bear home that lusty blood again Which here we came to spout against your town, And leave your children, wives and you in peace. But if you fondly pass our proffer’d offer, °T is not the roundure of your old-faced walls Can hide you from our messengers of war, Though all these English and their discipline Were harbour’d in their rude circumference. Then tell us, shall your city call us lord, In that behalf which we have challenged it ? Or shall we give the signal to our rage And stalk in blood to our possession ? [subjects: First Cit. In brief, we are the king of England ’s For him, and in his right, we hold this town. _ [in. K. John. Acknowledge then the king, and let me First Cit. That can we not; but he that proves the king, To him will we prove loyal: till that time Have weramm’d up our gates against the world. K. John. Doth not the crown of England prove . And if not that, I bring you witnesses, [the king? Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s breed ,— Bast. Bastards, and else. | K. John. To verify our title with their lives. KK. Phi. AS many and as well-born bloods as Bast. Some bastards too. [those,— KK. Phi. Stand in his face to contradict his claim. First Cit. Till you compound whose right is worthiest, We for the worthiest hold the right from both. ACT II. JOHN. SCENE I. Ke. John. Then God forgive the sin of all those That to their everlasting residence, [souls Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet, In dreadful trial of our kingdom’s king! [arms! kt. Phi. Amen, amen! Mount, chevaliers! to Bast. Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and e’er since Sits on his horseback at mine hostess’ door, [home, Teach us some fence! [Zo Aust.] Sirrah, were I at At your den, sirrah, with your lioness, I would set an ox head to your lion’s hide, And make a monster of you. Aust. Peace! no more. Bast. O, tremble, for you hear the lion roar. kK. John. Up higher to the plain; where we’ll In best appointment all our regiments. [set forth Bast. Speed then, to take advantage of the field. AK. Phi. It shall be so; and at the other hill Command the rest to stand. God and our right! [ Hxeunt. Here after excursions, enter the Herald of France, with trumpets, to the gates. I’. Her. You men of Angiers, open wide your And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in, [gates, Who by the hand of France this day hath made Much work for tears in many an English mother, Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground; Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies, Coldly embracing the discolour’d earth ; And victory, with little loss, doth play Upon the dancing banners of the French, Who are at hand, triumphantly display’d, To enter conquerors and to proclaim Arthur of Bretagne England’s king and yours. Enter English Herald, with trumpet. E. ch Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells; King John, your king and England’s, doth approach, Commander of this hot malicious day: Their armours, that march’d hence so silver-bright, Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood ; There stuck no plume in any English crest That is removed by a staff of France; Our colours do return in those same hands That did display them when we first march’d forth ; And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come Our lusty English, all with purpled hands, Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes: Open your gates and give the victors way. [behold, First Cit. Heralds, from off our towers we might From first to last, the onset and retire Of both your armies; whose equality By our best eyes cannot be censured: Blood hath bought blood and blows have answer’d blows; [fronted power : Strength match’d with strength, and power con- Both are alike; and both alike we like. One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even, We hold our town for neither, yet for both. Re-enter the two Kings, with their powers severally. K. John. France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away ? Say, shall the current of our right run on? Whose passage, vex’d with thy impediment, Shall leave his native channel and o’erswell With course disturb’d even thy confining shores, Unless thou let his silver water keep A peaceful progress to the ocean. [of blood, kK. Phi. England, thou hast not saved one drop In this hot trial, more than we of France; Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear, That sways the earth this climate overlooks, Before we will lay down our just-borne arms, [bear, ‘Well put thee down, ’gainst whom these arms we 279 ACT Il. KING JOHN. | SCENE I. Or add a royal number to the dead, Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds, Gracing the scroll that tells of this war’s loss That here come sacrifices for the field: With slaughter coupled to the name of kings. Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings. [hear. Bast. Ha, majesty! how high thy glory towers, K. John. Speak on with favour; we are bent to When the rich blood of kings is set on fire! First Cit. That daughter there of Spain, the Lady O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel; | Isnieceto England: look upon the years [Blanch, The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs; | Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid: And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men, | If lusty love should go in quest of beauty, In undetermined differences of kings. | Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch ? Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? If zealous love should go in search of virtue, Cry ‘havoc!’ kings; back to the stained field, Where should he find it purer than in Blanch ? You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits! If love ambitious sought a match of birth, Then let confusion of one part confirm Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch ? The other’s peace; till then, blows, blood and death! | Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth, K. John. Whose party dothetownsmen yet admit ? | Is the young Dauphin every way complete: K. Phi. Speak, citizens, for England; who’s your | If not complete of, say he is not she; king ? [the king. | And she again wants nothing, to name want, First Cit. The king of England, when we know | If want it be not that she is not he: kK. Phi. Know him in us, that here hold up his | He is the half part of a blessed man, right. Left to be finished by such as she; K. John. In us, that are our own great deputy, And she a fair divided excellence, And bear possession of our person here, Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you. O, two such silver currents, when they join, First Cit. A greater power than we denies all this; | Do glorify the banks that bound them in; And till it be undoubted, we do lock And two such shores to two such streams made one, Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates ; Two such controlling bounds shall you be, kings, King’d of our fears, until our fears, resolved, To these two princes, if you marry them. Be by some certain king purged and deposed. This union shall do more than battery can Bast. By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout | To our fast-closed gates; for at this match, you, kings, With swifter spleen than powder can enforce, And stand securely on their battlements, The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope, As in a theatre, whence they gape and point And give you entrance: but without this match, At your industrious scenes and acts of death. The sea enraged is not half so deaf, Your royal presences be ruled by me: Lions more confident, mountains and rocks Do like the mutines of Jerusalem, More free from motion, no, not Death himself Be friends awhile and both conjointly bend In mortal fury half so peremptory, Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town: As we to keep this city. By east and west let France and England mount Bast. Here’s a stay Their battering cannon charged to the mouths, That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl’d down | Out of his rags! Here’s a large mouth, indeed, The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city: That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and I’ld play incessantly upon these jades, Talks as familiarly of roaring lions [seas, Even till unfenced desolation As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs! Leave them as naked as the vulgar air. What cannoneer begot this lusty blood ? That done, dissever your united strengths, He speaks plain cannon fire, and smoke and bounce ; And part your mingled colours once again ; He gives the bastinado with his tongue: Turn face to face and bloody point to point; Our ears are cudgell’d; not a word of his Then, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth But buffets better than a fist of France: Out of one side her happy minion, Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words To whom in favour she shall give the day, Since I first call’d my brother’s father dad. And kiss him with a glorious victory. Eli. Son, list to this conjunction, make this match; How like you this wild counsel, mighty states ? Give with our niece a dowry large enough: Smacks it not something of the policy ? [heads, | For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie Kk. John. Now, by the sky that hangs above our Thy now unsured assurance to the crown, I like it well. France, shall we knit our powers | That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe And lay this Angiers even with the ground; The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit. Then after fight who shall be king of it ? I see a yielding in the looks of France ; Bast. An if thou hast the mettle of a king, Mark, how they whisper: urge them while their souls Being wrong’d as we are by this peevish town, Are capable of this ambition, Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery, Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath As we will ours, against these saucy walls; Of soft petitions, pity and remorse, And when that we have dash’d them to the ground, | Cool and congeal again to what it was. Why then defy each other, and pell-mell First Cit. Why answer not the double majesties Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell. This friendly treaty of our threaten’d town ? K. Phi. Let it beso. Say, where will you assault ? kk. Phi. Speak England first, that hath been for- K. John. We from the west will send destruction | To speak unto this city: what say you? [ward first Into this city’s bosom. K. John. If that the Dauphin there, thy princely Aust. I from the north. Can in this book of beauty read ‘I love,’ fson, . KER. Our thunder from the south | Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen: Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. For Anjou and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, Bast. O prudent discipline! From north to south: | And all that we upon this side the sea, Austria and France shoot in each other’s mouth: | Except this city now by us besieged, I'll stir them to it. Come, away, away! Find liable to our crown and dignity, First Cit. Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile | Shall gild her bridal bed and make her rich to stay, In titles, honours and promotions, And I shall show you peace and fair-faced league; | As she in beauty, education, blood, Win you this city without stroke or wound; Holds hand with any princess of the world. 280 KING K. Phil. What say’st thou, boy ? look in the lady’s Lew. 1 do, my lord; and in her eye I find [face. A wonder, or a wondrous miracle, The shadow of myself form’d in her eye; Which, being but the shadow of your son, Becomes a sun and makes your son a shadow: I do protest I never loved myself Till now infixed I beheld myself Drawn in the flattering table of her eye. [ Whispers with Blanch. Bast. Drawn in the flattering table of her eye! Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her brow! And quarter’d in her heart! he doth espy Himself love’s traitor: this is pity now, [be That, hang’d and drawn and quarter’d, there should In such a love so vile a lout as he. Blanch. My uncle’s will in this respect is mine: If he see aught in you that makes him like, That any thing he sees, which moves his liking, I can with ease translate it to my will; Or if you will, to speak more properly, L will enforce it easily to my love. Further I will not flatter you, my lord, That all I see in you is worthy love, Than this; that nothing do I see in you, Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge, That I can find should merit any hate. K. John. What say these young ones? What say ou, my niece ? Blanch. That she is bound in honour still to do What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say. kK. John. Speak then, prince Dauphin; can you love this lady ? Lew. Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love; For I do love her most unfeignedly. [Maine, tik. John. Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Poictiers and Anjou, these five provinces, With her to thee; and this addition more, Full thirty thousand marks of English coin. Philip of France, if thou be pleased withal, Command thy son and daughter to join hands. dik. Phi. It likes us well; young princes, close your hands. Aust. And your lips too; for I am well assured That I did so when I was first assured. Kk. Phi. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates, Let in that amity which you have made; For at Saint Mary’s chapel presently The rites of marriage shall be solemnized. Is not the Lady Constance in this troop? I know she is not, for this match made up Her presence would have interrupted much: Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows. Lew. ene is sad and passionate at your highness’ tent. ACT III. JOHN. K. Phi. And, by my faith, this league that we Will give her sadness very little cure. [have made Brother of England, how may we content This widow lady? In her right we came; Which we, God knows, have turn’d another way, To our own vantage. : Kk. John. We will heal up all; For we ll create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance; Some speedy messenger bid her repair To our solemnity: I trust we shall, If not fill up the measure of her will, Yet in some measure satisfy her so That we shall stop her exclamation. Go we, as well as haste will suffer us, To this unlook’d for, unprepared pomp. [Hxeunt all but theBastard. Bast. Mad world! mad kings! mad composition! John, to stop Arthur’s title in the whole, Hath willingly departed with a part, And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, Whom zeal and charity brought to the field As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith, That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, Who, having no external thing to lose But the word ‘ maid,’ cheats the poor maid of that, That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity, Commodity, the bias of the world, The world, who of itself is peised well, Made to run even upon even ground, Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, This sway of motion, this Commodity, Makes it take head from all indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent: And this same bias, this Commodity, This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle trance, Hath drawn him from his own determined aid, From a resolved and honourable war, To a most base and vile-concluded peace. And why rail I on this Commodity ? But for because he hath not woo’d me yet; Not that I have the power to clutch my hand, When his fair angels would salute my palm; But for my hand, as unattempted yet, Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith upon commodity, Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee. SCENE I. [ Hartt. We O78 Dae 0 8 Be SCENE I.—The French King’s pavilion. Enter Constance, Arthur, and Salisbury. Const. Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace! False blood to false blood join’d! gone to be friends! Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those prov- inces ? It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard ; Be well advised, tell o’er thy tale again: It cannot be; thou dost but say ’t is so: I trust I may not trust thee; for thy word Is but the vain breath of a common man: Believe me, I do not believe thee, man; { have a king’s oath to the contrary. Thon shalt be punish’d for thus frighting me, For I am sick and capable of fears, Oppress’d with wrongs and therefore full of fears, A widow, husbandless, subjeet to fears, A woman, naturally born to fears; And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, With my vex’d spirits I cannot take a truce, But they will quake and tremble all this day. What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head ? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? herd What means that hand upon that breast of thine ? Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, Like a proud river peering o’er his bounds ? Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words ? Then speak again; not all thy former tale, But this one word, whether thy tale be true. 281 KING A ODER Sal. As true as I believe you think them false That give you cause to prove my saying true. Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die, And let belief and life encounter so As doth the fury of two desperate men Which in the very meeting fall and die. Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou ? France friend with England, what becomes of me? | Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight: This news hath made thee a most ugly man. Sal. What other harm have I, good lady, done, But spoke the harm that is by others done ? Const. Which harm within itself so heinous is As it makes harmful all that speak of it. Arth. I do beseech you, madam, be content. Const. If thou,that bid’st me be content,wert grim, Ugly and slanderous to thy mother’s womb, Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, Patch’d with foul moles and eye-offending marks, { would not care, I then would be content, For then I should not love thee, no, nor thou Become thy great birth nor deserve a crown. But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join’d to make thee great: Of Nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O, She is corrupted, changed and won from thee; She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, And with her golden hand hath pluck’d on France To tread down fair respect of sovereignty, And made his majesty the bawd to theirs. France is a bawd to Fortune and King John, That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John! Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn ? Envenom him with words, or get thee gone And leave those woes alone which I alone Am bound to under-bear. Sal. I may not go without you to the kings. Pardon me, madam, (thee: Const. Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. To me and to the state of my great grief Let kings assemble; for my grief ’s so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. [Seats herself on the ground. Enter King John, King Philip, Lewis, Blanch, Elinor, the Bastard, Austria, and Attendants. Ke. Phi. ’T is true, fair daughter; and this blessed Ever in France shall be kept festival: [day To solemnize this day the glorious sun Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, Turning with splendour of his precious eye The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold: The yearly course that brings this day about Shall never see it but a holiday. Const. A wicked day, and not a holy day! [Rising. What hath this day deserved ? what hath it done, That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar ? Nay, rather turn this day out of the week, This day of shame, oppression, perjury, Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child Pray that their burthens may not fall this day, Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross’d: But on this day let seamen fear no wreck; No bargains break that are not this day made: This day, all things begun come to ill end, Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change! K. Phi. By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause To curse the fair proceedings of this day: Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty ? 22 JOHN.’ Const. You have beguiled me with a counterfeit SCENE I. _ Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d and tried, Const. O,if thou teach me to believe this sorrow, | C You came in arms to spill mine enemies’ blood, Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn ; But now in arms you strengthen it with yours: The grappling vigour and rough frown of war Is cold in amity and painted peace, And our oppression hath made up this league. Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings! A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens! | Let not the hours of this ungodly day _ Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset, Set armed discord *twixt these perjured kings! Hear me, O, hear me! Aust. Lady Constance, peace! Const. War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war. O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou Thou little valiant, great in villany! [coward ! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou fortune’s champion that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! thou art perjured too, And soothest up greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear Upon my party | Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side, Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune and thy strength, And dost thou now fall over to my foes ? Thou wear a lion’s hide! doff it for shame, And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs. Aust. O, that a man should speak those words to me! {limbs. Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant Aust. Thou darest not say so, villain, for thy life. Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs. [self. kk. John. We like not this; thou dost forget thy- Enter Pandulph. Kk. Phi. Here comes the holy legate of the pope. Pand. Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven! To thee, King John, my holy errand is. I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal, And from Pope Innocent the legate here, Do in his name religiously demand Why thou against the church, our holy mother, So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce Keep Stephen Langton, chosen archbishop Of Canterbury, from that holy see? This, in our foresaid holy father’s name, Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee. kk. John. What earthy name to interrogatories Can task the free breath of a sacred king ? Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name So slight, unworthy and ridiculous, To charge me to an answer, as the pope. Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England Add thus much more, that no Italian priest Shall tithe or toll in our dominions; But as we, under heaven, are supreme head, So under Him that great supremacy, Where we do reign, we will alone uphold, Without the assistance of a mortal hand: So tell the pope, all reverence set apart To him and his usurp’d authority. [this. Kk. Phi. Brother of England, you blaspheme in K. John. Though you and all the kings of Chris- tendom Are led so grossly by this meddling priest, Dreading the curse that money may buy out; And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust, Purchase corrupted pardon of a man, Who in that sale sells pardon from himself, Though you and all the rest so grossly led KING This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish, Yet I alone, alone do me oppose Against the pope and count his friends my foes. Pand. Then, by the lawful power that I have, Thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate: And blessed shall he be that doth revolt From his allegiance to an heretic; And meritorious shall that hand be call’d, Canonized and worshipp’d as a saint, That takes away by any secret course Thy hateful life. Const. O, lawful let it be That I have room with Rome to curse awhile! Good father cardinal, cry thou amen To my keen curses; for without my wrong There is no tongue hath power to curse him right. Pand. There’s law and warrant, lady, for my curse. [right, Const. And for mine too: when law can do no Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong: Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, For he that holds his kingdom holds the law; Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, How can the law forbid my tongue to curse ? Pand. Philip of France, on peril of a curse, Let go the hand of that arch-heretic; And raise the power of France upon his head, Unless he do submit himself to Rome. Eli. Look’st thou pale, France? do not let go thy hand. [pent, Const. Look to that, devil; lest that France re- And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul. Aust. King Philip, listen to the cardinal. Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant limbs. Aust. Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because — Bast. Your breeches best may carry them. K. John. Philip, what say’st thou to the cardinal ? Const. What should he say, but as the cardinal ? Lew. Bethink you, father; for the difference Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome, Or the light loss of England for a friend: Forego the easier. Blanch. That ’s the curse of Rome. Const. O Lewis, stand fast! the devil tempts thee In likeness of a new untrimmed bride. [here Blanch. The Lady Constance speaks not from her But from her need. [faith, Const. O, if thou grant my need, Which only lives but by the death of faith, That need must needs infer this principle, That faith would live again by death of need. O then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up; Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down! [this. King J. The king is moved, and answers not to Const. O, be removed from him, and answer well! Aust. Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt. Bast. Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most sweet lout. [Say. K. Phi. I am perplex’d, and know not what to Pand. What canst thou say but will perplex thee If thou stand excommunicate and cursed? [more, KK. Phi. Good reverend father, make my person AGT I1l. yours, And tell me how you would bestow yourself. This royal hand and mine are newly knit, And the conjunction of our inward souls Married in league, coupled and link’d together With all religious strength of sacred vows; The latest breath that gave the sound of words Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love Between our kingdoms and our royal selves, And even before this truce, but new before, No longer than we well could wash our hands To clap this royal bargain up of peace, Heaven knows, they were besmear’d and overstain’d J OLN. SCENE I. With slaughter’s pencil, where revenge did paint The fearful difference of incensed kings: And shall these hands, so lately purged of blood, So newly join’d in love, so strong in both, Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet ? Play fast and loose with faith ? so jest with heaven, Make such unconstant children of ourselves, As now again to snatch our palm from paim, Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed Of smiling peace to march a bloody host, And make a riot on the gentle brow Of true sincerity? O, holy sir, My reverend father, let it not be so! Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest To do your pleasure and continue friends. Pand. All form is formless, order orderiess, Save what is opposite to England’s love. Therefore to arms! be champion of our church, Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse, A mother’s curse, on her revolting son. France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue, A chafed lion by the mortal paw, A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold. ik. Phi. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith, Pand. So makest thou faith an enemy to faith ; And like a civil war set’st oath to oath, Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform’d, That is, to be the champion of our church! What since thou sworest is sworn against thyself And may not be performed by thyself, For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss Is not amiss when it is truly done, And being not done, where doing tends to ill, The truth is then most done not doing it: The better act of purposes mistook Is to mistake again; though indirect, Yet indirection thereby grows direct, And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire Within the scorched veins of one new-burn’d. It is religion that doth make vows kept; But thou hast sworn against religion, [swear’st, By what thou swear’st against the thing thou And makest an oath the surety for thy truth Against an oath: the truth thou art unsure To swear, swears only not to be forsworn ; Else what a mockery should it be to swear! But thou dost swear only to be forsworn ; And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear. Therefore thy later vows against thy first Is in thyself rebellion to thyself; And better conquest never canst thou make Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts Against these giddy loose suggestions: Upon which better part our prayers come in, If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know The peril of our curses light on thee So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, But in despair die under their black weight. Aust. Rebellion, flat rebellion ! Bast. Will’t not be? Will not a calf’s-skin stop that mouth of thine ? Lew. Father, to arms! Blanch Upon thy wedding-day ? ‘| Against the blood that thou hast married ? What, shall our feast be kept with slaughter’d men ? Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums, Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp ? O husband, hear me! ay, alack, how new Is husband in my mouth! even for that name, Which till this time my tongue did ne’er pronounce, Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms Against mine uncle. Const. O, upon my knee, Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee, 283 KING alter not the doom ACT III. Thou virtuous Dauphin Forethought by heaven { may Blanch. Now shall I see thy love: what motive | Be stronger with thee than the name of wife? Const. That which upholdeth him that thee up- holds, His honour: O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour! Lew. I muse your majesty doth seem so cold, | When such profound respects do pull you on. Pand. I will denounce a curse upon his head. kK. Phi. Thou shalt not need. England, I will | fall from thee. Const. O fair return of banish’d majesty! Eli. O foul reyolt of French inconstancy! K. John. France, thou shalt rue this hour within | this hour. [Time, | Bast. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue. Blanch. The sun’s o’ercast with blood: fair day, adieu! Which is the side that I must go withal ? Iam with both: each army hath a hand; And in their rage, I having hold of both, They whirl asunder and dismember me. Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win; Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose; Father, I may not wish the fortune thine; Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive: Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose; Assured loss before the match be play’d. Lew. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies. Blanch. There where my fortune lives, there my life dies. K. John. Cousin, go draw our puissance together. | Hxit Bastard. France, [am burn’d up with inflaming wrath; A rage whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest-valued blood, of France. KK. Phi. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire: Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy. kK. John. No more than he that threats. let ’s hie! SCENE II.— The same. Alarums, excursions. Enter the Bastard, with Aus- tria’s head. _ Bast. Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous Some airy devil hovers in the sky [hot ; And pours down mischief. Austria’s head lie there, While Philip breathes. Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert. KK. John. Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up; My mother is assailed in our tent, And ta’en, I fear. Bast. My lord, I rescued her; Her highness is in safety, fear you not: But on, my liege; for very little pains Will bring this labour to an happy end. SCENE III.— The same. Alarums, excursions, retreat. Enter King John, Eli- nor, Arthur, the Bastard, Hubert, and Lords. KK. John. [To Elinor]So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind [sad : So strongly guarded. [To Arthur] Cousin, look not Thy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will As dear be to thee as thy father was. Arth. O, this will make my mother die with grief! K. John. | To the Bastard] Cousin, away for Eng- Jand! haste before: And, ere cur coming, see thou shake the bags 284 To arms [ Hxeunt. Plains near Angiers. [ Hxeunt. JOHN. Of hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels Set at liberty: the fat ribs of peace Must by the hungry now be fed upon: Use our commission in his utmost force. [back, Bast. Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me When gold and silver becks me to come on. I leave your highness. Grandam, I will pray, If ever I remember to be holy, SCENE III. _ For your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand. Eli. Farewell, gentle cousin. K. John. Coz, farewell. [Exit Bastard. Eli. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word. K. ie . Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hu- ert, We owe thee much! within this wall of flesh There is a soul counts thee her creditor And with advantage means to pay thy love: And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say, But I will fit it with some better time. By heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed To say what good respect I have of thee. Hub. I am much bounden to your majesty. K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet, But thou shalt have; and creep time ne’er so slow, Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. I had a thing to say, but let it go: The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the world, Is all too wanton and too full of gawds To give me audience: if the midnight bell Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, Sound on into the drowsy race of night; If this same were a churchyard where we stand, And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs, Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, Had baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick, Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, A passion hateful to my purposes, Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, Hear me without thine ears, and make reply Without a tongue, using conceit alone, Without eyes, ears and harmful sound of words; Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, I would inte thy bosom pour my thoughts: But, ah, I will not! yet I love thee well; And, by my troth, I think thou lovest me well. Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake, Though that my death were adjunct to my act By heaven, I would do it. K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst ? Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend, He is a very serpent in my way; And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread, He lies before me: dost thou understand me? Thou art his keeper. Hub. And I ll keep him so, That he shall not offend your majesty. K. John. Death. Hub. My lord? K. John. A grave. Hub. He shall not live. K. John. Enough. I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee; Well, Ill not say what I intend for thee: Remember. Madam, fare you well: 1 ’ll send those powers o’er to your majesty. Eli. My blessing go with thee! Kk, John. For England, cousin, go; Hubert shall be your man, attend on you With all true duty. On towards Calais, ho! [ Hxeunt. ef Z Q qa e) en 2 | > 8 Oo Q io) 2) 1) eee blac’ 4 O 1 ee 1 ot ‘a fl; << MMe i L& yy % Z a cr raticzh SS YEE: GHEE: A 1 4 iM Y f i, y : ——— eee ee ie . I} aah L \ sx = = ss =z f > =~ ) = — = = = 7 == Ae ae Se = II f Ag tier l RH aI) } . iM = ao com, iif) Y 5) _ Of any kindred action like to this ? KING SCENE IV.—The same. The French King’s tent. Enter King Philip, Lewis, Pandulph, and Attendants. K. Phi. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood, A whole armado of convicted sail Is seatter’d and disjoin’d from fellowship. Pand. Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well. Kk. Phi. What can go well, when we have run so Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost ? fill ? Arthur ta’en prisoner ? divers dear friends slain ? And bloody England into England gone, O’erbearing interruption, spite of France ? Lew. What he hath won, that hath he fortified : So hot a speed with such advice disposed, Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, Doth want example: who hath read or heard [praise, K. Phi. Well could I bear that England had this So we could find some pattern of our shame. ACT III. Enter Constance. Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul; Holding the eternal spirit, against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath. I prithee, lady, go away with me. Const. Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace. K. Phi. Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance! Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress, Death, death; O amiable lovely death! Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness! Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, Thou hate and terror to prosperity, And I will kiss thy detestable bones And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows And ring these fingers with thy household worms And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust And be a carrion monster like thyself: Come, grin on me, and [ will think thou smilest And buss thee as thy wife. Misery’s love, O, come to me! Kk. Phi: O fair affliction, peace! Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry: O, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world ; And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation. Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow. Const. Thou art not holy to belie me so; tam not mad: this hair I tear is mine; My name is Constance; I was Geffrey’s wife; Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost: I am not mad: I would to heaven I were! For then, ’t is like I should forget myself: O, if I could, what grief should I forget! Preach some philosophy to make me mad, And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal; For being not mad but sensible of grief, My reasonable part produces reason How I may be deliver’d of these woes And teaches me to kill or hang myself : If I were mad, I should forget my son, Or madly think a babe of clouts were he: Lam not mad; too well, too well I feel The different plague of each calamity. K. Phi. Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs! Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends Do glue themselves in sociable grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity. Const. To England, if you will. 8 ag Bind up your hairs. J OFN. Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it ? I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud ‘O that these hands could so redeem my son, As they have given these hairs their liberty!’ But now I envy at their liberty, And will again commit them to their bonds, Because my poor child is a prisoner. And, father cardinal, I have heard you say: That we shall see and know our friends in heaven. If that be true, I shall see my boy again; For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born. But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek And he will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit, And so he ’ll die; and, rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him: therefore, never, never Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. Const. He talks to me that never had a son. kk. Phi. You are as fond of grief as of your child. Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do. I will not keep this form upon my head, When there is such disorder in my wit. SCENE Ivy. | O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure! [Hzitt. kk, Phi. I fear some outrage, and I ll some wits Lew. There’s nothing in this world can make me Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale [joy : Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil’d the sweetworld’s taste, That it yields nought but shame and bitterness. Pand. Before the curing of a strong disease, - Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest; evils that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil: What have you lost by losing of this day? Lew. All days of glory, joy and happiness. Pand. If you had won it, certainly you had. No, no; when fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threatening eye. °T is strange to think how much King John hath lost In this which he accounts so clearly won: Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner ? Lew. As heartily as he is glad he hath him. Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your blood. Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit ; For even the breath of what I mean to speak Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub, Out of the path which shall directly lead Thy foot to England’s throne; and therefore mark. John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be That, whiles warm life plays in that infant’s veins, The misplaced John should entertain an hour, One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest. A sceptre snatch’d with an unruly hand Must be as boisterously maintain’d as gain’d ; And he that stands upon a slippery place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up: That John may stand,then Arthur needs must fall; So be it, for it cannot be but so. [fall ? Lew. But what shall I gain by young Arthur’s Pand. You, inthe right of Lady Blanch your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did. Lew. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. 285 ACT IV. KING JOHN. ~ SCENE I, Pand. How green you are and fresh in this old | Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts world! John lays you plots; the times conspire with you; For he that steeps his safety in true blood Shall find but bloody safety and untrue. This act so evilly born shall cool the hearts Of all his people and freeze up their zeal, That none so small advantage shall step forth To check his reign, but they will cherish it; No natural exhalation in the sky, No scope of nature, no distemper’d day, No common wind, no customed event, But they will pluck away his natural cause And call them meteors, prodigies and signs, Abortives, presages and tongues of heaven, Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John. Lew. May be he will not touch young Arthur’s life, But hold himself safe in his prisonment. Pand. O,sir, when he shall hear of your approach, Of all his people shall revolt from him And kiss the lips of unacquainted change And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath Out of the bloody fingers’ ends of John. Methinks I see this hurly all on foot: And, O, what better matter breeds for you Than I have named! The bastard Faulconbridge Is now in England, ransacking the church, Offending charity: if but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a call To train ten thousand English to their side, Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, Go with me to the king: ’t is wonderful What may be wrought out of their discontent, Now that their souls are topful of offence. For England go: I will whet on the king. [go: Lew. Strong reasons make strong actions: let us If that young Arthur be not gone already, If you say ay, the king will not say no. { Event. GD TV: SCENE I.— A room in a castle. Arth. And will you? : Hub. And [I wiil. Enter Hubert and Executioners. Arth. Have you the heart? When your hea Hub. Heat me these irons hot ; and look thou stand did but ache, Within the arras: when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, And bind the boy which you shall find with me Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. First Exec. 1 hope your warrant will bear out the eed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to ’t. [Hxeunt Hxecutioners. Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter Arthur. Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince, having so great a title To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. Arth. Mercy on me! Methinks no body should be sad but I: Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only tor wantonness. By my christendom, So Ll were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me: He is afraid of me and I of him: Is it my fault that I was Geffrey’s son ? No, indeed, is *t not; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Hub. [Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent He will awake my mercy which lies dead: prate Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. [day: Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to- In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might sit all night and wateh with you: I warrant I love you more than you do me. Hub. [Aside] His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur. . [Showing a paper. [Aside] How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. Can you not read it? is it not fair writ ? Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect : Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? Hub. Young boy, I must. 286 I knit my handkercher about your brows, The best I had, a princess wrought it me, And I did never ask it you again ; And with my hand at midnight held your head, And like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheer’d up the heavy time, [grief ?’ Saying,‘ What lack you?’ and ‘ Where lies your Or ‘ What good love may I perform for you ?’ Many a poor man’s son would have lien still And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love And call it cunning: do, an if you will: If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes that never did nor never shall So much as frown on you. Hub. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears And quench his fiery indignation Even in the matter of mine innocence; Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron ? An if an angel should have come to me And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believed him,—no tongue but Hubert’s. Hub. Come forth. Re-enter Executioners, with a cord, irons, &c. Do as I bid you do. [out Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. Arth. Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angerly : Thrust but these men away, and I ’ll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. . [Stamops. ACT IV. KING JOHN. SCENE II. Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. First Exec. Iam best pleased to be from such a deed. [Exeunt Hxecutioners. Arth. Alas, I then have chid away my friend! He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart: Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Arth. Is there no remedy ? Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. Hub. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue. Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes: Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert; Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold And would not harm me. Hub. I can heat it, boy. Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with Being create for comfort, to be used [grief, In undeserved extremes: see else yourself ; There is no malice in this burning coal ; The breath of heaven has blown his spirit out And strew’d repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. An if you do, you will but make it blush And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert: Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes; And like a dog that is compell’d to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office: only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye For all the treasure that thine uncle owes: Yet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised. Hub. Peace; no more. Adieu. Your uncle must not know but you are dead ; 1’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports: And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure, That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee. Arth. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert. Hub. Silence; no more: go closely in with me: Much danger do I undergo for thee. [| Hceunt. SCENE II.— King John’s palace. Enter King John, Pembroke, Salisbury, and other Lords. kK. John. Here once again we sit, once again crown’d, And looked upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes. Pem. This ‘ once again,’ but that your highness pleased, Was once superfluous: you were crown’d before, And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off, The faiths of men ne’er stain’d with revolt; Fresh expectation troubled not the land With any long’d-for change or better state. Sal. Therefore, to be possess’d with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. Pem. But that your royal pleasure must be done, This act is as an ancient tale new told, And in the last repeating troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable. Sal. In this the antique and well noted face Of plain old form is much disfigured ; And, like a shifted wind unto a sail, It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about, Startles and frights consideration, Makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected, For putting on so new a fashion’d robe. Pem. When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their skill in covetousness ; And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch’d. Sal. To this effect, before you were new crown’d, We breathed our counsel: but it pleased your high- To overbear it, and we are all well pleased, [ness Since all and every part of what we would Doth make a stand at what your highness will. K. John. Some reasons of this double coronation I have possess’d you with and think them strong ; And more, more strong, then lesser is my fear, I shall indue you with: meantime but ask What you would have reform’d that is not well, And well shall you perceive how willingly I will both hear and grant you your requests. Pem. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these To sound the purposes of all their hearts, Both for myself and them, but, chief of all, Your safety, for the which myself and them Bend their best studies, heartily request The enfranchisement of Arthur; whose restraint Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent To break into this dangerous argument,— If what in rest you have in right you hold, Why then your fears, which, as they say, attend The steps of wrong, should move you to mew up Your tender kinsman and to choke his days With barbarous ignorance and deny his youth The rich advantage of good exercise ? That the time’s enemies may not have this To grace occasions, let it be our suit That you have bia us ask his liberty; Which for our goods we do no further ask Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, Counts it your weal he have his liberty. Enter Hubert. K. John. Let it be so: I do commit his youth To your direction. Hubert, what news with you? [Taking him apart. Pem. This isthe man should do the bloody deed ; He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine: The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his Does show the mood of a much troubled breast ; And I do fearfully believe ’t is done, What we so fear’d he had a charge to do. Sal. The colour of the king doth come and go Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds ’twixt two dreadful battles set : His passion is so ripe, it needs must break. Pem. And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence | The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death. K. John. Wecannot hold mortality’s strong hand : Good lords, although my will to give is living, The suit which you demand is gone and dead: He tells us Arthur is deceased to-night. Sal. Indeed we fear’d his sickness was past cure. Pem. Indeed we heard how near his death he was 287 KING Before the child himself felt he was sick: This must be answer’d either here or hence. K. John. Why do you bend such solemn brows on Think you I bear the shears of destiny ? [me ? Have I commandment on the pulse of life ? Sal. It is apparent foul play; and ’tis shame That greatness should so grossly offer it: So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell. Pem. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury; Ill go with thee, And find the inheritance of this poor child, His little kingdom of a forced grave. That blood which owed the breadth of all this isle, Three foot of it doth hold: bad world the while! This must not be thus borne: this will break out Yo all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt. [Hxeunt Lords. K. John. They burn in indignation. I repent: There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others’ death. AO TARY 2 Enter a Messenger. A fearful eye thou hast: where is that blood That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks ? So foul a sky clears not without a storm: Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France? Mess. From France to England. Never such a For any foreign preparation [power Was levied in the body of a land. The copy of your speed is learn’d by them; For when you should be told they do prepare, The tidings comes that they are all arrived. Kk. John. O, where hath our intelligence been drunk ? Where hath it slept? Where is my mother’s care, That such an army could be drawn in France, And she not hear of it ? Mess. My liege, her ear Is stopp’d with dust; the first of April died Your noble mother: and, as I hear, my lord, The Lady Constance in a frenzy died Three days before: but this from rumour’s tongue I idly heard; if true or false I know not. K. John. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion ! O, make a league with me, till I have pleased My discontented peers! What! mother dead! How wildly then walks my estate in France! Under whose conduct came those powers of France That thou for truth givest out are landed here? Mess. Under the Dauphin. K. John. Thou hast made me giddy With these ill tidings. Enter the Bastard and Peter of Pomfret. Now, what says the world To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff My head with more ill news, for it is full. Bast. But if you be afeard to hear the worst, Then let the worst unheard fall on your head. K. John. Bear with me, cousin; for I was amazed Under the tide: but now I breathe again Aloft the flood, and can give audience To any tongue, speak it of what it will. Bast. How I have sped among the clergymen, The sums [ have collected shall express. But as I travell’d hither through the land, I find the people strangely fantasied ; Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams, Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear: And here’s a prophet, that I brought with me From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found With many hundreds treading on his heels: To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes, That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, Ma highness should deliver up your crown. thou so? JOHN. SCENE II. | K. John. Hubert, away with him; imprison him, | And on that day at noon, whereon he says I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d. Deliver him to safety; and return, For I must use thee. [Hxit Hubert with Peter. O my gentle cousin, Hear’st thou the news abroad, who are arrived ? Bast. The French, my lord; men’s mouths are full of it: Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury, With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire, And others more, going to seek the grave Of Arthur, whom they say is kill’d to-night On your suggestion. K. John. Gentle kinsman, go, And thrust thyself into their companies: I have a way to win their loves again; Bring them before me. Bast. I will seek them out. kk. John. Nay, but make haste; the better foot O, let me have no subject enemies, {before. When adverse foreigners affright my towns With dreadful pomp of stout invasion! Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, And fly like thought from them to me again. Bast. The spirit of the time shall teach me Toes ei. K. John. Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman. Go after him; for he perhaps shall need Some messenger betwixt me and the peers; And be thou he. Mess. With all my heart, my liege. [ zit. K. John. My mother dead! Re-enter Hubert. Hub. My lord, they say five moons were seen to- Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about [night; The other four in wondrous motion. Kk. John. Five moons! Hub. Old men and beldams in the streets Do prophesy upon it dangerously : Young Arthur’s death is common in their mouths: And when they talk of him, they shake their heads And whisper one another in the ear; And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s wrist, Whilst he that hears makes fearful action, With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news; Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, Told of a many thousand warlike French That were embattailed and rank’d in Kent: Another lean unwash’d artificer Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death. K. John. Why seek’st thou to possess me with these fears ? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death ? Thy hand hath murder’d him; I had a mighty cause To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him. Hub. No had, my lord! why, did you not provoke me? K. John. It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves that take their humours for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life, And on the winking of authority To understand a law, to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns More upon humour than advised respect. Hub. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. K. John. O, when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth John. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst | Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal [so. | Witness against us to damnation! Peter. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out | How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds 288 KING Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d, uoted and sign’d to do a deed of shame, his murder had not come into my mind: But taking note of thy abhorr’d aspect, Finding thee fit for bloody villany, Apt, liable to be employ’d in danger, I faintly broke with thee of Arthur’s death; And thou, to be endeared to a king, Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. Hub. My lord, — [a pause K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head or made When I spake darkly what I purposed, Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face, As bid me tell my tale in express words, (off, Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me: But thou didst understand me by my signs And didst in signs again parley with sin; Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, And consequently thy rude hand to act The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name. Out of my sight, and never see me more! My nobles leave me; and my state is braved, Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers: Nay, in the body of this fleshly land, This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, Hostility and civil tumult reigns Between my conscience and my cousin’s death. Aub. Arm you against your other enemies, Ill make a peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine ¥s yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never enter’d yet The dreadful motion of a murderous thought ; And you have slander’d nature in my form, Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, Is yet the cover of a fairer mind Than to be butcher of an innocent child. [peers, K. John. Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the Throw this report on their incensed rage And make them tame to their obedience! Forgive the comment that my passion made Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind, And foul imaginary eyes of blood Presented thee more hideous than thou art. O, answer not, but to my closet bring The angry lords with all expedient haste. I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast. [Hxeunt. SCENE III. — Before the castle. Enter Arthur, on the walls. Arth. The wall is high, and yet will I leap down: Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not! There ’s few or none do know me: if they did, BOR EVs —_+ This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguised me quite. | I am afraid; and yet Ill venture it. If I get down, and do not break my limbs, J ll find a thousand shifts to get away: As good to die and go, as die and stay. [Leaps down. O me! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones: Heaven take my soul, and England keep my fos Dies. Enter Pembroke, Salisbury, and Bigot. Sal. Lords,I will meet him atSaint Edmundsbury: | It is our safety, and we must embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time. Pem. Who brought that letter from the cardinal ? Sal. The Count Melun, a noble lord of France; Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love Is much more general than these lines import. Big. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. Sal. Or rather then set forward; for ’t will be Two long days’ journey, lords, or ere we meet. 19 JOHN. SCENE III. Enter the Bastard. sara sts more to-day well met, distemper’d ords! The king by me requests your presence straight. Sal. The king hath dispossess’d himself of us: We will not line his thin bestained cloak - With our pure honours, nor attend the foot | That leaves the print of blood where’er it walks. Return and tell him so: we know the worst. [best. Bast. Whate’er youthink,good words,I think, were Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now. Bast. But there is little reason in your grief; Therefore ’t were reason you had manners now. Pem. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. Bast. ’T is true, to hurt his master, no man else. Sal. This is the prison. What is he lies here ? [Seeing Arthur. Pem. O death, made proud with pure and princely The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. [beauty! Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, Doth lay it open to urge on revenge. Big. Or, when he doom’d this beauty to a grave, Found it too precious-princely for a grave. Sal. Sir Richard, what think you ? have you beheld, Or have you read or heard ? or could you think ? Or do you almost think, although you see, That you do see ? could thought, without this object, Form such another? This is the very top, The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, Of murder’s arms: this is the bloodiest shame, The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage Presented to the tears of soft remorse. Pem. All murders past do stand excused in this: And this, so sole and so unmatchable, Shall give a holiness, a purity, To the yet unbegotten sin of times; And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, Exampled by this heinous spectacle. Bast. It is a damned and a bloody work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of any hand. Sal. If that it be the work of any hand! We had a kind of light what would ensue: It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand; The practice and the purpose of the king: From whose obedience I forbid my soul, Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, And breathing to his breathless excellence The incense of a vow, a holy vow, Never to taste the pleasures of the world, Never to be infected with delight, Nor conversant with ease and idleness, Till I have set a glory to this hand, By giving it the worship of revenge. Ba Our souls religiously confirm thy words. Enter Hubert. Hub. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you: Arthur doth live; the king hath sent for you. Sal. O, he is bold and blushes not at death. Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone! Hub. Iam no villain. Sal. Must I rob the law ? [Drawing his sword. Bast. Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again. Sal. Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin. Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I Say ; By heaven, I think my sword’s as sharp as yours: I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence ; Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatness and nobility. [man /? Big. Out, dunghill! darest thou brave a noble- 289 KING Hub. Not for my life: but yet I dare defend My innocent life against an emperor. Sal. Thou art a murderer. Hub. Do not prove me so; Yet Iam none: whose tongue soe’er speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. Pem. Cut him to pieces. Bast. Keep the peace, I say. Sal. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge. Bast. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury: If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, Ill strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime ; Or Ill so maul you and your toasting-iron, That you shall think the devil is come from hell. Big. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulcon- Second a villain and a murderer ? [bridge ? Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none. Big. Who kill’d this prince ? Hub. ’T is not an hour since I left him well: I honour’d him, I loved him, and will weep My date of life out for his sweet life’s loss. Sal. Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villany is not without such rheum: And he, long traded in it, makes it seem Like rivers of remorse and innocency. Away with me, all you whose souls abhor The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house; For I am stifled with this smell of sin. Big. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there! Pem. There tell the king he may inquire us out. [Hxeunt Lords. Bast. Here’s a good world! Knew you of this fair Beyond the infinite and boundless reach [work ? Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, Art thou damn’d, Hubert. Hub. Do but hear me, sir. Bast. Ha! Ill tell thee what ; That ’rt damn’d as black — nay, nothing is so black ; Thou art more deep damn’d than Prince Lucifer: ACT V. JOHN. SCENE I. There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. Hub. Upon my soul— Bast. If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair ; And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself, Put but a little water in a spoon, And it shall be as all the ocean, Enough to stifle such a villain up. I do suspect thee very grievously. Hub. If Lin act, consent, or sin of thought, Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, Let hell want pains enough to torture me. I left him well. Bast. Go, bear him in thine arms. IT am amazed, methinks, and lose my way Among the thorns and dangers of this world. How easy dost thou take all England up! From forth this morsel of dead royalty, The life, the right and truth of all this realm Is fled to heaven ! and England now is left To tug and scamble and to part by the teeth The unowed interest of proud-swelling state. Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace: Now powers from home and discontents at home Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits, As doth a raven on a sick-fall’n beast, The imminent decay of wrested pomp. Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child And follow me with speed: I ll to the king: A thousand businesses are brief in hand, And heaven itself doth frown upon the land. [ Exeunt. MOD Vv. SCENE I. — King John’s palace. Enter King John, Pandulph, and Attendants. K. John. Thus have I yielded up into your hand The circle of my glory. [Giving the crown. Pand. Take again From this my hand, as holding of the pope Your sovereign greatness and authority. [French, KK. John. Now keep your holy word: go meet the And from his holiness use all your power To stop their marches ’fore we are inflamed. Our discontented counties do revolt ; Our people quarrel with obedience, Swearing allegiance and the love of soul To stranger blood, to foreign royalty. This inundation of mistemper’d humour Rests by you only to be qualified: Then pause not; for the present time’s so sick, That present medicine must be minister’d, Or overthrow incurable ensues. [up, Pand. It was my breath that blew this tempest Upon your stubborn usage of the pope; But since you are a gentle convertite, My tongue shall hush again this storm of war And make fair weather in your blustering land. On this Ascension-day, remember well, Upon your oath of service to the pope, Go I to make the French lay down their arms. [ Exit: K. John. Is this Ascension-day? Did not the Say that before Ascension-day at noon [prophet 290 My crown I should give off? Even so I have: I did suppose it should be on constraint ; But, heaven be thank’d, it is but voluntary. Enter the Bastard. Bast. All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds But Dover castle: London hath received, [out Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers: Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone To offer service to your enemy, And wild amazement hurries up and down The little number of your doubtful friends. K. John. Would not my lords return to me again, After they heard young Arthur was alive ? Bast. They found him dead and cast into the An empty casket, where the jewel of life [streets, By some damn’d hand was robb’d and ta’en away. K. John. That villain Hubert told me he did live. Bast. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew. But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad ? Be great in act, as you have been in thought: Let not the world see fear and sad distrust Govern the motion of a kingly eye: Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; Threaten the threatener and outface the brow Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution. Away, and glister like the god of war, When he intendeth to become the field : ACT ¥. KING Show boldness and aspiring confidence. What, shall they seek the lion in his den, [there ? And fright him there? and make him tremble O, let it not be said: forage, and run To meet displeasure farther from the doors, And grapple with him ere he comes so nigh. [me, K. John. The legate of the pope hath been with And I have made a happy peace with him; And he hath promised to dismiss the powers ‘ Led by the Dauphin. Bast. O inglorious league! Shall we, upon the footing of our land, Send fair-play orders and make compromise, Insinuation, parley and base truce To arms invasive ? shall a beardless boy, A cocker’d silken wanton, brave our fields, And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil, Mocking the air with colours idly spread, And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms: Perchance the cardinal cannot make your peace; Or if he do, let it at least be said They saw we had a purpose of defence. K. be Have thou the ordering of this present ime. Bast. Away, then, with good courage! yet, I know, Our party may well meet a prouder foe. [Hxewnt. SCENE II. — The Dauphin’s camp at St. Edmundsbury. Enter, in arms, Lewis, Salisbury, Melun, Pem- broke, Bigot, and Soldiers. Lew. My Lord Melun, let this be copied out, And keep it safe for our remembrance: Return the precedent to these lords again; That, having our fair order written down, Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes, May know wherefore we took the sacrament And keep our faiths firm and inviolable. Sal. Upon our sides it never shall be broken. And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear A voluntary zeal and an unurged faith To your proceedings; yet believe me, prince, I am not glad that such a sore of time Should seek a plaster by contemn’d revolt, And heal the inveterate canker of one wound By making many. O, it grieves my soul, That I must draw this metal from my side To be a widow-maker! O, and there Where honourable rescue and defence Cries out upon the name of Salisbury ! But such is the infection of the time, That, for the health and physic of our right, We cannot deal but with the very hand Of stern injustice and confused wrong. And is ’t not pity, O my grieved friends, That we, the sons and children of this isle, Were born to see so sad an hour as this; Wherein we step after a stranger march Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up Her enemies’ ranks,—I must withdraw and weep Upon the spot of this enforced cause,— To grace the gentry of a land remote, And follow unacquainted colours here ? What, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove! That Neptune’s arms, who clippeth thee about, Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself, And grapple thee unto a pagan shore; Where these two Christian armies might combine The blood of malice in a vein of league, And not to spend it so unneighbourly ! Lew. A noble temper dost thou show in this; And great affections wrestling in thy bosom Doth make an earthquake of nobility. O, what a noble combat hast thou fought Between compulsion and a brave respect! JOHN. Let me wipe off this honourable dew, That silvery doth progress on thy cheeks: My heart hath melted at a lady’s tears, Being an ordinary inundation ; But this effusion of such manly drops, This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul, Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amazed Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven ’ Figured quite o’er with burning meteors. Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart heave away the storm: Commend these waters to those baby eyes That never saw the giant world enraged ; Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep Into the purse of rich prosperity As Lewis himself: so, nobles, shall you all, That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. And even there, methinks, an angel spake: Enter Pandulph. Look, where the holy legate comes apace, To give us warrant from the hand of heaven, And on our actions set the name of right With holy breath. Pand. Hail, noble prince of France! The next is this, King John hath reconciled Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in, That so stood out against the holy church, The great metropolis and see of Rome: Therefore thy threatening colours now wind up; And tame the savage spirit of wild war, That, like a lion foster’d up at hand, It may lie gently at the foot of peace, And be no further harmful than in show. Lew. Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back: I am too high-born to be propertied, To be a secondary at control, Or useful serving-man and instrument, To any sovereign state throughout the world. Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars Between this chastised kingdom and myself, And brought in matter that should feed this fire; And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out With that same weak wind which enkindled it. You taught me how to know the face of right, Acquainted me with interest to this land, Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart; And come ye now to tell me John hath made His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me? I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, After young Arthur, claim this land for mine; And, now it is half-conquer’d, must I back Because that John hath made his peace with Rome ? Am I Rome’s slave ? What penny hath Rome borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To underprop this action? Is’t not I That undergo this charge? who else but [, And such as to my claim are liable, Sweat in this business and maintain this war? Have I not heard these islanders shout out ‘Vive le roi!’ as I have bank’d their towns? Have I not here the best cards for the game, To win this easy match play’d for a crown ? And shall I now give o’er the yielded set ? No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said. Pand. You look but on the outside of this work. Lew. Outside or inside, I will not return Till my attempt so much be glorified As to my ample hope was promised Before I drew this gallant head of war, And cull’d these fiery spirits from the world, To outlook conquest and to win renown Even in the jaws of danger and of death. [Trumpet sounds. What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us ? 291 SCENE II. ACT VY. KING Enter the Bastard, attended. Bast. According to the fair play of the world, Let me have audience; I am sent to speak : My holy lord of Milan, from the king I come, to learn how you have dealt for him; And, as you answer, I do know the scope And warrant limited unto my tongue. Pand. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite, And will not temporize with my entreaties ; He flatly says he ’l] not lay down his arms. Bast. By all the blood that ever fury breathed, The youth says well. Now hear our English king; For thus his royalty doth speak in me. He is prepared, and reason too he should: This apish and unmannerly approach, This harness’d masque and unadvised revel, This unhair’d sauciness and boyish troops, The king doth smile at; and is well prepared To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms, From out the circle of his territories. [door, That hand which had the strength, even at your To cudgel you and make you take the hatch, To dive like buckets in concealed wells, To crouch in litter of your stable planks, To lie like pawns lock’d up in chests and trunks, To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake Even at the crying of your nation’s crow, Thinking his voice an armed Englishman ; Shall that victorious hand be feebled here, That in your chambers gave you chastisement ? No: know the gallant monarch is in arms And like an eagle o’er his aery towers, To souse annoyance that comes near his nest. And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb Of your dear mother England, blush for shame; For your own ladies and pale-visaged maids Like Amazons come tripping after drums, Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination. [peace ; Lew. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well; We hold our time too precious to be spent With such a brabbler. Pand. Give me leave to speak. Bast. No, I will speak. ew. We will attend to neither. Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war Plead for our interest and our being here. [out ; Bast. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry And so shall you, being beaten: do but start An echo with the clamour of thy drum, And even at hand a drum is ready braced That shall reverberate all as loud as thine; Sound but another, and another shall As loud as thine rattle the welkin’s ear And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder: for at hand, Not trusting to this halting legate here, Whom he hath used rather for sport than need, Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits A bare-ribb’d death, whose office is this day To feast upon whole thousands of the French. Lew. Strike up our drums, to find this danger out. Bast. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt. [ Exeunt. SCENE III.—The field of battle. Alarums. Enter King John and Hubert. K. John. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert. Hub. Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty ? K. John. This fever, that hath troubled meso long, Lies heavy on me; O, my heart is sick! 292 JOHN. SCENE IV. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulcon- Desires your majesty to leave the field [bridge, And send him word by me which way you go. K. John. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there. Mess. Be of good comfort; for the great supply That was expected by the Dauphin here, Are wreck’d three nights ago on Goodwin Sands. This news was brought to Richard but even now: The French fight coldly, and retire themselves. K. John. Ay me! this tyrant fever burns me up, And will not let me welcome this good news. Set on toward Swinstead: to my litter straight ; Weakness possesseth me, and Iam faint. [Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— Another part of the field. Enter Salisbury, Pembroke, and Bigot. Sal. I did not think the king so stored with friends. Pem. Up once again; put spirit in the French: If they miscarry, we miscarry too. Sal. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. [field. Pom. They say King John sore sick hath left the Enter Melun, wounded. Mel. Lead me to the revolts of England here. Sal. When we were happy we had other names. Pem. It is the Count Melun. Sal. Wounded to death. Mel. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold; Unthread the rude eye of rebellion And welcome home again discarded faith. Seek out King John and fall before his feet ; For if the French be lords of this loud day, He means to recompense the pains you take By cutting off your heads: thus hath he sworn And I with him, and many moe with me, Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury; Even on that altar where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love. Sal. May this be possible ? may this be true ? Mel. Have I not hideous death within my view, Retaining but a quantity of life, Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax Resolveth from his figure ’gainst the fire ? What in the world should make me now deceive, Since I must lose the use of all deceit ? Why should I then be false, since it is true That I must die here and live hence by truth ?. I say again, if Lewis do win the day, He is forsworn, if e’er those eyes of yours Behold another day break in the east: But even this night, whose black contagious breath Already smokes about the burning crest Of the old, feeble and day-wearied sun, Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire, Paying the fine of rated treachery Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, If Lewis by your assistance win the day. Commend me to one Hubert with your king: The love of him, and this respect besides, For that my grandsire was an Englishman, Awakes my conscience to confess all this. In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence From forth the noise and rumour of the field, Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts In peace, and part this body and my soul With contemplation and devout desires. Sal. We do believe thee: and beshrew my soul But I do love the favour and the form Of this most fair occasion, by the which We will untread the steps of damned flight, And like a bated and retired flood, Leaving our rankness and irregular course, ACT V. KING JOHN. SCENE VII. Stoop low within those bounds we have o’erlook’d And calmly run on in obedience Even to our ocean, to our great King John. My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence; For I do see the cruel pangs of death Right in thine eye. Away,my friends! New flight: And happy newness, that intends old right. [Hxeunt, leading off Melun. SCENE V.—The French camp. Enter Lewis and his train. Lew. The sun of heaven methought was loath to set, But stay’d and made the western welkin blush, When English measure backward their own ground In faint retire. O, bravely came we off, When with a volley of our needless shot, After such bloody toil, we bid good night ; And wound our tattering colours clearly up, Last in the field, and almost lords of it! Enter a Messenger. Mess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin ? Lew. Here: what news ? Mess. The Count Melun is slain ; the English lords By his persuasion are again fall’n off, And your supply, which you have wish’d so long, Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands. Lew. Ah, foul shrewd news! beshrew thy very I did not think to be so sad to-night [heart ! As this hath made me. Who was he that said King John did fly an hour or two before The stumbling night did part our weary powers ? Mess. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord. Lew. Well; keep good quarter and good care to- The day shall not be up so soon as I, [night : To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. [Hzeunt. SCENE VI.— An open place in the neighbourhood of Swinstead Abbey. Enter the Bastard and Hubert, severally. Hub. Who’s there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or Bast. A friend. What art thou ? [I shoot. Hub. Of the part of England. Bast. Whither dost thou go? mand Hub. What’s that to thee? why may not I de- Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine? Bast. Hubert, I think ? Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought : I will upon all hazards well believe Thou art my friend, that know’st my tongue so well. Who art thou? Bast. Who thou wilt: and if thou please, Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think I come one way of the Plantagenets. [night Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless Have done me shame: brave soldier, pardon me, That any accent breaking from thy tongue Should ’scape the true acquaintance of mine ear. Bast. Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad ? Hub. Why, here walk I in the black brow of night, To find you out. Bast. Brief, then; and what ’s the news? Hub. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, Black, fearful, comfortless and horrible. Bast. Show me the very wound of this ill news: I am no woman, I ’ll not swoon at it. Hub. The king, I fear, is poison’d by a monk: I left him almost speechless; and broke out To acquaint you with this evil, that you might The better arm you to the sudden time, Than if you had at leisure known of this. Bast. How did he take it ? who did taste to him ? Hub. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king Yet speaks and peradventure may recover. Bast. Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty ? Hub. Why, know you not ? the lords are all come Cc 3 And brought Prince Henry in their company; At whose request the king hath pardon’d them, And they are all about his majesty. Bast. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power! Ill tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, Passing these flats, are taken by the tide: These Lincoln Washes have devoured them ; Myself, well mounted, hardly have escaped. Away before: conduct me to the king; I doubt he will be dead or ere I come. [ Hxeunt. SCENE VII. — The orchard in Swinstead Abbey. Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot. P. Hen. It is too late: the life of all his blood Is touch’d corruptibly, and his pure brain, Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house, Doth by the idle comments that it makes Foretell the ending of mortality. Enter Pembroke. Pem. His highness yet doth speak, and holds be- That, being brought into the open air, [lief It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him. P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage ? [Heit Bigot. Pem. He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he sung. P. Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes In their continuance will not feel themselves. Death, having prey’d upon the outward parts, Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. ’Tis strange that death should sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. Enter Attendants, and Bigot, carrying King John in a chair. K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow- It would not out at windows nor at doors. [room,; There is so hot a summer in my bosom, That all my bowels crumble up to dust: IT ama scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up. P. Hen. How fares your majesty ? K. John. Poison’d,— ill fare — dead, forsook, cast And none of you will bid the winter come [off To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course Through my burn’d bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold. Ido notask you much, I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait And so ingrateful, you deny me that. ; P. Hen. O that there were some virtue In my That might relieve you! _[tears, KK. John. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is as a fiend confined to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood. 293 ACT V. Enter the Bastard. Bast. OQ, I am scalded with my violent motion, And spleen of speed to see your majesty ! kK. John. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye: The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn’d, And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail Are turned to one thread, one little hair: My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered ; And then all this thou seest is but a clod And module ef confounded royalty. ; Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where heaven He knows how we shall answer him ; For in a night the best part of my power, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the Washes all unwarily Devoured by the unexpected flood. [Zhe king dies. Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! my lord! but now a king, now thus. P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay ? Bast. Art thou gone so? Ido but stay behind To do the office for thee of revenge, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, As it on earth hath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres, Where be your powers? show now your mended And instantly return with me again, [faiths, To push destruction and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting land. Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels. Sal. It seems you know not, then, so much as we: The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, Hi | \ = y Me be pe, a | KING JOHN. \\ \ iI 5 ee SCENE VII. Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin, And brings from him such offers of our peace As we with honour and respect may take, With purpose presently to leave this war. Bast. He will the rather do it when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already ; For many carriages he hath dispatch’d To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the cardinal: With whom yourself, myself and other lords, If you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily. Bast. Let it be so: and you, my noble prince, With other princes that may best be spared, Shall wait upon your father’s funeral. P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be interr’d; For so he will’d it. Bast. Thither shall it then: And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state and glory of the land! To whom, with all submission, on my knee I do bequeath my faithful services And true subjection everlastingly. Sal. And the like tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore. [thanks P. Hen. I have a kind soul that would give you And knows not how to do it but with tears. Bast. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath been beforehand with our griets. This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, [rue, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us If England to itself do rest but true. [Hxeunt. ii! Hh i : {a ee Bl Pandulph.—Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow. Constance.—Thou art not holy to belie me so; : Iam not mad: this hair I tear is mine; My name is Constance; I was Geffrey’s wife; Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost: Iam not mad:—I would to Heaven, I were.—ActT III., Scene iv. THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD IL DRAMATIS PERSON 2. King Richard the Second. John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, Edmund of Langley, Duke of York, Henry, surnamed Bolingbroke, Duke of Here- ford, son to John of Gaunt; afterwards King ' Henry IV. Duke of Aumerle, son to the Duke of York. Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. Duke of Surrey. Earl of Salisbury. Lord Berkeley. Bushy, Bagot, Green, Earl of Northumberland. Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son. uncles to the King. bev to King Richard. Lord Ross. Lord Willoughby. Lord Fitzwater. Bishop of Carlisle. Abbot of Westminster. Lord Marshal. Sir Stephen Scroop. Sir Pierce of Exton. Captain of a band of Welshmen., Queen to King Richard. Duchess of York. Duchess of Gloucester. Lady attending on the Queen. Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, two Gardeners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants. SCENE — England and Wales. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lu. ] 74 G40 Died Wi SCENE I.— London. King Richard’s palace. Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, with other Nobles and Attendants. K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour’d Lan- Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, [caster, Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son, Here to make good the boisterous late appeal, Which then our leisure would not let us hear, Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? Gaunt. I have, my liege. [him, kK. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded If he appeal the duke on ancient malice; Or worthily, as a good subject should, Onsome known ground of treacheryin him? [ment, Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that argu- On some apparent danger seen in him Aim/’d at your highness, no inveterate malice. [face, K. Rich. Then call them to our presence; face to And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear The accuser and the accused freely speak : High-stomach’d are they both, and full of ire, In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. Enter Bolingbroke and Mowbray. Boling. Many years of happy days befal My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! Mow. Each day still better other’s happiness; Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap, Add an immortal title to your crown! [us, Kk. Rich. We thank you both: yet one but flatters As well appeareth by the cause you come; Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? Boling. First, heaven be the record to my speech! In the devotion of a subject’s love, Tendering the precious safety of my prince, And free from other misbegotten hate, Come I appellant to this princely presence. Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, And mark my greeting well; for what I speak My body shall make good upon this earth, Or my divine soul answer it in heaven. Thou art a traitor and a miscreant, Too good to be so and too bad to live, Since the more fair and crystal is the sky, The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. Once more, the more to aggravate the note, With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat; And wish,so please my sovereign,ere I move, [prove. What my tongue speaks my right drawn sword may Mow. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal: °T is not the trial of a woman’s war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain; The blood is hot that must be cool’d for this: Yet can I not of such tame patience boast As to be hush’d and nought at all to say: First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me From giving reins and spurs to my free speech ; Which else would post until it had return’d These terms of treason doubled down his throat. Setting aside his high blood’s royalty, And let him be no kinsman to my liege, I do defy him, and I spit at him; Call him a slanderous coward and a villain: Which to maintain I would allow him odds, And meet him, were I[ tied to run afoot Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, Or any other ground inhabitable, Where ever Englishman durst set his foot. Mean time let this defend my loyalty, By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. [gage, Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my Disclaiming here the kindred of the king, And lay aside my high blood’s royalty, Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except. 295 AGTAT: If guilty dread have left thee so much strength As to take up mine honour’s pawn, then stoop: By that and all the rites of knighthood else, Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise. Mow. I take it up; and by that sword I swear, Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder, I’]l answer thee in any fair degree, Or chivalrous design of knightly trial: And when I mount, alive may I not light, If I be traitor or unjustly fight! [charge ? K. Rich. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s It must be great that can inherit us So much as of a thought of ill in him. {it true; Boling. Look, what I speak, my life shall prove That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles In name of lendings for your highness’ soldiers, The which he hath detain’d for lewd employments, Like a false traitor and injurious villain. Besides I say and will in battle prove, Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge That ever was survey’d by English eye, That all the treasons for these eighteen years Complotted and contrived in this land [spring. Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and Further I say and further will maintain Upon his bad life to make all this good, That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester’s death, Suggest his soon-believing adversaries, And consequently, like a traitor coward, _[blood: Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries, Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth, To me for justice and rough chastisement; And, by the glorious worth of my descent, This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution soars! Thomas of Norfolk, what say’st thou to this ? Mow. O, let my sovereign turn away his face And bid his ears a little while be deaf, Till I have told this slander of his blood, How God and good men hate so foul a liar. [ears: kk. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom’s heir, As he is but my father’s brother’s son, Now, by my sceptre’s awe, I make a vow, Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize The unstooping firmness of my upright soul: He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou: Free speech and fearless I to thee allow. Mow. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest. Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais Disbursed I duly to his highness’ soldiers ; The other part reserved I by consent, For that my sovereign liege was in my debt Upon remainder of a dear account, Since last I went to France to fetch his queen: Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester’s death, I slew him not; but to my own disgrace Neglected my sworn duty in that case. For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster, The honourable father to my foe, Once did I lay an ambush for your life, A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul; But ere I last received the sacrament I did confess it, and exactly begg’d Your grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it. This is my fault: as for the rest appeal’d, It issues from the rancour of a villain, A recreant and most degenerate traitor: Which in myself I boldly will defend; And interchangeably hurl down my gage Upon this overweening traitor’s foot, To prove myself a loyal gentleman Even in the best blood chamber’d in his bosom. 296 KING | RICHARD ALT. SCENE II. In haste whereof, most heartily I pray Your highness to assign our trial day. [me ; K. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by Let ’s purge this choler without letting blood: This we prescribe, though no physician ; Deep malice makes too deep incision ; Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed ; Our doctors say this is no month to bleed. Good uncle, let this end where it begun; We’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son. Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age: Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage. K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his. Gaunt. When, Harry, when ? Obedience bids I should not bid again. _ [no boot. K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is Mow. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot. My life thou shalt command, but not my shame: The one my duty owes; but my fair name, Despite of death that lives upon my grave, To dark dishonour’s use thou shalt not have. I am disgraced, impeach’d and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander’s venom’d spear, The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breathed this poison. K. Rich. Rage must be withstood: Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame. Mow. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my And resign my gage. My dear,dearlord, [shame, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation: that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. A jewel in a ten-times-barr’d-up chest Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done: Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try; In that I live and for that will I die. [begin. kK. Rich. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you Boling. O, God defend my soul from such deep Shall I seem crest-fall’n in my father’s sight ? [sin! Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height Before this out-dared dastard? Ere my tongue Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong, Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear The slavish motive of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s face. [Exit Gaunt. K. Rich. We were not born to sue, but to com- mand ; Which since we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your lives shall answer it, At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert’s day: There shall your swords and lances arbitrate The swelling difference of your settled hate: Since we can not atone you, we shall see Justice design the victor’s chivalry. Lord marshal, command our officers at arms Be ready to direct these home alarms. | Hxeunt. SCENE II. — The Duke of Lancaster’s palace. Enter John of Gaunt with the Duchess of Gloucester. Gaunt. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock’s blood Doth more solicit me than your exclaims, ‘ To stir against the butchers of his life! But since correction lieth in those hands Which made the fault that we cannot correct, Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven ; Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads. Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur ? | Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ? Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one, Were as seven vials of his sacred blood, ACT I. Or seven fair branches springing from one root: Some of those seven are dried by nature’s course, Some of those branches by the Destinies cut; But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, One vial full of Edward’s sacred blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal root, Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor spilt, Is hack’d down, and his summer leaves all faded, By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe. [womb, Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! that bed, that That metal, that self-mould, that fashion’d thee Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest, Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent In some large measure to thy father’s death, In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, Who was the model of thy father’s life. Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair: In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter’d, Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life, Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee: That which in mean men we intitle patience Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. What shall I say ? to safeguard thine own life, The best way is to venge my Gloucester’s death. Gaunt. God’s is the quarrel ; for God’s substitute, His deputy anointed in His sight, -Hath caused his death: the which if wrongfully, Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift An angry arm against His minister. Duch. Where then, alas, may I complain myself ? bees To God, the widow’s champion and de- ence. Duch. Why, then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight: O, sit my husband’s wrongs on Hereford’s spear, That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast ! Or, if misfortune miss the first career, Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom, That they may break his foaming courser’s back, And throw the rider headlong in the lists, A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford! Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother’s wife With her companion grief must end her life. Gaunt. Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry: As much good stay with thee as go with me! Duch. te one word more: grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the empty hollowness, but weight: I take my leave before I have begun, For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done. Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York. Lo, this is all: —nay, yet depart not so; Though this be all, do not so quickly go; I shall remember more. Bid him—ah, what ? — With all good speed at Plashy visit me. Alack, and what shall good old York there see But empty lodgings and unfurnish’d walls, Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones ? And what hear there for weleome but my groans ? Therefore commend me; let him not come there, To seek out sorrow that dwells every where. Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die: The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. EHxeunt. SCENE III.— The lists at Coventry. Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke of Au- merle. Mar. My Lord Aumerle,is Harry Hereford arm’d? Aum. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in. Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet. Aum. Why,then,the champions are prepared, and For nothing but his majesty’s approach. KING RICHARD I1. [stay SCENE III. The trumpets sound, and the King enters with his nobles, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and others. When they are set, enter Mowbray in arms, defendant, with a Herald. Kk. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms: Ask him his name and orderly proceed To swear him in the justice of his cause. ’ [art Mar. In God’s name and the king’s, say who thou And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms, Against what man thou comest, and what thy quar- Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath; [{rel: As so defend thee heaven and thy valour! Mow. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of N or- Who hither come engaged by my oath — [folk ; Which God defend a knight should violate! — Both to defend my loyalty and truth To God, my king and my succeeding issue, Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me; And, by the grace of God and this mine arm, To prove him, in defending of myself, A traitor to my God, my king, and me: And as I truly fight, defend me heaven! The trumpets sound. Enter Bolingbroke, «ap- pellant, in armour, with a Herald. AK. Rich. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms, Both who he is and why he cometh hither Thus plated in habiliments of war, And formally, according to our law, Depose him in the justice of his cause. Mar. What is thy name? and wherefore comest thou hither, Before King Richard in his royal lists ? [rel ? Against whom comest thou ? and what’s thy quar- Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven! Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby Am I; who ready here do stand in arms, To prove, by God’s grace and my body’s valour, In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous, To God of heaven, King Richard and to me ; And as I truly fight, defend me heaven ! Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists, Except the marshal and such officers Appointed to direct these fair designs. [hand, Boling. Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s And bow my knee before his majesty : For Mowbray and myself are like two men That vow a long and weary pilgrimage; Then let us take a ceremonious leave And loving farewell of our several friends. __[ness, Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your high- And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave. K. Rich. We will descend and fold him in our arms. Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, So be thy fortune in this royal fight ! Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed, Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. Boling. O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gored with Mowbray’s spear: As confident as is the falcon’s flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving lord, I take my leave of you; Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle ; Not sick, although I have to do with death, But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet: O thou, the earthly author of my blood, Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up To reach at victory above my head, Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers; And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point, That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat, 297 ACT 1: And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt, Even in the lusty haviour of his son. [perous! Gaunt. God in thy good cause make thee pros- Be swift like lightning in the execution ; And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, Fall like amazing thunder on the casque Of thy adverse pernicious enemy : Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live. Boling. Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive! Mow. However God or fortune cast my lot, There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne, A loyal, just and upright gentleman: Never did captive with a freer heart Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace His golden uncontroll’d enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate This feast of battle with mine adversary. — Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, Take from my mouth the wish of happy years: As gentle and as jocund as to jest Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast. K, Rich. Farewell, my lord: securely I espy Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. Order the trial, marshal, and begin. Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, Receive thy lance; and God defend the right! Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen. Mar. Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. First Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign and himself, On pain to be found false and recreant, To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, A traitor to his God, his king and him; And dares him to set forward to the fight. Sec. Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himself and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, To God, his sovereign and to him disloyal; Courageously and with a free desire Attending but the signal to begin. Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set forward, com- batants. A charge sounded. Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down. K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears And both return back to their chairs again: Withdraw with us: and let the trumpets sound While we return these dukes what we decree. , [A long flourish. Draw near, And list what with our council we have done. For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soil’d With that dear blood which it hath fostered ; And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of civil wounds plough’d up with neighbours’ sword ; And for we think the eagle-winged pride Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With rival-hating envy, set on you To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep ; Which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums, With harsh-resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace And make us wade even in our kindred’s blood ; Therefore, we banish you our territories: You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, Till twice five summers have enrich’d our fields Shall not regreet our fair dominions, But tread the stranger paths of banishment. _ [be, Boling. Your will be done: this must my comfort That sun that warms you here shall shine on me; 298 KING RICHARD I1. | SCENE III- And those his golden beams to you here lent Shall point on me and gild my banishment. Kk. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom Which I with some unwillingness pronounce: The sly slow hours shall not determinate The dateless limit of thy dear exile; The hopeless word of ‘ never to return’ Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life. Mow. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, | And all unlook’d for from your highness’ mouth: A dearer merit, not so deep a maim As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your highness’ hands. The language I have learned these forty years, My native English, now I must forego: And now my tongue’s use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up, Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony: Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue, Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips; And dull unfeeling barren ignorance Is made my gaoler to attend on me. I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now: What is thy sentence then but speechless death, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath ? K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate: After our sentence plaining comes too late. [light, Mow. Then thus I turn me from my country’s To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. A. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with thee. Lay on our royal sword your banish’d hands; Swear by the duty that you owe to God— Our part therein we banish with yourselyes— To keep the oath that we administer: You never shall, so help you truth and God! Embrace each other’s love in banishment ; Nor never look upon each other’s face; Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile This louring tempest of your home-bred hate ; Nor never by advised purpose meet To plot, contrive, or complot any ill *Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. Boling. I swear. Mow. And I, to keep all this. Boling. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy :— By this time, had the king permitted us, One of our souls had wander’d in the air, Banish’d this frail sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banish’d from this land: Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm; Since thou hast far to go, bear not along The clogging burthen of a guilty soul. Mow. No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heaven banish’d as from hence! But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know; And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue. Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray; Save back to England, all the world’s my ware ait. K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect Hath from the number of his banish’d years : Pluck’d four away. [Zo Boling.] Six frozen win: ters spent, Return with welcome home from banishment. Boling. How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging winters and four wanton springs End in a word: such is the breath of kings. Gaunt. I thank my liege, that in regard of me He shortens four years of my son’s exile: But little vantage shall I reap thereby ; For, ere the six years that he hath to spend ACT I. KING RICHARD II. SCENE IV. Can change their moons and bring their times about, My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light Shall be extinct with age and endless night; My inch of taper will be burnt and done, And blindfold death not let me see my son. __[live. K. Rich. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to Gaunt. But not a minute, king, that thou canst ive: Byori my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage ; Thy word is current with him for my death, But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath. Kk. Rich. Thy son is banish’d upon good advice, W hereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave: Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lour ? Gaunt. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion You urged meas a judge; but Ihadrather [sour. You would have bid me argue like a father. O, had it been a stranger, not my child, To smooth his fault I should have been more mild: A partial slander sought I to avoid, And in the sentence my own life destroy’d. Alas, I look’d when some of you should say, I was too strict to make mine own away; But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue Against my will to do myself this wrong. A. Rich. Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [so: [Flourish. Hxeunt King Richard and train. Aum. Cousin, farewell; what presence must not know, From where you do remain let paper show. Mar. My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride, As far as land will let me, by your side. [words, Gaunt. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends ? Boling. I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue’s office should be prodigal To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart. Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. Boling. Joy absent, grief is present for that time. Geur. What is six winters? they are quickly | gone. : [ten. Boling. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour Gaunt. Call it a travel that thou takest for pleas- ure. Boling. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage. Gaunt. The sullen passage of thy weary steps Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set The precious jewel of thy home return. Boling. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make Will but remember me what a deal of world I wander from the jewels that I love. Must I not serve a long apprenticehood To foreign passages, and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief ? Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus; There is no virtue like necessity. Think not the king did banish thee, But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit, Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour And not the king exiled thee; or suppose Devouring pestilence hangs in our air And thou art flying to a fresher clime: Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou comest : Suppose the singing birds musicians, [strewed, The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more Than a delightful measure or a dance ; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it ligiit. Boling. O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast ? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat ? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse: Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore. Gaunt. Come, come, my son, Ill bring thee on thy way: Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay. Boling. Then England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu; My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet! Where’er I wander, boast of this I can, Though banish’d, yet a trueborn Englishman. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— The court. Enter the King, with Bagot and Green at one door; and the Duke of Aumerle at another. K. Rich. We did observe. Cousin Aumerle, How far brought you high Hereford on his way ? Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so, But to the next highway, and there I left him. k. Rich. And say, what store of parting tears were shed ? [wind, Aum. Faith, none for me; except the northeast Which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awaked the sleeping rheum, and so by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a tear. K. Rich. What said our cousin when you parted with him ? Aum. ‘ Farewell; ’ And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should so profane the word, that taught me craft To counterfeit oppression of such grief That words seem’d buried in my sorrow’s grave. Marry, would the word ‘farewell’ have lengthen’d And added years to his short banishment, [hours He should have had a volume of farewells; But since it would not, he had none of me. Kk. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin; but ’t is doubt, When time shall call him home from banishment, Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green Observed his courtship to the common people; How he did seem to dive into their hearts With humble and familiar courtesy, What reverence he did throw away on slaves, Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles And patient underbearing of his fortune, As ’t were to banish their affects with him. Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench ; A brace of draymen bid God speed him well And had the tribute of his supple knee, With‘ Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends; ’ As were our England in reversion his, And he our subjects’ next degree in hope. Green. Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts. Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland, Expedient manage must be made, my liege, Ere further leisure yield them further means For their advantage and your highness’ loss. K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war: And, for our coffers, with too great a court And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, © We are inforced to farm our royal realm ; The revenue whereof shall furnish us For our affairs in hand: if that come short, Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters ; Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich 299 ACTII. KING RICHARD II. SCENE I. They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold And send them after to supply our wants; For we will make for Ireland presently. Enter Bushy. Bushy, what news ? K. Rich. Where lies he? Bushy. At Ely House. Kk. Rich. Now put it, God, in the physician’s mind To help him to his grave immediately ! The lining of his coffers shall make coats flord, | To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my | Come, gentlemen, let ’s all go visit him: Suddenly taken; and hath sent post haste To entreat your majesty to visit him. Pray God we may make haste, and come too late! All, Amen. mt. Pe OG Bei bat: SCENE I.— Hly House. Enter John of Gaunt sick, with the Duke of York, &c. Gaunt. Will the king come, that I may breathe my In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth? [last York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. [breath; Gaunt. O, but they say the tongues of dying men Enforce attention like deep harmony: vain, Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain. He that no more must say is listen’d more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to lose; More Ns men’s ends mark’d than their lives before: The setting sun, and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past: Though Richard my life’s counsel would not hear, My death’s sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. York. No; it isstopp’d with other flattering sounds, As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond, Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound The open ear of youth doth always listen; Report of fashions in proud Italy, Whose manners still our tardy apish nation Limps after in base imitation. Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity — So it be new, there ’s no respect how vile— That is not quickly buzz’d into his ears ? Then all too late comes counsel to be heard, Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard. Direct not him whose way himself will choose: [lose. ’T is breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new inspired And thus expiring do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, For violent fires soon burn out themselves; Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder: Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, land, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Eng- This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s son, 300 This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, | Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it, Like to a tenement or pelting farm: England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds: That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, How happy then were my ensuing death! Enter King Richard and Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, and Willoughby. York. Theking is come: deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts being raged do rage the more. ueen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster ? ¢. ich. What comfort, man? how is’t with aged Gaunt ? Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composition | Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old: Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt ? For sleeping England long time have I watch’d ; Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt: The pleasure that some fathers feed upon, Is my strict fast; I mean, my children’s looks ; And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt : Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave, Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones. K. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their names ? Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to mock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. [live ? kK. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those that Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter those that die. ik. Rich. Thou, now a-dying, say’st thou flatterest me. Gaunt. O,no! thou diest, though I the sicker be. Ik, Rich. Lam in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. Gaunt. Now He that made me knows I see thee ill; Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land Wherein thou liest in reputation sick ; And thou, too careless patient as thou art, Commit’st thy anointed body to the cure Of those physicians that first wounded thee: A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, Whose compass is no bigger than thy head; And yet, incaged in so small a verge, The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. O, had thy grandsire with a prophet’s eye Seen how his son’s son should destroy his sons, From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame Deposing thee before thou wert possess’d, Which art possess’d now to depose thyself. Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world, ‘It were a shame to let this land by lease; But for thy world enjoying but this land, Is it not more than shame to shame it so ? AGT ® ri. Landlord of England art thou now, not king: Thy state of law is bondslave to the law; And thou — KK. Rich. A lunatic lean-witted fool, Presuming on an ague’s privilege, Darest with thy frozen admonition Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood With fury from his native residence. Now, by my seat’s right royal majesty, Wert thou not brother to great Edward’s son, This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders. Gaunt. O, spare me not, my brother Edward’s son, For that I was his father Edward’s son; That blood already, like the pelican, Hast thou tapp’d out and drunkenly caroused ; My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul, Whom fair befall in heaven ’mongst happy souls! May be a precedent and witness good That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood: Join with the present sickness that I have; And thy unkindness be like crooked age, To crop at once a too long wither’d flower. Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee: These words hereafter thy tormentors be! Convey me to my bed, then to my grave: Love they to live that love and honour have. [Hxit, borne off by his Attendants. kK. Rich. And let them die that age and sullens have; For both hast thou, and both become the grave. “ork. Ido beseech your majesty, impute his words To wayward sickliness and age in him: He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here. K. Rich. Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. [so his ; Enter Northumberland. North. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your kK. Rich. What says he ? [majesty. North. Nay, nothing; all is said: His tongue is now a stringless instrument; Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent. [so! York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe. [he; AK. Rich. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be. So much for that. Now for our Irish wars: We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns, Which live like venom where no venom else But only they have privilege to live. And for these great affairs do ask some charge, Towards our assistance we do seize to us The plate, coin, revenues and moveables, Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d. York. How long shall I be patient ? ah, how long Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong ? Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment, Nor Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs, Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, Have ever made me sour my patient cheek, Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face. I am the last of noble Edward’s sons, Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first : In war was never lion raged more fierce, ' In peace was never gentle lamb more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman. His face thou hast, for even so look’d he, Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours; But when he frown’d, it was against the French And not against his friends; his noble hand Did win what he did spend and spent not that Which his triumphant father’s hand had won; Ilis hands were guilty of no kindred blood, But bloody with the enemies of his kin. KING RICHARD II. SCENE I, O Richard! York is too far gone with grief, Or else he never would compare between. K. Rich. Why, uncle, what’s the matter ? York. O iy liege, Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleased Not to be pardon’d, am content withal. Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands The royalties and rights of banish’d Hereford ? Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live ? Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true ? Did not the one deserve to have an heir ? Is not his heir a well-deserving son ? Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from Time His charters and his customary rights ; Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day ; Be not thyself; for how art thou a king But by fair sequence and succession ? Now, afore God — God forbid I say true! — If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights, Call in the letters-patent that he hath By his attorneys-general to sue His livery, and deny his offer’d homage, You pluck a thousand dangers on your head, You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts And prick my tender patience to those thoughts Which honour and allegiance cannot think. Ak. Rich. Think what you will, we seize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money and his lands. York. I’ll not be by the while: my liege, fare- well: What will ensue hereof, there ’s none can tell; But by bad courses may be understood That their events can never fall out good. —_ [ Evit. Kk. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire Bid him repair to us to Ely House [straight : To see this business. To-morrow next We will for Ireland; and ’tis time, I trow: And we create, in absence of ourself, Our uncle York lord governor of England; For he is just and always loved us well. Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part; Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [ Flourish. Exeunt King, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, and Bagot. North. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. Ross. And living too; for now his son is duke. Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue. North. Richly in both, if justice had her right. Ross. My heart is great; but it must break with silence, Ere ’t be disburden’d with a liberal tongue. North. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne’er speak more That speaks thy words again to do thee harm! Willo. Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford ? If it be so, out with it boldly, man; Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him. Ross. No good at all that I can do for him, Unless you call it good to pity him, Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. [are borne North. Now, afore God, ’t is shame such wrongs In him, a royal prince, and many moe Of noble blood in this declining land. The king is not himself, but basely led By flatterers; and what they will inform, Merely in hate, ’gainst any of us all, That will the king severely prosecute ’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. Ross. The commons hath he pill’d with grievous taxes, {fined And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts. Willo. And daily new exactions are devised, As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what: But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this? 301 ACT II. North. Wars have not wasted it, for warr’d he hath not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his noble ancestors achieved with blows: More hath he spent in peace than they in wars. Ross. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm. [man. Willo. The king ’s grown bankrupt, like a broken North. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over | him. Ross. He hath not money for these Irish wars, fis burthenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banish’d duke. But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm; We see the wind sit sore upon our sails, And yet we strike not, but securely perish. Ross. We see the very wreck that we must suffer ; And unavoided is the danger now, For suffering so the causes of our wreck. [death North. Not so; even through the hollow eyes of I spy life peering; but I dare not say How near the tidings of our comfort is. Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours. Ross. Be confident to speak, Northumberland: We three are but thyself; and, speaking so Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold. North. Then thus: I have from Port le Blanc, a In Brittany, received intelligence [bay That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham, That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton and Francis Quoint, All these well furnish’d by the Duke of Bretagne With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war, Are making hither with all due expedience And shortly mean to touch our northern shore: Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay The first departing of the king for Ireland. If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke, Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing, Redeem from broking pawn the blemish’d crown, Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt And make high majesty look like itself, Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh ; But if you faint, as fearing to do so, Stay and be secret, and myself will go. [that fear. Foss. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [ Hxceunt. SCENE II. — The palace. Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot. Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad: You promised, when you parted with the king, To lay aside Ea keine aer heaviness And entertain a cheerful disposition. Queen. To please the king I did; to please my- I cannot do it; yet I know no cause [self Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks, Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb, Is coming towards me, and my inward soul With nothing trembles: at some thing it grieves, More than with parting from my lord the king. Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which shows like grief itself, but is not so; For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears, 302 KING) RYOCHA BD TE SCENE II. Divides one thing entire to many objects; Like perspectives, which rightly pe upon Show nothing but confusion, eyed awry Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty, Looking awry upon your lord’s departure, Find shapes of grief, more than himself, to wail; Which, look’d on as it is, is nought but shadows Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen, More than your lord’s departure weep not: more’ _ Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye, [not seen; _ Which for things true weeps things imaginary. Queen. It may be so; but yet my inward soul of t. | Persuades me it is otherwise: howe’er it be, North. His noble kinsman: most degenerate king! | I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad _ As, though on thinking on no thought I think, Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. Sues *T is nothing but conceit, my gracious ady. Queen. ’T is nothing less: conceit is still derived From some forefather grief; mine is not so For nothing hath begot my something grief ; Or something hath the nothing that I grieve: T is in reversion that I do possess; But what it is, that is not yet known; what I cannot name; ’tis nameless woe, I wot. ~ Enter Green. Green. God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen : I hope the king is not yet pect for Ireland. [is; Queen. Why hopest thou so? *tis better hope he For his tien crave haste, his haste good hope: Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp’d ? Green. That he, our hope, might have retired his power, And driven into despair an enemy’s hope, Who strongly hath set footing in this land: The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arrived At Ravenspurgh. een Now God in heaven forbid! reen. Ah, madam, ’tis too true: and that is worse, [Percy, The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends, are fled to him. Bushy. Why have you not proclaim’d Northum- berland And all the rest revolted faction traitors? [cester Green. We have: whereupon the Earl of Wor- Hath broke his staff, resign’d his stewardship, And all the household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke. [woe, Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir; Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy, And I, a gasping new-deliver’d mother, Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join’d. Bushy. Despair not, madam. Queen. Who shall hinder me? I will despair, and be at enmity — With cozening hope: he is a flatterer, A parasite, a keeper back of death, Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, Which false hope lingers in extremity. Enter York. Green. Here comes the Duke of York. Queen. With signs of war about his aged neck: O, full of careful business are his looks! Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words. York. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts: Comfort ’s in heaven; and we are on the earth, Where nothing lives but crosses, cares and grief. Your husband, he is gone to save far off, Whilst others come to make him lose at home: Here am I left to underprop his land, ACT Il. KING RICHARD II. SCENE IIf. Who, weak with age, cannot support myself: Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made : Now shall he try his friends that flatter’d him. Enter a Servant. Serv. My lord, your son was gone before I came. York. He was? Why, so! go all which way it will! [cold, The nobles they are fled, the commons they are And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side. Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester ; Bid her send me presently a thousand pound : Hold, take my ring. Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship, To-day, as I came by, I called there; But I shall grieve you to report the rest. York. What is *t, knave ? Serv. An hour before I came, the duchess died. York. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what to do: I would to God, So my untruth had not provoked him to it, The king had cut off my head with my brother’s. What, are there no posts dispatch’d for Ireland ? How shall we do for money for these wars? _ [me. Come, sister,— cousin, I would say,— pray, pardon Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts And bring away the armour that is there. [Exit Servant. Gentlemen, will you go muster men ? If I know how or which way to order these affairs Thus thrust disorderly into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen: The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; the other again Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong’d, Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, I'll Dispose of you. Gentlemen, go, muster up your men, And meet me presently at Berkeley. I should to Plashy too; But time will not permit: all is uneven, And every thing is left at six and seven. [Exeunt York and Queen. Bushy. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland, But none returns. For us to levy power Proportionable to the enemy Is all unpossible. Green. Besides, our nearness to the king in love Is near the hate of those love not the king. Bagot. And that’s the wavering commons: for their love Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally con- demn/’d. Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then so do we, Because we ever have been near the king. [castle: Green. Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol The Earl of Wiltshire is already there. Bushy. Thither will I with you; for little office The hateful commons will perform for us, Except like curs to tear us all to pieces. Will you go along with us? Bagot. No; I will to Ireland to his majesty. Farewell: if heart’s presages be not vain, We three here part that ne’er shall meet again. Bushy. That’s as York thrives to beat back Bo- lingbroke. Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes Is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry: Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever. Bushy. Well, we may meet again. Bagot. I fear me, never. [| Haeunt. SCENES III. — Wilds in Gloucestershire. Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland, wii/ Forces. Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now ” North. Believe me, noble lord, I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire : These high wild hills and rough uneven ways Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome ; And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, Making the hard way sweet and delectable. But I bethink me what a weary way From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company, Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled The tediousness and process of my travel: But theirs is sweetened with the hope to have The present benefit which I possess; And hope to joy is little less in joy Than hope enjoy’d: by this the weary lords Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done By sight of what I have, your noble company. Boling. Of much less value is my company Than your good words. But who comes here ? Enter Henry Percy. North. It is my son, young Harry Percy, Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever. Harry, how fares your uncle? Percy. I had thought, my lord, to have learn’d his health of you. North. Why, is he not with the queen? __[court, Percy. No, my good lord; he hath forsook the Broken his staff of office and dispersed The household of the king. North. What was his reason ? He was not so resolved when last we spake together. Percy. Because your lordship was proclaimed trai- But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh, [tor. To offer service to the Duke of Hereford, And sent me over by Berkeley, to discover What power the Duke of York had levied there ; Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh. N Bey ee you forgot the Duke of Hereford, oy! Percy. No, my good lord, for that is not forgot Which ne’er I did remember: to my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him. [duke. North. Then learn to know him now; this is the Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my service, Such as it is, being tender, raw and young; Which elder days shal) ripen and confirm To more approved service and desert. Boling. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends ; And, as my fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love’s recompense: My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it. North. How far is it to Berkeley ? and what stir Keeps good old York there with his men of war ? Percy. There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees, Mann’d with three hundred men, as I have heard; And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Sey- None else of name and noble estimate. [mour ; Enter Ross and Willoughby. North. Here come the Lords of Ross and W illough- Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. DY, Boling. Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pur- A banish’d traitor: all my treasury [sues Is yet but unfelt thanks, which more enrich’d Shall be your love and labour’s recompense. lord. Ross. Your presence makes us rich, most noble Willo. And far surmounts our labour to attain it. Boling. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor ; 303 ACT DE, Which, till my infant fortune comes to years, Stands for my bounty. But who comes here ? Enter Berkeley. North. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess. Berk. My Lord of Hereford, my message isto you. Boling. My lord, my answer is—to Lancaster ; And I am come to seek that name in England ; And I must find that title in your tongue, Before I make reply to aught you say. Berk. Mistake me not, my lord; ’tis not my meaning To raze one title of your honour out: To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will, From the most gracious regent of this land, The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on To take advantage of the absent time And fright our native peace with self-born arms. Enter York, attended. Boling. I shall not need transport my words by Here comes his grace in person. [you; My noble uncle! [Kneels. York. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy Whose duty is deceivable and false. [knee, Boling. My gracious uncle— York. Tut, tut. Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle: T am no traitor’s uncle; and that word ‘ grace’ In an ungracious mouth is but profane. Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs Dared once to touch a dust of England’s ground ? But then more ‘why’? why have they dared to march So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, Frighting her pale-faced villages with war And ostentation of despised arms ? Comest thou because the anointed king is hence ? Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind, And in my loyal bosom lies his power. Were I but now the lord of such hot youth As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men, From forth the ranks of many thousand French, O, then how quickly should this arm of mine, Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee And minister correction to thy fault! Boling. My gracious uncle, let me know my fault: On what condition stands it and wherein ? York. Even in condition of the worst degree, In gross rebellion and detested treason : Thou art a banisnh’d mai, and here art come Before the expiration of thy time, In braving arms against thy sovereign. [ford ; Boling. As I was banish’d, I was banish’d Here- But as I come, I come for Lancaster. And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye: You are my father, for methinks in you [ see old Gaunt alive; O, then, my father, Will you permit that I shall stand condemn’d A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties Pluck’d from my arms perforce and given away To upstart unthrifts ? Wherefore was I born ? If that my cousin king be King of England, It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin ; Had you first died, and he been thus trod down, He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father, ‘o rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay. I am denied to sue my livery here, And yet my letters-patents give me leave: 304 RING RICHARD I1. SCENE IV. My father’s goods are all distrain’d and sold, And these and all are all amiss employ’d. What would you have me do? Iam a subject, And I challenge law: attorneys are denied me; And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent. North. Thenoble duke hath been too much abused. Ross. It stands your grace upon to do him right. Willo. Base men by his endowments are made great. York. My lords of England, let me tell you this: I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs And laboured all I could to do him right ; But in this kind to come, in braving arms, Be his own carver and cut out his way, To find out right with wrong, it may not be; And you that do abet him in this kind Cherish rebellion and are rebels all. North. The noble duke hath sworn his coming is But for his own; and for the right of that We all have strongly sworn to give him aid; And let him ne’er see joy that breaks that oath! York. Well, well, I see the issue of these arms: I cannot mend it, I must needs confess, Because my power is weak and all ill left: But if I could, by Him that gave me life, I would attach you all and make you stoop Unto the sovereign mercy of the king; But since I cannot, be it known to you I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well; Unless you please to enter in the castle And there repose you for this night. Boling. An offer, uncle, that we will accept: But we must win your grace to go with us To Bristol castle, which they say is held By Bushy, Bagot and their complices, The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away. York. It may be I wiil go with you: but yet Il pause : For I am loath to break our country’s laws. Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are: Things past redress are now with me past care. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.—A camp in Wales. Enter Salisbury and a Welsh Captain. Cap. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay’d ten And hardly kept our countrymen together, [days, And yet we hear no tidings from the king; Therefore we will disperse ourselves: farewell. Sal. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman: The king reposeth all his confidence in thee. pes is thought the king is dead; we will not sta y. The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful change ; Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap, The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, The other to enjoy by rage and war: These signs forerun the death or fall of kings. Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled, As well assured Richard their king is dead. [Hzit. Sal. Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind I see thy glory like a shooting star Fall to the base earth from the firmament. Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west, Witnessing storms to come, woe and unrest: Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes, And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. [ Exit. ACT IfI. KING RICHARD I1. SCENE II. NCL OP IT, SCENE I.—Bristol. Before the castle. Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Ross, Percy, Willoughby, with Bushy and Green, pris- oners. Boling. Bring forth these men. Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls — Since presently your souls must part your bodies — With too much urging your pernicious lives, For ’t were no charity; yet, to wash your blood From off my hands, here in the view of men I will unfold some causes of your deaths. You have misled a prince, a royal king, A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments, By you unhappied and disfigured clean: You have in manner with your sinful hours Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him, Broke the possession of a royal bed And stain’d the beauty of a fair queen’s cheeks With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs. Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth, Near to the king in blood, and near in love Till you did make him misinterpret me, Have stoop’d my neck under your injuries, And sigh’d my English breath in foreign clouds, Eating the bitter bread of banishment; Whilst you have fed upon my signories, Dispark’d my parks and fell’d my forest woods, From my own windows torn my household coat, Razed out my imprese, leaving me no sign, Save men’s opinions and my living blood, To show the world I am a gentleman. This and much more, much more than twice all this, Condemns you to the death. See them deliver’d over To execution and the hand of death. Bushy. More welcome is the stroke of death to me Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell. Green. My comfort is that heaven will take our And plague injustice with the pains of hell. [souls Boling. My Lord Northumberland, see them dis- patch’d. | Exeunt Northumberland and others, with the prisoners. Uncle, you say the queen is at your house; For God’s sake, fairly let her be entreated : Tell her I send to her my kind commends; Take special care my greetings be deliver’d. York. A gentleman of mine I have dispatch’d With letters of your love to her at large. Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords,away, To fight with Glendower and his complices: Awhile to work, and after holiday. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— The coast of Wales. a8) yj | > ct i) Q (0) a 0) Sy S \AN\ MLL) eet, hi f ey UN og, Mill ’ Mam =. i i SS TH { \ p a M4 NaN N ‘Atlus Sas Tuan tz Au ve) Nie 8 F yp i “ We | \ a é 7 EZ | Ut L pecs a oe | MAA ny r ae 4 , =e Ly On FT) af Fe OEE, i | i } WN ! 1 \ | iw uf}) rh HH} fs ey, \ Aa A) Mh Gi Hi ACT Ill. Sil. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow. Shal. And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow ? and your fairest daughter and mine, my god- daughter Ellen ? Sil. Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow! Shal. By yea and nay, sir, I dare say my cousin William is become a good scholar: he is at Oxford still, is he not? Sil. Indeed, sir, to my cost. Shal. A’ must, then, to the inns o’ court shortly. I was once of Clement’s Inn, where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet. Sil. You were called ‘ lusty Shallow’ then, cousin. Shal. By the mass, I was called any thing; and I would have done any thing indeed too, and round- ly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staf- fordshire, and black George Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man; you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the inns 0’ court again: and I may say to you, we knew where the bona-robas were and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. Sil. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers ? Shal. The same Sir John, the very same. I see him break Skogan’s head at the court-gate, when a’ was a crack not thus high: and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruit- erer, behind Gray’s Inn. Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead! Sil. We shall all follow, cousin. Shal. Certain, ’tis certain; very sure, very sure: death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all: all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stam- ford fair ? Sil. By my troth, I was not there. Shal. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet ? Sil. Dead, sir. Shal. Jesu, Jesu, dead! a’ drew a good bow; and dead! a’ shot a fine shoot: Johna Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on his head. Dead! a’ would have clapped i’ the clout at twelve score; and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen and a half, that it would have done a man’s heart good to see. Howascore of ewes now ? Sil. Thereafter as they be: a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds. Shal. And is old Double dead ? [I think. Sil. Here come two of Sir John Falstaff’s men, as Enter Bardolph and one with him. Bard. Good morrow, honest gentlemen ; I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow ? Shal. I am Robert Shallow, sir; a poor esquire of this county, and one of the king’s justices of the peace: what is your good pleasure with me ? Bard. My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir John Falstaff, a tall gentleman, by heaven, and a most gallant leader. Shal. He greets me well, sir. I knew him a good backsword man. How doth the good knight ? may I ask how my lady his wife doth ? Bard. Sir, pardon; a soldier is better accommo- dated than with a wife. Shal. It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well said indeed too. Better accommodated ! it is good: yea, indeed, is it: good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable. Accommodated! it comes of ‘accommodo:’ very good; a good phrase. Bard. Pardon me, sir; I have heard the word. Phrase call you it? by this good day, I know not the phrase; but I will maintain the word with my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word of ex- SMOGNDSPARL OF RING: HENRY, LV. SCENE II. ceeding good command, by heaven. Accommo- dated; that is, when a man is, as they say, accom- modated; or when a man is, being, whereby a’ may be thought to be accommodated; which is an ex- cellent thing. Shal. It is very just. Enter Falstafe. Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your good hand, give me your worship’s good hand: by my troth, you like well and bear your years very well: welcome, good Sir John. Fal. 1 am glad to see you well, good Master Robert Shallow: Master Surecard, as I think ? Shal. No, Sir John; it is my cousin Silence, in commission with me. Fal. Good Master Silence, it well befits you should be of the peace. Sil. Your good worship is welcome. Fal. Fie! this is hot weather, gentlemen. Have you provided me here half a dozen sufficient men ? Shal. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit ? Fal. Let me see them, I beseech you. Shal. Where’s the roll ? where’s the roll ? where’s the roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So 80, S0,S0,S0,80,80: yea, Marry,sir; Ralph Mouldy ! Let them appear as I call; let them do so, let them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy ? Moul. Here, an ’t please you. Shal. What think you, Sir John? a good-limbed fellow; young, strong, and of good friends. Fal. Is thy name Mouldy ? Moul. Yea, an ’t please you. Fal. "Tis the more time thou wert used. Shal. Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i’ faith! things that are mouldy lack use: very singular good! in faith, well said, Sir John, very well said. Fal. Prick him. Moul. I was pricked well enough before, an you could have let me alone: my old dame will be un- done now for one to do her husbandry and her drudgery: you need not to have pricked me; there are other men fitter to go out than I. Fal. Goto: peace, Mouldy ; youshallgo. Mouldy, it is time you were spent. Moul. Spent! Shal. Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside: know you where youare? For the other, Sir John: let me see: Simon Shadow! Fal. Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under: he ’s like to be a cold soldier. Shal. Where ’s Shadow ? Shad. Here, sir. Fal. Shadow, whose son art thou? Shad. My mother’s son, sir. Fal. Thy mother’s son! like enough, and thy father’s shadow: so the son of the female is the shadow of the male: it is often so, indeed; but much of the father’s substance! Shal. Do you like him, Sir John? Fal. Shadow will serve for summer; prick him, for we have a number of shadows to fill up the mus- Shal. Thomas Wart! {ter-book. Fal. Where ’s he? Wart. Here, sir. Fal. Is thy name Wart ? Wart. Yea, sir. Fal. Thou art avery ragged wart. Shal. Shall I prick him down, Sir John ? ' Fal. It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back and the whole frame stands upon pins: prick him no more. Shal. Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do it: I commend you well. Francis Feeble! Fee. Here, sir. Fal. What trade art thou, Feeble ? fee. A woman’s tailor, sir. dol ACT III. SECOND PART OF =. : = + i KING HENRY IV. scene It. Shal. Shall I prick him, sir? Fal. You may: but if he had been a man’s tailor, he’ld ha’ pricked you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy’s battle as thou hast done ina woman’s petticoat ? [more. Fee. I will do my good will, sir: you can have no Fal. Well said, good woman’s tailor! well said, courageous Feeble! thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove or most magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman’s tailor: well, Master Shallow; deep, Master Shallow. Fee. I would Wart might have gone, sir. Fal. I would thou wert a man’s tailor, that thou mightst mend him and make him fit to go. I can- not put him to a private soldier that is the leader of so many thousands: let that suttice, most forcible Fee. It shall suffice, sir. [Feeble. Fal. Lam bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who Shal. Peter Bullealf o’ the green ! fis next ? Fal. Yea, marry, let’s see Bullcalf. Bull. Here, sir. Fal. ’Fore God, a likely fellow! Bullealf till he roar again. Bull. O Lord! good my lord captain, — Fal. What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked ? Bull. O Lord, sir! I am a diseased man. Fal. What disease hast thou ? Bull. A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, which I caught with ringing in the king’s affairs upon his coronation-day, sir. Fal. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown; we will have away thy cold; and I will take such order that thy friends shall ring for thee. Ishereall? Shal. Here is two more called than your number ; you must have but four here, sir: and so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner. Fal. Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow. Shal. O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all night in the windmill in Saint George’s field ? Fal. No more of that, good Master Shallow, no more of that. Shal. Ha! *twas a merry night. Nightwork alive ? al. She lives, Master Shallow. Shal. She never could away with me. Fal. Never, never; she would always say she could not abide Master Shallow. Shal. By the mass, I could anger her to the heart. She was then a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own Fal. Old, old, Master Shallow. [well ? Shal. Nay, she must be old; she cannot choose but be old; certain she’s old; and had Robin Night- work by old Nightwork before I came to Clement’s Sil. That’s fifty-five year ago. [Inn. Shal. Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that this knight and I have seen! Ha, Sir John, said I well? Fal. We have heard the chimes at midnight, Mas- ter Shallow. Shal. That we have, that we have, that we have; in faith, Sir John, we have: our watchword was ‘Hem boys!’ Come, let ’s to dinner; come, let ’s to dinner: Jesus, the days that we have seen! Come, come. [Hxeunt Falstaff and the Justices. Bull. Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my friend; and here’s four Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I had as lief be hanged, sir, as go: and yet, for mine own part, sir, I do not care; but rather, because Iam unwilling, and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends; else, sir, 1 did not care, for mine own part, so much. Bard. Go to; stand aside. Moul. And, good master corporal captain, for my old dame’s sake, stand my friend: she has nobody oo2 Come, prick me And is Jane to do any thing about her when Iam gone; and she is old, and cannot help herself: you shall have forty, Bard. Go to; stand aside. [sir. Fee. By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once: we owe God a death: Ill ne’er bear a base mind: an’t be my destiny, so; an ’t be not, so: no man is too good to serve ’s prince; and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next. Bard. Well said; thou ’rt a good fellow. Fee. Faith, Ill bear no base mind. Re-enter Falstaff and the Justices. Fal. Come, sir, which men shall I have ? Shal. Four of which you please. Bard. Sir, a word with you: I have three pound to free Mouldy and Bullealf. Fal. Go to; well. Shal. Come, Sir John, which four will you have? Fal. Do you choose for me. [Shadow. Shal. Marry, then, Mouldy, Bullealf, Feeble and Fal. Mouldy and Bullealf: for you, Mouldy, stay at home till you are past service : and for your part, Bullealf, grow till you come unto it: I will none of you. Shal. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong : they are your likeliest men, and I would have you served with the best. Fal. Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to choose a man? Care I for the limb, the thewes the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man ! Give me the spirit, Master Shallow. Here’s Wart; you see what a ragged appearance it is: a’ shall charge you and discharge you with the motion of a pewterer’s hammer, come off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer’s bucket. And this same half-faced fellow, Shadow; give me this man: he presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may with as great aim level at the edge of a penknife. And for a retreat; how swiftly will this Feeble the woman’s tailor run off! O,give me the spare men, and spare me the great ones. Put mea caliver into Wart’s hand, Bardolph. Bard. Hold, Wart, traverse; thus, thus, thus. Fal. Come, manage me your caliver. “So: very well: go to: very good, exceeding good. O, give me always a little, lean, old, chapt, bald shot. ell said, i’ faith, Wart; thou ’rt a good scab: hold, there ’s a tester for thee. Shal. He is not his craft’s master; he doth not do it right. I remember at Mile-end Green, when I lay at Clement’s Inn,—I was then Sir Dagonet in Arthur’s show,—there was a little quiver fellow, and a’ would manage you his piece thus; and a’ would about and about, and come you in and come you in: ‘rah, tah, tah,’ would a’ say; ‘bounce’ would a’ say; and away again would a’ go, and again would a’ come: I shall ne’er see such a fellow. Fal. These fellows will do well, Master Shallow. God keep you, Master Silence: I will not use many words with you. Fare you well, gentlemen both: I thank you: I must a dozen mile to-night. Bar- dolph, give the soldiers coats. Shal. Sir John, the Lord bless you! God prosper your affairs! God send us peace! At your return visit our house; let our old acquaintance be re- newed: peradventure I will with ye to the court. Fal. Fore God, I would you would, Master Shal- Ow. Shal. Goto; [have spokeata word. God keep you. Fal. Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. [Hzxeunt Justices.| On, Bardolph; lead the men away. [H2- eunt Bardolph, Recruits, &c.} As I return, I will fetch off these justices: I do see the bottom of Jus- tice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying! This same starved justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done about ACT IV. Turnbull Street; and every third word a lie, duer paid to the hearer than the Turk’s tribute. I do remember him at Clement’s Inn like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring : when a’ was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife: a’ was so forlorn, that his dimensions to any thick sight were invincible: a’ was the very genius of famine; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the whores called him mandrake: a’ came ever in the rearward of the fashion, and sung those tunes to the over- seutched huswives that he heard the carmen whis- tle, and sware they were his fancies or his good- nights. And now is this Vice’s dagger become a SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. SCENE I. squire, and talks as familiarly of John a Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to him; and I’ll be sworn a’ ne’er saw him but once in the Tilt-yard ; and then he burst his head for crowding among the marshal’s men. I sawit,and told John aGaunt he beat hisown name; for you might have thrust him and all his apparel into an eel-skin; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a’court: and now hashe land and beefs. Well, I ll beacquainted with him, if I return; and it shall go hard but I will make him a philosopher’s two stones to me: if the young dace be a bait for the old pike, I see no reason in the law of nature but I may snap at him. Let time shape, and there an end. Exit. ee TV: SCENE I.— Yorkshire. Gaultree Forest. Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Hast- ings, and others. Arch. What is this forest call’d ? [grace. Hast. ’T is Gaultree Forest, an ’t shall please your Arch. Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers To know the numbers of our enemies. {forth Hast. We have sent forth already. Arch. °T is well done. My friends and brethren in these great affairs, I must acquaint you that I have received New-dated letters from Northumberland ; Their cold intent, tenour and substance, thus: Here doth he wish his person, with such powers As might hold sortance with his quality, The which he could not levy; whereupon He is retired, to ripe his growing fortunes, To Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers That your attempts may overlive the hazard And fearful meeting of their opposite. [ground Mowb. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch And dash themselves to pieces. Enter a Messenger. Hast. Now, what news ? Mess. West of this forest, scarcely off a mile, In goodly form comes on the enemy ; And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand. Mowb. The just proportion that we gave them out. Let us sway on and face them in the field. Arch. What well-appointed leader fronts us here ? Enter Westmoreland. Mowb. I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland. West. Health and fair greeting from our general, The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster. _ Arch. Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in What doth concern your coming ? [peace : West. Then, my lord, Unto your grace do I in chief address The substance of my speech. If that rebellion Came like itself, in base and abject routs, Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags, And countenanced by boys and beggary, I say, if damn’d commotion so appear’d, In his true, native and most proper shape, You, reverend father, and these noble lords Had not been here, to dress the ugly form Of base and bloody insurrection With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop, Whose see is by a civil peace maintain’d, Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch’d, Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor’d, Whose white investments figure innocence, The dove and very blessed spirit of peace, 23 ' But, my most noble Lord of _I take not on me here as a physician, | Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace, Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war; Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood, Your pens to lances and your tongue divine To a loud trumpet and a point of war ? Arch. Wherefore do I this ? so the question stands. Briefly to this end: we are all diseased, And with our surfeiting and wanton hours Have brought ourselves into a burning fever, And we must bleed for it; of which disease Our late king, Richard, being infected, died. estmoreland, Nor do I as an enemy to peace Troop in the throngs of military men ; But rather show awhile like fearful war, To diet rank minds sick of happiness And purge the obstructions which begin to stop Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly. J have in equal balance justly weigh’d [suffer, What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we And find our griefs heavier than our offences. We see which way the stream of time doth run, And are enforced from our most quiet there By the rough torrent of occasion ; And have the summary of all our griefs, When time shall serve, to show in articles; Which long ere this we offer’d to the king, And might by no suit gain our audience: When we are wrong’d and would unfold our griefs, We are denied access unto his person Even by those men that most have done us wrong. The dangers of the days but newly gone, Whose memory is written on the earth With yet appearing blood, and the examples Of every minute’s instance, present now, Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms, Not to break peace or any branch of it, But to establish here a peace indeed, Concurring both in name and quality. West. When ever yet was your appeal denied ? Wherein have you been galled by the king? What peer hath been suborn’d to grate on you, That you should seal this lawless bloody book Of forged rebellion with a seal divine And consecrate commotion’s bitter edge ? Arch. My brother general, the commonwealth, To brother born an household cruelty, I make my quarrel in particular. West. There is no need of any such redress ; Or if there were, it not belongs to you. Mowb. Why not to him in part, and to us all That feel the bruises of the days before, And suffer the condition of these times To lay a heavy and unequal hand Upon our honours ? 303 SECOND PART OF West. O, my good Lord Mowbray, Construe the times to their necessities, And you shall say indeed, it is the time, And not the king, that doth you injuries. Yet for your part, it not appears to me Either from the king or in the present time That you should have an inch of any ground To build a grief on: were you not restored To all the Duke of Norfolk’s signories, Your noble and right well remember’d father’s ? Mowb. What thing, in honour, had my father lost, That need to be revived and breathed in me? The king that loved him, as the state stood then, Was force perforce compell’d to banish him : And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he, Being mounted and both roused in their seats, Their neighing coursers daring of the spur, Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down, Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel And the loud trumpet blowing them together. Then, then, when there was nothing could have My father from the breast of Bolingbroke, [stay’d O, when the king did throw his warder down, His own life hung upon the staff he threw; Then threw he down himself and all their lives That by indictment and by dint of sword Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke. West. You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what. . The Earl of Hereford was reputed then In England the most valiant gentleman: Who knows on whom fortune would then have But if your father had been victor there, [smiled ? He ne’er had borne it out of Coventry: For all the country in a general voice Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on And bless’d and graced indeed, more than the king. But this is mere digression from my purpose. Here come I from our princely general To know your griefs; to tell you from his grace That he will give you audience; and wherein It shall appear that your demands are just, You shall enjoy them, every thing set off That might so much as think you enemies. Mowb. But he hath forced us to compel this offer ; And it proceeds from policy, not love. West. Mowbray, you overween to take it so; This offer comes from mercy, not from fear: For, lo! within a ken our army lies, Upon mine honour, all too confident To give admittance to a thought of fear. Our battle is more full of names than yours, Our men more perfect in the use of arms, Our armour all as strong, our cause the best ; Then reason will our hearts should be as good: Say you not then our offer is compell’d. Mowb. Well, by my will we shall admit no parley. West. That argues but the shame of your offence: A rotten case abides no handling. Hast. Hath the Prince John a full commission, In very ample virtue of his father, To hear and absolutely to determine Of what conditions we shall stand upon ? West. That is intended in the general’s name: I muse you make so slight a question. [schedule, Arch. Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this For this contains our general grievances: Each several article herein redress’d, All members of our cause, both here and hence, That are insinew’d to this action, Acquitted by a true substantial form And present execution of our wills To us and to our purposes confined, We come within our awful banks again And knit our powers to the arm of peace. __ [lords, West. This will I show the general. Please you, 304 ACTER, KING HENEY ITY. In sight of both our battles we may meet; And either end in peace, which God so frame! Or to the place of difference call the swords Which must decide it. Arch. My lord, we will do so. [Hawt West. Mowb. There is a thing within my bosom tells me That no conditions of our peace can stand. Hast. Fear you not that: if we can make our Upon such large terms and so absolute [peace As our conditions shall consist upon, Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains. Mowb. Yea, but our valuation shall be such That every slight and false-derived cause, Yea, every idle, nice and wanton reason Shall to the king taste of this action 5 That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love, We shall be winnow’d with so rough a wind That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff And good from bad find no partition. [weary Arch. No, no, my lord. Note this; the king is Of dainty and such picking grievances: For he hath found to end one doubt by death Revives two greater in the heirs of life, And therefore will he wipe his tables clean And keep no tell-tale to his memory That may repeat and history his loss To new remembrance; for full well he knows He cannot so precisely weed this land As his misdoubts present occasion ; His foes are so enrooted with his friends That, plucking to unfix an enemy, He doth unfasten so and shake a friend: So that this land, like an offensive wife That hath enraged him on to offer strokes, As he is striking, holds his infant up And hangs resolved correction in the arm That was uprear’d to execution. Hast. Besides, the king hath wasted all his rods On late offenders, that he now doth lack | The very instruments of chastisement: So that his power, like to a fangless lion, _ May offer, but not hold. Arch. *T is very true: And therefore be assured, my good lord marshal, _If we do now make our atonement well, | Our peace will, like a broken limb united, | Grow stronger for the breaking. | Mowb. SCENE II. Be it so, | Here is return’d my Lord of Westmoreland. Re-enter Westmoreland. West. The prince is here at hand: pleaseth your lordship To meet his grace just distance ’tween our armies. Mowb. Your grace of York, in God’s name, then, set forward. Arch. Before, and greet his grace: my lord, we come. [ Exeunt. SCENE II.—Another part of the forest. Enter, from one side, Mowbray, attended; afterwards the Archbishop, Hastings, and others; from the other side, Prince John of Lancaster, and Westmoreland ; Officers, and others with them. Lan. You are well encounter’d here, my cousin Mowbray: Good day to you, gentle lord archbishop; And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all. My Lord of York, it better show’d with you When that your flock, assembled by the bell, Encircled you to hear with reverence Your exposition on the holy text Than now to see you here an iron man, Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum, Turning the word to sword and life to death. That man that sits within a monarch’s heart, ACT IV. And ripens in the sunshine of his favour, Would he abuse the countenance of the king, Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach In shadow of such greatness! With you, lord bishop, It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken How deep you were within the books of God ? To us the speaker in his parliament ; To us the imagined voice of God himself; The very opener and intelligencer Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven And our dull workings. O, who shall believe But you misuse the reverence of your place, Employ the countenance and grace of heaven, As a false favourite doth his prince’s name, In deeds dishonourable? You have ta’en up, Under the counterfeited zeal of God, The subjects of his substitute, my father, And both against the peace of heaven and him Have here up-swarm’d them. Arch. Good my Lord of Lancaster, I am not here against your father’s peace; But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland, The time misorder’d doth, in common sense, Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form, To hold our safety up. I sent your grace The parcels and particulars of our grief, [court, The which hath been with scorn shoved from the Whereon this Hydra son of war is born; Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm’d asleep With grant of our most just and right desires, And true obedience, of this madness cured, Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty. Mowb. If not, we ready are to try our fortunes To the last man. Hast. And though we here fall down, We have supplies to second our attempt: If they miscarry, theirs shall second them ; And so success of mischief shall be born And heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up Whiles England shall have generation. [shallow, Lan. You are too shallow, Hastings, much too To sound the bottom of the after-times. West. Pleaseth your grace to answer them di- How far forth you do like their articles. [rectly Lan. I like them all, and do allow them well, And swear here, by the honour of my blood, My father’s purposes have been mistook, And some about him have too lavishly Wrested his meaning and authority. My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress’d ; Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you, Discharge your powers unto their several counties, As we will ours: and here between the armies Let ’s drink together friendly and embrace, That all their eyes may bear those tokens home Of our restored love and amity. Arch. [take your princely word for these redresses. Lan. I give it you, and will maintain my word: And thereupon I drink unto your grace. Hast. Go, captain, and deliver to the army This news of peace: let them have pay, and part: 1 know it will well please them. Hie thee, captain. [Exit Officer. Arch. To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland. West. I pledge your grace; and, if you knew what pains I have bestowed to breed this present peace, You would drink freely: but my love to ye Shall show itself more openly hereafter. Arch. I do not doubt you. West. I am glad of it. Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray. Mowb. You wish me health in very happy season ; For I am, on the sudden, something ill. Arch. Against ill chances men are ever merry ; But heaviness foreruns the good event. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. SCENE III. _ West. Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow morrow.” Serves to say thus, ‘some good thing comes to- Arch. Believe me, I am passing light in spirit. Mowb. So much the worse, if your own rule be true. [Shouts within Lan. The word of peace is render’d: hark, how they shout! ; Mowb. This had been cheerful after victory. Arch. A peace is of the nature of a conquest ; For then both parties nobly are subdued, And neither party loser. Lan. Go, my lord, And let our army be discharged too. [Hxuit Westmoreland. And, good my lord, so please you, let our trains March by us, that we may peruse the men We should have coped withal. Arch. Go, good Lord Hastings, And, ere they be dismiss’d, let them march by. ‘ [Exit Hastings. Lan. I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together. Re-enter Westmoreland. Now cousin, wherefore stands our army still ? West. The leaders, having charge from you to Will not go off until they hear you speak. [stand, Lan. They know their duties. Re-enter Hastings. Hast. My lord, our army is dispersed already : Like youthful steers unyoked, they take their courses [up, East, west, north, south; or, like a school broke Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place. West. Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason: [which | And you, lord archbishop, and you, lord Mowbray, Of capital treason I attach you both. Mowb. Is this proceeding just and honourable ? West. Is your assembly so ? Arch. Will you thus break your faith ? Lan. I pawn’d thee none: I promised you redress of these same grievances Whereof you did complain; which, by mine hon- I will perform with a most Christian care. [our, But for you, rebels, look to taste the due Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours. Most shallowly did you these arms commence, Fondly brought here and foolishly sent hence. Strike up our drums, pursue the scatter’d stray: God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day. Some guard these traitors to the block of death, Treason’s true bed and yielder up of breath. [ Hxeunt. SCENE III. — Another part of the forest. Alarum. Excursions. Enter Falstaff and Cole- vile, meeting. Fal. What’s your name, sir? of what condition are you, and of what place, I pray ? Cole. Lam a knight, sir; and my name is Cole- vile of the dale. Fal. Well, then, Colevile is your name, a knight is your degree, and your place the dale: Colevile shall be still your name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place, a place deep enough; so shall you be still Colevile of the dale. Cole. Are not you Sir John Falstaff ? Fal. As good a manas he, sir, whoe’er Iam. Do ye yield, sir? or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they are the drops of thy lovers, and they weep for thy death: therefore rouse up fear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy. : Cole. 1 think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me. 805 ACT LY". Fal. I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name. An I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were simply the most active fellow in Europe: my womb, my womb, my womb, undoes me. Here comes our general. Enter Prince John of Lancaster, Westmore- land, Blunt, and others. Lan. The heat is past; follow no further now: Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland. [Hait Westmoreland. Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while ? When every thing is ended, then you come: These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life, One time or other break some gallows’ back. Fal. I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I never knew yet but rebuke and check was the reward of valour. Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? have I, in my poor and old motion, the expedition of thought? Ihave speeded hither with the very extremest inch of possibility; I have foundered nine score and odd posts: and here, travel-tainted as I am, have, in my pure and immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colevile of the dale, a most furious knight and valorous enemy. But what of that ? he saw me, and yielded; that I may justly say, with the hook-nosed fellow of Rome, ‘I came, saw, and overcame.’ [serving. Lan. It was more of his courtesy than your de- Fal. I know not: here he is, and here I yield him: and I beseech your grace, let it be booked with the rest of this day’s deeds; or, by the Lord, L will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on the top on’t, Colevile kissing my foot: to the which course if I be enforced, if you do not all show like gilt two-pences to me, and I in the clear sky of fame o’ershine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the element, which show like pins’ heads to her, believe not the word of the noble: therefore let me have right, and let desert mount. Lan. Thine ’s too heavy to mount. Fal. Let it shine, then. Lan. Thine’s too thick to shine. Fal. Let it do something, my good lord, that may do me good, and call it what you will. Lan. Is thy name Colevile ? Cole. It is, my lord. Lan. A famous rebel art thou, Colevile. Fal. And a famous true subject took him. Cole. Iam, my lord, but as my betters are That led me hither: had they been ruled by me, You should have won them dearer than you have. Fal. I know not how they sold themselves: but thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis; and I thank thee for thee. Re-enter Westmoreland. Lan. Now, have you left pursuit ? West. Retreat is made and execution stay’d. Lan. Send Colevile with his confederates To York, to present execution: Blunt, lead him hence; and see you guard him sure. [ Hxeunt Blunt and others with Colevile. And now dispatch we toward the court, my lords: I hear the king my father is sore sick: Our news shall go before us to his majesty, Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him, And we with sober speed will follow you. Fal, My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go Through POE eta eee and, when you come to court, Stand my good lord, pray, in your good report. Lan. Fare you well, Falstaff: I, in my condition, Shall better speak of you than you deserve. [Exeunt all bui Falstaff. 356 SECOND’ PARIS OF DING? ALICIA hee SCENE IV. Fal. I would you had but the wit: ’t were better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that’s no marvel, he drinks no wine. There’s never none of these de- mure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish- meals, that they fall into a kind of male green- sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches: they are generally fools and cowards; which some of us should be too, but for inflamma- tion. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold opera- tion in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble fiery and delectable shapes; which, delivered o’er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is, the warming of the blood; which, before cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pu- sillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms it and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extreme: it illumineth the face, which as a beacon gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital com- moners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage; and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a- work; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father he hath, like lean, sterile and bare land, manured, husbanded and tilled with excellent en- deavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle L would teach them should be, to forswear thin pota- tions and to addict themselves to sack. Enter Bardolph. How now, Bardolph ? Bard. The army is discharged all and gone. Fal. Let them go. Ill through Gloucestershire ; and there will I visit Master Robert Shallow, es- quire: I have him already tempering between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal with him. Come away. [ Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Westmunster. Chanvber. The Jerusalem Enter the King, the Princes Thomas of Clarence and Humphrey of Gloucester, Warwick, «ud others. King. Now, lords, if God doth give successful end To this debate that bleedeth at our doors, We will our youth lead on to higher fields And draw no swords but what are sanctified. Our navy is address’d, our power collected, Our substitutes in absence well invested, And every thing lies level to our wish: Only, we want a little personal strength ; And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot, Come underneath the yoke of government. War. Both which we doubt not but your majesty Shall soon enjoy. King. Humphrey, my son of Gloucester, Where is the prince your brother ? [ Windsor. Glow. I think he’s gone to hunt, my lord, at King. And how accompanied ? Glou. I do not know, my lord. King. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him ? ACT IV. SHCOND PART OF KINGUUMENEY TV sonny, Glou. No, my good lord; he is in presence here. Olav. What would my lord and father ? [ence. King. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clar- How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother? He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas; Thou hast a better place in his affection Than all thy brothers: cherish it, my boy, And noble offices thou mayst effect Of mediation, after I am dead, Between his greatness and thy other brethren: Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love, Nor lose the good advantage of his grace By seeming cold or careless of his will; For he is gracious, if he be observed: He hath a tear for pity and a hand Open as day for melting charity: Yet notwithstanding, being incensed, he’s flint, As humorous as winter and as sudden As flaws congealed in the spring of day. His temper, therefore, must be well observed: Chide him for faults, and do it reverently, When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth ; But, being moody, give him line and scope, Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas, And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends, A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in, That the united vessel of their blood, Mingled with venom of suggestion — As, torce perforce, the age will pour it in— Shall never leak, though it do work as strong As aconitum or rash gunpowder. Clar. I shall observe him with all care and love. nei Why art thou not at Windsor with him, homas ? Clar. He is not there to-day; he dines in London. King. And how accompanied? canst thou tell | that ? [lowers. | Clar. With Poins, and other his continual fol- King. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds ; And he, the noble image of my youth, Is overspread with them: therefore my grief Stretches itself beyond the hour of death: The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape In forms imaginary the unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors. For when his headstrong riot hath no curb, When rage and hot blood are his counsellors, When means and lavish manners meet together, O, with what wings shall his affections fly Towards fronting peril and opposed decay! [quite: War. My gracious lord, you look beyond him The prince but studies his companions [guage, Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the lan- ’"T is needful that the most immodest word Be look’d upon and learn’d; which once attain’d, Your highness knows, comes to no further use But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms, The prince will in the perfectness of time Cast off his followers; and their memory Shall as a pattern or a measure live, By which his grace must mete the lives of others, Turning past evils to advantages. comb King. ’Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her In the dead carrion. | Enter Westmoreland. Who’s here? Westmoreland ? West. Health to my sovereign, and new happiness Added to that that I am to deliver! Prince John your son doth kiss your grace’s hand: Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings and all Are brought to the correction of your law; There is not now a rebel’s sword unsheath’d, But Peace puts forth her olive every where. The manner how this action hath been borne Here at more leisure may your highness read, With every course in his particular. king. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird, Which ever in the haunch of winter sings The lifting up of day. Enter Harcourt. Look, here’s more news. Har. From enemies heaven keep your majesty; And, when they stand against you, may they fall As those that I am come to tell you of ! The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph, With a great power of English and of Scots, Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown: The manner and true order of the fight This packet, please it you, contains at large. King. And wherefore should these good news make me sick ? Will Fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest letters ? She either gives a stomach and no food; Such are the poor, in health; or else a feast And takes away the stomach; such are the rich, That have abundance and enjoy it not. I should rejoice now at this happy news; And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy: O me! come near me; now I am much ill. Glou. Comfort, your majesty ! Clar. O my royal father! West. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look up. War. Be patient, princes; you do know, these fits Are with his highness very ordinary. Stand from him, give him air; he ’ll straight be well. Clar. No, no, he cannot long hold out these pangs: The incessant care and labour of his mind Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in So thin that life looks through and will break out. Glou. The people fear me; for they do observe Unfather’d heirs and loathly births of nature: The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some months asleep and leap’d them over. Clar. The river hath thrice flow’d,no ebb between ; And the old folk, time’s doting chronicles, Say it did so a little time before That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick’d and died. War. Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers. Glou. This apoplexy will certain be his end. King. I pray you, take me up, and bear me hence Into some other chamber: softly, pray. SCENE V.—Another chamber. The King lying on a bed: Clarence, Gloucester, Warwick, and others in attendance. King. Let there be no noise made, my gentle Unless some dull and favourable hand [friends ; Will whisper music to my weary spirit. War. Call for the music in the other room. King. Set me the crown upon my pillow here. Olar. His eye is hollow, and he changes much. War. Less noise, less noise! Enter Prince Henry. Prince. Who saw the Duke of Clarence ? Clar. I am here, brother, full of heaviness. Prince. How now! rain within doors, and none How doth the king ? [abroad ! Glou. Exceeding ill. Prince. Heard he the good news yet ? Tell it him. pase Glou. He alter’d much upon the hearing it. | Prince. If he be sick with joy, he ’ll recover with- out physic. [speak low; War. Not so much noise, my lords; sweet prince, The king your father is disposed to sleep. 307 WM ad Sigh i" OClar. Let us withdraw into the other room. War. Wiil’t please your grace to go along with us? Prince. No; I will sit and watch here by the king. [Hxeunt all but the Prince. Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow, Being so troublesome a bedfellow ? O polish’d perturbation! golden care! That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night! sleep with it now! Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet As he whose brow with homely biggen bound Snores out the watch of night. O majesty! When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit Like a rich armour worn in heat of day, That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath There lies a downy feather which stirs not: Did he suspire, that light and weightless down Perforcemust move. My gracious lord! my father! This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorced So many English kings. Thy due from me Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood, Which nature, love, and filial tenderness, Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously : My due from thee is this imperial crown, Which, as immediate from thy place and blood, Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits, Which God shall guard: and put the world’s whole Into one giant arm, it shall not force [strength This lineal honour from me: this from thee Will I to mine leave, as tis left to me. [Hxit. King. Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence! Re-enter Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest. Clar. Doth the king call ? [grace ? War. What would your majesty ? How fares your King. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords ? Clar. We left the prince my brother here, my Who undertook to sit and watch by you. [liege, King. The Prince of Wales! Where is he ? let me He is not here. [see him: War. This door is open; he is gone this way. Glou. He came not through the chamber where we stay’d. [pillow ? King. Where is the crown? who took it from my War. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here. [him out. King. The prince hath ta’en it hence: go, seek Is he so hasty that he doth suppose My sleep my death ? Find him, my Lord of Warwick; chide him hither. [Haxit Warwick. This part of his conjoins with my disease, And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you How quickly nature falls into revolt [are ! When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers é Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry ; For this they have engrossed and piled up The canker’d heaps of strange-achieved gold; For this they have been thoughtful to invest Their sons with arts and martial exercises: When, like the bee, culling from every flower The virtuous sweets, [honey, Our thighs pack’d with wax, our mouths with We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees, Are murdered for our pains. This bitter taste Yield his engrossments to the ending father. Re-enter Warwick. Now, where is he that will not stay so long Till his friend sickness hath determined me ? War. My lord, I found the prince in the next room, 358 SECOND “PART OF KING 'WENEY WVyt SCENE V. Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks, With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow That tyranny, which never quaff’d but blood, Would, by beholding him, have wash’d his knife With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither. King. But wherefore did he take away the crown ? Re-enter Prince Henry. Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry. Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. [EHxeunt Warwick and the rest. Prince. I never thought to hear you speak again. King. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. [thought : Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth! Thouseek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity Is held from falling with so weak a wind That it will quickly drop: my day is dim. Thou hast stolen that which after some few hours Were thine without offence; and at my death Thou hast seal’d up my expectation: Thy life did manifest thou lovedst me not, And thou wilt have me die assured of it. Thou hidest a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, To stab at half an hour of my life. What! canst thou not forbear me half an hour ? Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself, And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear That thou art crowned, not that I am dead. Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head: Only compound me with forgotten dust; Give that which gave thee life unto the worms. Pluck down my officers, break my decrees; For now a time is come to mock at form: Harry the Fifth is crown’d: up, vanity! Down, royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence! And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness! Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum: Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit The oldest sins the newest kind of ways ? Be happy, he will trouble you no more; England shall double gild his treble guilt, England shall give him office, honour, might ; For the fifth Harry from curb’d license plucks The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! When that my care could not withhold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants! Prince. O. pardon me, my liege! but for my tears, The moist impediments unto my speech, I had forestall’d this dear and deep rebuke Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard The course of it so far. There is your crown; And He that wears the crown immortally Long guard it yours! If I affect it more Than as your honour and as your renown, Let me no more from this obedience rise, Which my mest inward true and duteous spirit Teacheth, this prostrate and exterior bending. God witness with me, when I here came in, And found no course of breath within your majesty. How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign, O, let me in my present wildness die And never live to show the incredulous world .| The noble change that I have purposed ! Coming to look on you, thinking you dead, And dead almost, my liege, to think you were, SECOND PART OF JT spake unto this crown as having sense, And thus upbraided it: ‘ The care on thee depending Hath fed upen the body of my father ; Therefore, thou best of gold art worst of gold: Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, Preserving life in medicine potable; But thou, most fine, most honour’d, most renown’d, Hast eat thy bearer up.’ Thus, my most royal liege, Accusing it, I put it on my head, To try with it, as with an enemy That had before my face murder’d my father, The quarrel of a true inheritor. But if it did infect my blood with joy, Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride; If any rebel or vain spirit of mine Did with the least affection of a welcome Give entertainment to the might of it, Let God for ever keep it from my head And make me as the poorest vassal is That doth with awe and terror kneel to it! King. O my son, God put it in thy mind to take it hence, That thou mightst win the more thy father’s love, Pleading so wisely in excuse of it! Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed; And hear, I think, the very latest counsel That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son, By what by-paths and indirect crook’d ways I met this crown; and I myself know well How troublesome it sat upon my head. To thee it shall descend with better quiet, Better opinion, better confirmation ; For all the soil of the achievement goes With me into the earth. It seem’d in me But as an honour snatch’d with boisterous hand, And I had many living to upbraid My gain of it by their assistances; Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed, Wounding supposed peace: all these bold fears Thou see’st with peril I have answered ; For all my reign hath been but as a scene Acting that argument: and now my death Changes the mode; for what in me was purchased, Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort; So thou the garland wear’st successively. [do, Yet, though thou stand’st more sure than I could ACT V. KING HENRY IP. SCENE I. Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green ; And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends, Have but their stings and teeth newly ta’en out ; By whose fell working I was first advanced And by whose power I well might lodge a fear To be again displaced: which to avoid, I cut them off; and had a purpose now To lead out many to the Holy Land, Lest rest and lying still might make them look Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, Be it thy course to busy giddy minds With foreign quarrels; that action, hence borne out, May waste the memory of the former days. More would I, but my lungs are wasted so That strength of speech is utterly denied me. How I came by the crown, O God forgive ; And grant it may with thee in true peace live! Prince. My gracious liege, You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me; Then plain and right must my possession be: Which I with more than with a common pain ’Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain. Enter Lord John of Lancaster. King. Look, look, here comes my John of Lan- caster. [father ! Lan. Health, peace, and happiness to my royal oaks ee bring’st me happiness and peace, son ohn; But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown From this bare wither’d trunk: upon thy sight My worldly business makes a period. Where is my Lord of Warwick ? Prince. My Lord of Warwick! Enter Warwick, and others. King. Doth any name particular belong Unto the lodging where I first did swoon ? War. ’T is call’d Jerusalem, my noble lord. King. Laud be to God! even there my life must It hath been prophesied to me many years, __[end. I should not die but in Jerusalem ; Which vainly I supposed the Holy Land: But bear me to that chamber; there I ’ll lie; In that Jerusalem shall Harry die. [ Hxeunt. OM BONG SCENE I. — Gloucestershire. Enter Shallow, Falstaff, Bardolph, and Page. Shal. By cock and pie, sir, you shall not away to- night. What, Davy, I say! . [low. al. You must excuse me, Master Robert Shal- Shal. I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused. Why, Davy! Shallow’s house. _ Enter Davy. Davy. Here, sir. Shal. Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy, let me see, Davy ; let me see, Davy; let me see: yea, marry, William cook, bid him come hither. Sir John, you shall not be excused. Davy. Marry, sir, thus; those precepts cannot be served: and, again, sir, shall we sow the headland with wheat ? Shal. With red wheat, Davy. But for William cook: are there no young pigeons ? Davy. Yes,sir. Here is now the smith’s note for shoeing and plough-irons. Shal. Let it be cast and paid. Sir John, you shall not be excused. | have some countenance at his friend’s request. Davy. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must needs be had: and, sir, do you mean to stop any of William’s wages, about the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley fair ? Shal. A’ shall answer it. Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook. Davy. Doth the man of war stay all night, sir ? Shal. Yea, Davy. I will use him well: a friend i’ the court is better than a penny in purse. Use his men well, Davy; for they are arrant knaves, and will backbite. Davy. No worse than they are backbitten, sir; for they have marvellous foul linen. Shal. Well conceited, Davy: about thy business, Davy. os Davy. I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of Woncot against Clement Perkes of the hill. Shal. There is many complaints, Davy, against that Visor: that Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge. } Davy. I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir; but yet, God forbid, sir, but a knave show n 359 ACT V. honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not. I have served your worship truly, sir, this eight years; and if I cannot once or twice in a quarter bear out a knave against an honest man, I have but a very little credit with your worship. The knave is mine honest friend, sir; therefore, I beseech your worship, let him be countenanced. Shal. Go to: Isay he shall have no wrong. Look about, Davy. [Hit Davy.] Where are you, Sir John? Come, come, come, off with your boots. Give me your hand, Master Bardolph. Bard. I am glad to see your worship. Shal. I thank thee with all my heart, kind Mas- ter Bardolph: and welcome, my tall fellow [to the Page|. Come, Sir John. Fal. Ill follow you, good Master Robert Shallow. [Exit Shallow.] Bardolph, look to our horses. [Hz- eunt Bardolph and Page.| If I were sawed into quan- tities, I should make four dozen of such bearded hermits’ staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonder- ful thing to see the sembable coherence of his men’s spirits and his: they, by observing of him, do bear themselves like foolish justices; he, by conversing with them, is turned into a justice-like serving-man: their spirits are so married in conjunction with the participation of society that they flock together in consent, like so many wild-geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, | would humour his men with the imputation of being near their master: if to his men, I would curry with Master Shallow that no man could better command his servants. It is cer- tain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of another: there- fore let men take heed of their company. I will de- vise matter enough out of this Shallow to keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of six fashions, which is four terms, or two actions, and a’ shall laugh without intervallums. O, it is much that a lie with a slight oath and a jest with a sad brow will do with a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders! O, you shall see him laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up! Shal. [Within] Sir John! Fal. 1 come, Master Shallow; I come, Master Shallow. [ Hxit. SCENE II.— Westminster. The palace. Enter Warwick and the Lord Chief-Justice, meeting. War. How now, my lord chief-justice! whither Ch. Just. How doth the king ? [away ? War. Exceeding well; his cares are now all ended. Ch. Just. I hope, not dead. War. He’s walk’d the way of nature; And to our purposes he lives no more. {him : Ch. Just. I would his majesty had call’d me with The service that I truly did his life Hath left me open to all injuries. War. Indeed [ think the young king loves you not. Oh. Just. I know he doth not, and do arm myself To welcome the condition of the time, Which cannot look more hideously upon me Than I have drawn it in my fantasy. Enter Lancaster, Clarence, Gloucester, Westmoreland, and others. War. Here come the heavy issue of dead Harry: O that the living Harry had the temper Of him, the worst of these three gentlemen ! How many nobles then should hold their places, That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort! Ch. Just. O God, I fear all will be overturn’d! Lan. Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good mor- Glou. . [row. Pilcn Good morrow, cousin. Lan. We meet like men that had forgot to speak. 300 SECOND PART. OF KING HENRY EY heen War. We do remember; but our argument Is all too heavy to admit much talk. [heavy ! Lan. Well, peace be with him that hath made us Ch. Just. Peace be with us, lest we be heavier! Glou. O, good my lord, you have lost a friend in- And I dare swear you borrow not thatface [deed; | Of seeming sorrow, it is sure your own. Lan. Though no man be assured what grace to find, You stand in coldest expectation : I am the sorrier; would ’t were otherwise. _ [fair; Clar. Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff Which swims against your stream of quality. Oh. Just. Sweet princes, what I did, I did in hon- Led by the impartial conduct of my soul; four, And never shall you see that I will beg A ragged and forestall’d remission. If truth and upright innocency fail me, Ill to the king my master that is dead, And tell him who hath sent me after him. War. Here comes the prince. Enter King Henry the Fifth, attended. Ch. Just. Good morrow; and God save your majesty! King. This new and gorgeous garment, majesty, Sits not so easy on me as you think. Brothers, you mix your sadness with some fear: This is the English, not the Turkish court; Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers, For, by my faith, it very well becomes you: Sorrow so royally in you appears That I will deeply put the fashion on And wear it in my heart: why then, be sad; But entertain no more of it, good brothers, Than a joint burden laid upon us all. For me, by Heaven, I bid you be assured, I°ll be your father and your brother too; Let me but bear your love, I ’ll bear your cares: Yet weep that Harry ’s dead; and so will I; But Harry lives, that shall convert those tears By number into hours of happiness. Princes. We hope no other from your majesty. King. You all look strangely on me: and you most ; You are, I think, assured I love you not. Ch. Just. Iam assured, if I be measured rightly, Your majesty hath no just cause to hate me. King. No! How might a prince of my great hopes forget So great indignities you laid upon me ? What! rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison The immediate heir of England! Was this easy ? May this be wash’d in Lethe, and forgotten ? Ch. Just. I then did use the person of your father ; The image of his power lay then in me: And, in the administration of his law, Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth, Your highness pleased to forget my place, The majesty and power of law and justice, The image of the king whom I presented, And struck me in my very seat of judgment; Whereon, as an offender to your father, I gave bold way to my authority And did commit you. If the deed were ill, Be you contented, wearing now the garland, To have a son set your decrees at nought, To pluck down justice from your awful bench, To trip the course of law and blunt the sword - That guards the peace and safety of your person ; Nay, more, to spurn at your most royal image And mock your workings in a second body. Question your royal thoughts, make the ease yours Be now the father and propose a son, Hear your own dignity so much profaned, See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted, Behold yourself so by a son disdain’d; And then imagine me taking your part ACT V. SECON pale OR OCRING: HENEY LV. SCENE III. And in your power soft silencing your son: After this cold considerance, sentence me; And, as you are a king, speak in your state What I have done that misbecame my place, My person, or my liege’s sovereignty. [well ; King. You are right, justice, and you weigh this aretors still bear the balance and the sword: And I do wish your honours may increase, Till you do live to see a son of mine Offend you and obey you, as I did. So shall I live to speak my father’s words: ‘Happy am I, that have a man so bold, That dares do justice on my proper son; And not less happy, having such a son, That would deliver up his greatness so Into the hands of justice.’ You did commit me: For which, I do commit into your hand The unstained sword that you have used to bear ; With this remembrance, that you use the same With the like bold, just and impartial spirit As you have done ’gainst me. There is my hand. You shall be as a father to my youth: My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear, And I will stoop and humble my intents To your well-practised wise directions. And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you; My father is gone wild into his grave, For in his tomb lie my affections; And with his spirit sadly I survive, To mock the expectation of the world, To frustrate prophecies and to raze out Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down After my seeming. The tide of blood in me Hath proudly flow’d in vanity till now: Now doth it turn and ebb back to the sea, Where it shall mingle with the state of floods And flow henceforth in formal majesty. Now call we our high court of parliament: And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel, That the great body of our state may go In equal rank with the best govern’d nation ; That war, or peace, or both at once, may be As things acquainted and familiar to us; In which you, father, shall have foremost hand. Our coronation done. we will accite, As I before remember’d, all our state: And, God consigning to my good intents, No prince nor peer shall have just cause to say, God shorten Harry’s happy life one day! [Hveunt. SCENE III.— Gloucestershire. Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Silence, Davy, Bar- dolph, and the Page. Shal. Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, in an arbour, we will eat a last year’s pippin of my own graffing, with a dish of caraways, and so forth: come, cousin Silence: and then to bed. -« Fal. ’Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. Shal. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beg- gars all, Sir John: marry, good air. Spread, Davy; spread, Davy; well said, Davy. Fal. This Davy serves you for good uses; he is your serving-man and your husband. Shal. A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet, Sir John: by the mass, I have drunk too much sack at supper: a good varlet. Now sit down, now sit down: come cousin. Si. Ah, sirrah! quoth-a, we shall Do nothing but eat, and make good cheer, [ Singing. Shallow’s orchard. And praise God for the merry year; When flesh is cheap and females dear, And lusty lads roam here and there So merrily, And ever among so merrily. Fal. There ’samerry heart! Good Master Silence, Ill give you a health for that anon. Shal. Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy. Davy. Sweet sir, sit; Ill be with you anon; most sweet sir, sit. Master page, good master page, sit. Proface! What you want in meat, we’ll have in drink: but you must bear; the heart’s all. [Evit. Shal. Be merry, Master Bardolph; and’, my little soldier there, be merry. Sil. Be merry, be merry, my wife has all; [Singing. For women are shrews, both short and tall : *T is merry in hall when beards wag all, And welcome merry: Shrove-tide. Be merry, be merry. Fal. I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle. Sil. Who, 1? I have been merry twice and once ere now. Re-enter Davy. Davy. There’s a dish of leather-coats for you. Shal. Davy! [To Bardolph. Davy. Your worship! Ill be with you straight [to Bardolph]. A cup of wine, sir? Sil. A cup of wine that’s brisk and fine, [| Singing. And drink unto the leman mine; And a merry heart lives long-a. Fal. Well said, Master Silence. Sil. An we shall be merry, now comes in the sweet 0’ the night. fal. Health and long life to you, Master Silence. Sil. Fill the cup, and let it come; [Singing. I’ll pledge you a mile to the bottom. Shal. Honest Bardolph, welcome: if thou wantest any thing, and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart. Welcome, my little tiny thief [to the Page], and wel- come indeed too. I’ll drink to Master Bardolph, and to all the cavaleros about London. Davy. I hope to see London once ere I die. Bard. An I might see you there, Davy,— Shal. By the mass, you ’ll crack a quart together, ha! will you not, Master Bardolph ? Bard. Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot. Shal. By God’s liggens, I thank thee: the knave will stick by thee, I can assure thee that. A’ will not out; he is true bred. Bard. And J’ll stick by hin, sir. Shal. Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing: be merry. [Knocking within.] Look who’s at door there, ho! who knocks ? [Exit Davy. Fal. Why, now you have done me right. [To Silence, seeing him take off a bumper. Sil. Do me right [Singing. And dub me knight: Samingo. Is ’t not so? Fal. ’T is so. [somewhat. Sil. Is’t so? Why then, say an old man can do Re-enter Davy. Davy. An’t please your worship, there’s one Pistol come from the court with news. Fal. From the court! let him come in. Enter Pistol. How now, Pistol! Pist. Sir John, God save you! Fal. What wind blew you hither, Pistol ? Pist. Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight, thou art now one of the great- est men in this realm. Sil. By’r lady, I think a’ be, but goodman Puff of Barson. Pist. Puff! Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base! 361 ACT AVG Sir John, lL am thy Pistol and thy friend, And helter-skelter have I rode to thee, And tidings do I bring and lucky joys Anda golden times and happy news of price. Fal. I pray thee now, deliver them like a man of this world. Pist. A foutre for the world and worldlings base! I speak of Africa and golden joys. Fal. O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news ? Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof. Sil. And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John. [ Singing. Pist. Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons ? And shall good news be baffled ? Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap. Sil. Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding. Pist. Why then, lament, therefore. Shal. Give me pardon, sir: if, sir, you come with news from the court, I take it there ’s but two ways, either to utter them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, under the king, in some authority. Pist. Under which king, Besonian ? speak, or die. Shal. Under King Harry. Pist. Harry the Fourth? or Fifth ? Shal. Harry the Fourth. Bak A foutre for thine office! Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king; Harry the Fifth ’s the man. I speak the truth: When Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like The bragging Spaniard. Fal. What, is the old king dead ? Pist. As nail in door: the things I speak are just. Fal. Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse. Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land, ’tis thine. Pistol, I will double-charge thee Bard. O joyful day! [with dignities. I would not take a knighthood for my fortune. Pist. What! I do bring good news. Fal. Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shal- low, my Lord Shallow,—be what thou wilt; I am fortune’s steward — get on thy boots: we ’ll ride all night. O sweet Pistol! Away, Bardolph! [wit Bard.| Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and withal devise something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, Master Shallow: I know the young king is sick for me. Let us take any man’s horses; the laws of England are at my commandment. Blessed are they that have been my friends; and woe to my lord chief-justice ! Pist. Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also! ‘Where is the life that late I led?’ say they: Why, here it is; welcome these pleasant days! [| Hxeunt. SCENE IV.—London. A street. Enter Beadles, dragging in Hostess Quickly and Doll Tearsheet. Host. No, thou arrant knave; I would to God that I might die, that I might have thee hanged: thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint. First Bead. The constables have delivered her over to me; and she shall have whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her: there hath been a man or two lately killed about her. Dol. Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on; I’ tell thee what, thou damned tripe-visaged ras- cal, an the child I now go with do miscearry, thou wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou paper-faced villain. Host. O the Lord, that Sir John were come! he would make this a bloody day to somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb miscarry! Kirst Bead. If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again; you have but eleven now. Come, I charge you both go with me; for the man is dead that you and Pistol beat amongst you. 362 SECOND PART OF “RING HENRY Viv. eenn Be Dol. I’) tell you what, you thin man in a cen- ser, I will have you as soundly swinged for this,— you blue-bottle rogue, you filthy famished correc- tioner, if you be not swinged, Ill forswear half- kirtles. [come. First Bead. Come, come, you she knight-errant, Host. O God, that right should thus overcome might! Well, of sufferance comes ease. [tice. Dol. Come, you rogue, come; bring me to a jus- Host. Ay, come, you starved blood-hound. Dol. Goodman death, goodman bones! Host. Thou atomy, thou! Dol. Come, you thin thing; come, you rascal. First Bead. Very well. [ Hxeunt. SCENE V.—A public place near Westminster Abbey. | Enter two Grooms, strewing rushes. First Groom. More rushes, more rushes. Sec. Groom. The trumpets have sounded twice. First Groom. ’T will be two o’clock ere they come from the coronation: dispatch, dispatch. [Hweunt. Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph, and Page. Fal. Stand here by me, Master Robert Shallow ; IT will make the king do you grace: I will leer upon him as a’ comes by; and do but mark the coun- tenance that he will give me. Pist. God bless thy lungs, good knight. Fal. Come here, Pistol; stand behind me. O, if I had had time to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed the thousand pound I borrowed of you. But ’tis no matter; this poor show doth bet- ter: this doth infer the zeal I had to see him. Shal. It doth so. Fal. It shows my earnestness of affection,— Shal. It doth so. Fal. My devotion,— Shal. It doth, it doth, it doth. Fal. As it were, to ride day and night; and not to deliberate, not to remember, not to have pa- tience to shift me,— Shal. It is best, certain. Fal. But to stand stained with travel, and sweat- ing with desire to see him; thinking of nothing else, putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if there were nothing else to be done but to see him. Pist. "Tis ‘semper idem,’ for ‘ obsque hoc nihil est:’ ‘tis all in every part. Shal. ’Tis so, indeed. Pist. My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver, And make thee rage. Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts, Is in base durance and contagious prison 3 Haled thither By most mechanical and dirty hand: [snake, Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell Alecto’s For Doll isin. Pistol speaks nought but truth. Fal, I will deliver her. ; [Shouts within, and the trumpets sound. Pist. There roar’d the sea, and trumpet-clangor sounds. Enter the King and his train, the Lord Chief-Jus- tice among them. je God save thy grace, King Hal! my royal al: Pist. The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame! Fal. God save thee, my sweet boy! [man. King. My lord chief-justice, speak to that vain Oh. Just. Have you your wits? know you what tis you speak ? Fal. My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart! ACT V. King. I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers ; How ill white hairs become a fool and jester! I have long dream’d of such a kind of man, So surfeit-swell’d, so old and so profane ; But, being awaked, I do despise my dream. Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace; Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape For thee thrice wider than for other men. Reply not to me with a fool-born jest: Presume not that I am the thing I was; For God doth know, so shall the world perceive, That I have turned away my former self; So will I those that kept me company. When thou dost hear I am as I have been, Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast, The tutor and the feeder of my riots: Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death, As I have done the rest of my misleaders, Not to come near our person by ten mile. For competence of life I will allow you, That lack of means enforce you not to evil: And, as we hear you do reform yourselves, We will, according to your strengths and qualities, Give youadvancement. Be it your charge, my lord, To see perform’d the tenour of our word. Set on. [Hxeunt King, &c. Fal. Master Shallow, Iowe youa thousand pound. Shal. Yea, marry, Sir John; which I beseech you to let me have home with me. Fal. That can hardly be, Master Shallow. Do not you grieve at this; I shall be sent for in pri- vate to him: look you, he must seem thus to the world: fear not your advancements; I will be the man yet that shall make you great. Shal. I cannot well perceive how, unless you should give me your doublet and stuff me out with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me have five hundred of my thousand. Fal. Sir, 1 will be as good as my word: this that you heard was but a colour. [John. Shal. A colour that I fear you will die in, Sir Fal. Fear no colours: go with me to dinner: come, Lieutenant Pistol; come, Bardolph: I shall be sent for soon at night. fe-enter Prince John, the Lord Chief-Justice ; Officers with them. Oh. Just. Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet : Take all his company along with‘him. Fal. My lord, my lord, — [soon. Ch. Just. I cannot now speak: I will hear you Take them away. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. SCENE V. Pist. Si fortuna me tormenta, spero contenta. [Exeunt all but Prince John and the Chief-Justice, Lan. I like this fair proceeding of the king’s: He hath intent his wonted followers Shall all be very well provided for ; But all are banish’d till their conversations Appear more wise and modest to the world. Ch. Just. And so they are. Lan. The king hath call’d his parliament, my lord. Ch. Just. He hath. Lan. I will lay odds that, ere this year expire, We bear our civil swords and native fire As far as France: I heard a bird so sing, Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king. Come, will you hence ? [ Hxeunt. EPILOGUE. Spoken by a Dancer, First my fear; then my courtesy ; last my speech. My fear is, your displeasure; my courtesy, my duty; and my speech, to beg your pardons. If you look for a good speech how, you undo me: for what I have to say is of mine own making; and what in- deed J. should say will, I doubt, prove mine own marring. But to the purpose, and so to the ven- ture. Be it known to you, as it is very well, I was lately here in the end of a displeasing play, to pray your patience for it and to promise you a better. I meant indeed to pay you with this; which, if like an ill venture it come unluckily home, I break, and you, my gentle creditors, lose. Here I promised you I would be and here I commit my body to your mercies: bate me some and I will pay you some and, aS most debtors do, promise you infinitely. If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me, will you command me to use my legs? and yet that were but light payment, to dance out of your debt. But a good conscience will make any possible satis- faction, andso would I. All the gentlewomen here have forgiven me: if the gentlemen will not, then the gentlemen do not agree with the gentlewomen, which was never seen before in such an assembly. One word more, I beseech you. If you be not too much cloyed with fat meat, our humble author will continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katharine of France: where, for any thing I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless already a’ be killed with your hard opinions; Falstaff—Yea, marry, let’s see Bullealf. Bulicalf.—Here, sir. Falstaf—’Fore God, @ likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till he roar again. Act IITI., Scene ii. THE LIFE OF HENRY THE FIFTH. KING DRAMATIS PERSON. King Henry the Fifth. Duke of Gloucester, Duke of Bedford, Duke of Exeter, uncle to the King. Duke of York, cousin to the King. Earls of Salisbury, Westmoreland, and War- wick. Archbishop of Canterbury. Bishop of Ely. Earl of Cambridge. Lord Scroop. Sir Thomas Grey. Sir Thomas Erpingham, Gower, Fluellen, Mac- morris, Jamy, officers in King Henry’s army. Bates, Court, Williams, soldiers in the same. Pistol, Nym, Bardolph. Boy. A Herald. brothers to the King. Charles the Sixth, King of France. Lewis the Dauphin. Dukes of Burgundy, Orleans, and Bourbon. The Constable of France. Rambures and Grandpré, French Lords, Governor of Harfleur. Montjoy, a French Herald. Ambassadors to the King of England. Isabel, Queen of France. Katharine, daughter to Charles and Isabel. Alice, a lady attending on her. Hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap, formerly Mistress Quickly, and now married to Pistol. Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, and Attendants. Chorus. SCENE — “ngland ; afterwards France. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lv.] PR O88, ©, GC. ee Enter Chorus. Chor. O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels, __ [fire Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword and Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles ail, The flat unraised spirits that have dared On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object: can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of France? or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt ? O, pardon! since a crooked figure may Attest in little place a million; And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, On your imaginary forces work. Suppose within the girdle of these walls Are now confined two mighty monarchies, Whose high upreared and abutting fronts The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder: Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts ; Into a thousand parts divide one man, And make imaginary puissance ; Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i’ the receiving earth ; For ’tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings. Carry them here and there; jumping o’er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hour-glass: for the which supply, Admit me Chorus to this history ; Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play. [ Hot. NC) IT SCENE I.— London. An ante-chamber in the King’s palace. inter the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Bishop of Ely. Cant. My lord, I'll tell you; that self bill is urged, Which in the eleventh year of the last king’s reign Was like, and had indeed against us pass’d, But that the scambling and unquiet time Did push it out of farther question. Ely. But how, my lord, shall we resist it now ? Cant. \t must be thought on. If it pass against us, 364 We lose the better half of our possession: For all the temporal lands which men devout By testament have given to the church Would they strip from us; being valued thus: As much as would maintain, to the king’s honour, Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights, Six thousand and two hundred good esquires; And, to relief of lazars and weak age, Of indigent faint souls past corporal toil, A hundred almshouses right well supplied; And to the coffers of the king beside, A thousand pounds by the year: thus runs the bill ACT I. OLIV. EEN BY? V; SCENE II, Ely. This would drink deep. Cant. °T would drink the cup and all. Ely. But what prevention ? Cant. The king is full of grace and fair regard. Ely. And a true lover of the holy church. Cant. The courses of his youth promised it not. The breath no sooner left his father’s body, But that his wildness, mortified in him, Seem’d to die too; yea, at that very moment Consideration, like an angel, came And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him, Leaving his body as a paradise, To envelope and contain celestial spirits. Never was such a sudden scholar made; Never came reformation in a flood, With such a heady currance, scouring faults; Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness So soon did lose his seat and all at once As in this king. Ely. We are blessed in the change. Cant. Hear him but reason in divinity, And all-admiring with an inward wish You would desire the king were made a prelate: Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs, You would say it hath been all in all his study: List his discourse of war, and you shall hear A fearful battle render’d you in music: Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter: that, when he speaks, The air, a charter’d libertine, is still, And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears, To steal his sweet and honey’d sentences ; So that the art and practic part of life Must be the mistress to this theoric: Which is a wonder how his grace should glean it, Since his addiction was to courses vain, His companies unletter’d, rude and shallow, His hours fill’d up with riots, banquets, sports, And never noted in him any study, Any retirement, any sequestration From open haunts and popularity. Ely. The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour’d by fruit of baser quality: And so the prince obscured his contemplation Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt, Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night, Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty. Cant. It must be so; for miracles are ceased ; And therefore we must needs admit the means How things are perfected. Ely. But, my good lord, How now for mitigation of this bill Urged by the commons? Doth his majesty Incline to it, or no? Cant. He seems indifferent, Or rather swaying more upon our part Than cherishing the exhibiters against us; For I have made an offer to his majesty, Upon our spiritual convocation And in regard of causes now in hand, Which I have open’d to his grace at large, As touching France, to give a greater sum Than ever at one time the clergy yet Did to his predecessors part withal. Ely. How did this offer seem received, my lord ? Cant. With good acceptance of his majesty ; Save that there was not time enough to hear, As I perceived his grace would fain have done, The severals and unhidden passages Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms And generally to the crown and seat of France Derived from Edward, his great-grandfather. Ely. eat was the impediment that broke this off : Cant. The French ambassador upon that instant Craved audience; and the hour, I think, is come To give him hearing: is it four o’clock ? Ely. It is. Cant. Then go we in, to know his embassy ; Which I could with a ready guess declare, Before the Frenchman speak a word of it. fly. 1711 wait upon you, and I long to hear it. ’ [Exeunt. SCENE II. — The same. The Presence chamber. Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Warwick, Westmoreland, and Attendants. Kk. Hen. Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury? Exe. Not here in presence. K. Hen. Send for him, good uncle. West. Shall we call in the ambassador, my liege ? K. Hen. Not yet, my cousin: we would be resolved, Before we hear him, of some things of weight That task our thoughts, concerning us and France. Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Bishop of Ely. Cant. God and his angels guard your sacred throne And make you long become it! K. Hen. Sure, we thank you. My learned lord, we pray you to proceed : And justly and religiously unfold Why the law Salique that they have in France Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim: And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord, _ [ing, That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your read- Or nicely charge your understanding soul With opening titles miscreate, whose right Suits not in native colours with the truth; For God doth know how many now in health Shall drop their blood in approbation Of what your reverence shall incite us to. Therefore take heed how you impawn our person, How you awake our sleeping sword of war: We charge you, in the name of God, take heed ; For never two such kingdoms did contend Without much fall of blood; whose guiltless drops Are every one a woe, a sore complaint ’Gainst him whose wrong gives edge unto the swords That make such waste in brief mortality. Under this conjuration speak, my lord; For we will hear, note and believe in heart That what you speak is in your conscience wash’d As pure as sin with baptism. [peers, Cant. Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you That owe yourselves, your lives and services To this imperial throne. There is no bar To make against your highness’ claim to France But this, which they produce from Pharamond, ‘In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant ;’ ‘No woman shall succeed in Salique land:’ Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze To be the realm of France, and Pharamond The founder of this law and female bar. Yet their own authors faithfully affirm That the land Salique is in Germany, Between the floods of Sala and.of Elbe; {ons, Where Charles the Great, having subdued the Sax- There left behind and settled certain French ; Who, holding in disdain the German women For some dishonest manners of their life, Establish’d then this law; to wit, no female Should be inheritrix in Salique land: Which Salique, as I said, ’twixt Elbe and Sala, Is at this day in Germany call’d Meisen. Then doth it well appear the Salique law Was not devised for the realm of France; Nor did the French possess the Salique land Until four hundred one and twenty years After defunction of King Pharamond, Idly supposed the founder of this law; 365 ACT I. Who died within the year of our redemption Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles the Great Subdued the Saxons, and did seat the French Beyond the river Sala, in the year Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say, King Pepin, which deposed Childeric, Did, as heir general, being descended Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair, Make claim and title to the crown of France. Hugh Capet also, who usurp’d the crown Of Charles the duke of Lorraine, sole heir male Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great, To find his title with some shows of truth, Though, in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught, Conveyed himself as heir to the Lady Lingare, Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son To Lewis the emperor, and Lewis the son Of Charles the Great. Also King Lewis the Tenth, Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet, Could not keep quiet in his conscience, Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother, Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare, Daughter to Charles the foresaid duke of Lorraine: By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great Was re-united to the crown of France. So that, as clear as is the summer’s sun, King Pepin’s title and Hugh Capet’s claim, King Lewis his satisfaction, all appear To hold in right and title of the female: So do the kings of France unto this day; Howbeit they would hold up this Salique law To bar your highness claiming from the female, And rather choose to hide them in a net Than amply to imbar their crooked titles Usurp’d from you and your progenitors. [claim ? i, Hen. May I withright and conscience make this Cant. The sin upon my head, dread sovereign! For in the book of Numbers is it writ, When the man dies, let the inheritance Descend unto the daughter. Gracious lord, Stand for your own; unwind your bloody flag; Look back into your mighty ancestors ; Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire’s tomb, From whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit, And your great-uncle’s, Edward the Black Prince, Who on the French ground play’d a tragedy, Making defeat on the full power of France, Whiles his most mighty father on a hill Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp Forage in blood of French nobility. O noble English, that could entertain With half their forces the full pride of France And let another half stand laughing by, All out of work and cold for action! Ely. Awake remembrance of these valiant dead And with your puissant arm renew their feats: You are their heir; you sit upon their throne; The blood and courage that renowned them Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissant liege Is in the very May-morn of his youth, Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises. [earth Hxe. Your brother kings and monarchs of the Do all expect that you should rouse yourself, As did the former lions of your blood. West. They know your grace hath cause and means and might; So hath your highness; never king of England Had nobles richer and more loyal subjects, Whose hearts have left their bodies here in England And lie pavilioned in the fields of France. Cant. O, let their bodies follow, my dear liege, With blood and sword and fire to win your right; In aid whereof we of the spiritualty Will raise your highness such a mighty sum As never did the clergy at one time Bring in to any of your ancestors. 366 KING EE BAN TOY ee SCENE II, | kK. Hen. We must not only arm to invade the But lay down our proportions to defend [French, Against the Scot, who will make road upon us | With all advantages. Cant. They of those marches, gracious sovereign, Shall be a wall sufficient to defend Our inland from the pilfering borderers. [only, Kk. Hen. We do not mean the coursing snatchers But fear the main intendment of the Scot, Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us; For you shall read that my great-grandfather Never went with his forces into France But that the Scot on his unfurnish’d kingdom Came pouring, like the tide into a breach, With ample and brim fulness of his force, Galling the gleaned land with hot assays, Girding with grievous siege castles and towns; That England, being empty of defence, Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood. Cant. She hath been then more fear’d than harm’d, my liege; For hear her but exampled by herself: When all her chivalry hath been in France And she a mourning widow of her nobles, She hath herself not only well defended But taken and impounded as a stray The King of Scots; whom she did send to France, To fill King Edward’s fame with prisoner kings And make her chronicle as rich with praise As is the ooze and bottom of the sea With sunken wreck and sumless treasuries. West. But there’s a saying very old and true, ‘If that you will France win Then with Scotland first begin :’ For once the eagle England being in prey, To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot Comes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs, Playing the mouse in absence of the cat, To tear and havoc more than she can eat. Exe. It follows then the cat must stay at home: Yet that is but a crush’d necessity, Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries, And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves. While that the armed hand doth fight abroad, The advised head defends itself at home; For government, though high and low and lower, Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, Congreeing in a full and natural close, Like music. Cant. Therefore doth heaven divide The state of man in divers functions, Setting endeavour in continual motion ; To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, Obedience: for so work the honey-bees, Creatures that by a rule in nature teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king and officers of sorts; Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor ; Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold, The civil citizens kneading up the honey, The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate, The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o’er to executors pale The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, That many things, having full reference To one consent, may work contrariously : As many arrows, loosed several ways, _ Come to one mark ; as many ways meet in one town; | As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea ; As many lines close in the dial’s centre; Yeu hel ge So may a thousand actions, once afoot, End in one purpose, and be all well borne _ Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege. Divide your happy England into four; Whereof take you one quarter into France, And you withal shall make all Gallia shake. If we, with thrice such powers left at home, Cannot defend our own doors from the dog, Let us be worried and our nation lose The name of hardiness and policy. Kk. Hen. Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin. [Hxeunt some Attendants. Now are we well resolved; and, by God’s help, And yours, the noble sinews of our power, France being ours, we ’ll bend it to our awe, Or break it all to pieces: or there we ’ll sit, Ruling in large and ample empery O’er France and all her almost kingly dukedoms, Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn, Tombless, with no remembrance over them: Either our history shall with full mouth Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, Not worshipp’d with a waxen epitaph. Enter Ambassadors of France. Now are we well prepared to know the pleasure Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear Your greeting is from him, not from the king. First Amb. May ’t please your majesty to give us Freely to render what we have in charge; _ [leave Or shall we sparingly show you far off The Dauphin’s meaning and our embassy ? K. Hen. We are no tyrant, but a Christian king; Unto whose grace our passion is as subject As are our wretches fetter’d in our prisons: Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness Tell us the Dauphin’s mind. First Amb. Thus, then, in few. Your highness, lately sending into France, Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third. | In answer of which claim, the prince our master Says that you savour too much of your youth, And bids you be advised there ’s nought in France That can be with a nimble galliard won; You cannot revel into dukedoms there. He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit, This tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this, Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks. dx. Hen. What treasure, uncle ? ve. Tennis-balls, my liege. ix. Hen. We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us; Pals GALEN BY, PROLOGUE, His present and your pains we thank you for: When we have match’d our rackets to these balls, We will, in France, by God’s grace, play a set Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard. Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler That all the courts of France will be disturb’d With chaces. And we understand him well, How he comes o’er us with our wilder days, Not measuring what use we made of them. We never valued this poor seat of England; And therefore, living hence, did give ourself To barbarous license; as ’t is ever common That men are merriest when they are from home. But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state, Be like a king and show my sail of greatness When I do rouse me in my throne of France: For that I have laid by my majesty And plodded like a man for working-days, But I will rise there with so full a glory That I will dazzle all the eyes of France, Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us. And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his Hath turn’d his balls to gun-stones; and his soul Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance That shall fly with them: for many a thousand widows Shall this his mock mock out of their dear hus- bands ; Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down ; And some are yet ungotten and unborn That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin’s scorn. But this lies all within the will of God, To whom I do appeal; and in whose name Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on, To venge me as I may and to put forth My rightful hand in a well-hallow’d cause. So get you hence in peace; and tell the Dauphin His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep more than did laugh at it. Convey them with safe conduct. Fare you well. [Hxeunt Ambassadors. Exe. This was a merry message. Kk. Hen. We hope to make the sender blush at it. Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour That may give furtherance to our expedition ; For we have now no thought in us but France, Save those to God, that run before our business. Therefore let our proportions for these wars Be soon collected and all things thought upon That may with reasonable swiftness add More feathers to our wings; for, God before, Well chide this Dauphin at his father’s door. Therefore let every man now task his thought, That this fair action may on foot be brought. [Hxeunt.—Flourish. PN OEELY LT: PROLOGUE. Enter Chorus. Chor. Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man: They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, Following the mirror of all Christian kings, With winged heels, as English Mercuries. For now sits Expectation in the air, And hides a sword from hilts unto the point With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, Promised to Harry and his followers. The French, advised by good intelligence Of this most dreadful preparation, Shake in their fear and with pale policy Seek to divert the English purposes. O England! model to thy inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart, What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, Were ail thy children kind and natural! But see thy fault! France hath in thee found out A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men, One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second, Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third, Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, Have, for the gilt of France,—O guilt indeed !— Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France; __ And by their hands this grace of kings must die, If hell and treason hold their promises, 367 ACT II. Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton. Linger your patience on; and well digest The abuse of distance; force a play: The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed ; The king is set from London; and the scene Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton; There is the playhouse now, there must you sit: And thence to France shall we convey you safe, And bring you back, charming the narrow seas To give you gentle pass; for, if we may, We’ll not offend one stomach with our play. But, till the king come forth, and not till then, Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. [vit. SCENE I.— London. A street. Enter Corporal Nym and Lieutenant Bardolph. Bard. Well met, Corporal Nym. Nym. Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph. Bard. What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends yet? Nym. For my part, I care not: I say little; but when time shall serve, there shall be smiles, but that shall be as it may. I dare not fight; but I will wink and hold out mine iron: it is asimple one; but what though ? it will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will: and there’s an end. Bard. I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends; and we’ll be all three sworn brothers to France: let it be so, good Corporal Nym. Nym. Faith, I will live so long as I may, that’s the certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I will do as I may: that is my rest, that is the rendezvous of it. Bard. It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly: and certainly she did you wrong; for you were troth-plight to her. Nym. I cannot tell: things must be as they may: men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time; and some say knives have edges. It must be as it may: though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be con- clusions. Well, I cannot tell. Enter Pistol and Hostess. Bard. Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife: good corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pist. Base tike, call’st thou me host? — [Pistol! Now, by this hand, I swear, I scorn the term; Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers. Host. No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it will be thought we keep a bawdy house straight. {Nym and Pistol draw.] O wella day, Lady, if he be not drawn now! we shall see wilful adultery and murder committed. Bard. Good lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here. Nym. Pish! Pist. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear’d cur of Iceland! Host. Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword. Nym. Will you shog off ? I would have you solus. Pist. ‘Solus,’ egregious dog? O viper vile! The ‘ solus’ in thy most mervailous face; The ‘ solus’ in thy teeth, and in thy throat, And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy, And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth! I do retort the ‘ solus’ in thy bowels: For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up, And flashing fire will follow. Nym. Iam not Barbason ; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you 368 KING HENRY V. SCENE I. with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms: if you would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may: and that’s the humour of it. Pist. O braggart vile and damned furious wight ! The grave doth gape, and doting death is near; Therefore exhale. Bard. Hear me, hear me what I say: he that strikes the first stroke, Il] run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier. [ Draws. Pist. An oath of mickle might; and fury shall Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give: [abate. Thy spirits are most tall. Nym. I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms: that is the humour of it. Pist. ‘Couple a gorge! ’ That is the word. I thee defy again. ; O hound of Crete, think’st thou my spouse to get ? No; to the spital go, . And from the powdering-tub of infamy Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid’s kind, Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse: I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly For the only she; and— pauca, there ’s enough. Go to. Enter the Boy. Boy. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my mas- ter, and you, hostess: he is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he’s very Bard. Away, you rogue! fill. Host. By my troth, he ’I] yield the crow a pudding one of these days. The king has killed his heart. Good husband, come home presently. [Hxeunt Hostess and Boy. Bard. Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together: why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another’s throats ? fon! Pist. Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl Nym. Youll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting ? Pist. Base is the slave that pays. [of it. Nym. That now I will have: that’s the humour Pist. As manhood shall compound: push home. [They draw. Bard. By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, Ill kill him; by this sword, I will. Pist. Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course. Bard. Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be friends: an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up. Nym. I shall have my eight shillings I won of you at betting ? Pist. A noble shalt thou have, and present pay ; And liquor likewise will I give to thee, And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood : I’ live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me; Is not this just ? for I shall sutler be Unto the camp, and profits will accrue. Give me thy hand. Nym. I shall have my noble ? Pist. In cash most justly paid. Nym. Well, then, that’s the humour of ’t. Re-enter Hostess. Host. Asever youcame of women, come in quickly to’Sir John. Ah, poor heart! he is so shaked of a burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lament- able to behold. Sweet men, come to him. Nym. The king hath run bad humours on the | knight; that’s the even of it. Pist. Nym, thou hast spoke the right ; | His heart is fracted and corroborate. Nym. The king isa good king: but it must be as it may; he passes some humours and careers. Pist. Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins we will live. Ds pe - % 9 ee é Z Q iL ft Z wy re 4 or ny 7" ny 4 x | > = o Q ) 5 0 == — == — — = = = eS = ———— = Wee t an ee ‘aap i iN ‘ Wi = a ar Y 4 . fe ER 4 * . Iie Mii nda J ACT II. KING HENRY VJ. SCENE II, SCENE II.— Southampton. A council-chamber. Enter Exeter, Bedford, and Westmoreland. Bed. °Fore God, his grace is bold, to trust these traitors. Exe. They shall be apprehended by and by.. West. How smooth and even they do bear them- As if allegiance in their bosoms sat, [selves ! Crowned with faith and constant loyalty. - Bed. The king hath note of all that they intend, By interception which they dream not of. Exe. Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow, Whom he hath dull’d and cloy’d with gracious fa- That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell [vours, His sovereign’s life to death and treachery. Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Scroop, Cambridge, Grey, and Attendants. k. Hen. Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard. Masham, My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts: Think you not that the powers we bear with us Wiil cut their passage through the force of France, Doing the execution and the act For which we have in headassembled them ? [best. Scroop. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his i. Hen. I doubt not that; since we are well per- We carry not a heart with us from hence [suaded That grows not in a fair consent with ours, Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish Success and conquest to attend on us. Cam. Never was monarch better fear’d and loved Than is your majesty: there ’s not, I think, a subject That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness Under the sweet shade of your government. Grey. True: those that were your father’s enemies Have steep’d their galls in honey and do serve you With hearts create of duty and of zeal. _—[fulness; K. Hen. We therefore have great cause of thank- And shall forget the office of our hand, Sooner than quittance of desert and merit According to the weight and worthiness. Scroop. So service shall with steeled sinews toil, And labour shall refresh itself with hope, To do your grace incessant services. KK. Hen. We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter, Enlarge the man committed yesterday, That rail’d against our person: we consider It was excess of wine that set him on; And on his more advice we pardon him. Scroop. That ’s mercy, but too much security: Let him be punish’d, sovereign, lest example Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind. K. Hen. O, let us yet be merciful. Cam. So may your highness, and yet punish too. Grey. Sir, You show great mercy, if you give him life, After the taste of much correction. K. Hen. Alas, your too much love and care of me Are heavy orisons ’gainst this poor wretch! If little faults, proceeding on distemper, Shall not be wink’d at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chew’d, swallow’d and di- gested, Appear before us? Well yet enlarge that man, Though Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, in their dear And tender preservation of our person, [care Would have him punish’d. And now to our French Who are the late commissioners ? [causes: Cam. I one, my lord: Your highness bade me ask for it to-day. Scroop. So did you me, my liege. ge And I, my royal sovereign. [is yours ; K. Hen. Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight, 24 Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours: Read them; and know, I know your worthiness. My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter, We will aboard to-night. Why, how now, gentle- What see you in those papers that you lose [men! So much complexion ? Look ye, how they change! Their cheeks are paper. Why, what read you there, That hath so cowarded and chased your blood Out of appearance ? Cam. I do confess my fault ; And do submit me to your highness’ mercy. Grey. Scroop KK. Hen. The mercy that was quick in us but late, By your own counsel is suppress’d and kill’d: You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy ; For your own reasons turn into your bosoms, As dogs upon their masters, worrying you. See you, my princes and my noble peers, [here, These English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge You know how apt our love was to accord To furnish him with all appertinents Belonging to his honour; and this man Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspired, And sworn unto the practices of France, To kill us here in Hampton: to the which This knight, no less for bounty bound to us Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But, O, What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel, Ingrateful, savage and inhuman creature! Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels, That knew’st the very bottom of my soul, That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold, Wouldst thou have practised on me for thy use, May it be possible, that foreign hire Could out of thee extract one spark of evil That might annoy my finger ? tis so strange, That, though the truth of it stands off as gross As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it. Treason and murder ever kept together, As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose, Working so grossly in a natural cause, That admiration did not whoop at them: But thou, ’gainst all proportion, didst bring in Wonder to wait on treason and on murder: And whatsoever cunning fiend it was That wrought upon thee so preposterously Hath got the voice in hell for excellence: All other devils that suggest by treasons Do botch and bungle up damnation With patches, colours, and with forms being fetch’d From glistering semblances of piety; But he that temper’d thee bade thee stand up, Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason, Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor. If that same demon that hath gull’d thee thus Should with his lion gait walk the whole world, He might return to vasty Tartar back, And tell the legions ‘ I can never win A soul so easy as that Englishman’s.’ O, how hast thou with jealousy infected The sweetness of aftiance! Show men dutiful ? Why, so didst thou: seem they grave and learned ? Why, so didst thou: come they of noble family ? Why, so didst thou: seem they religious ? Why, so didst thou: or are they spare in diet, Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger, Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood, Garnish’d and deck’d in modest complement, Not working with the eye without the ear, And but in purged judgment trusting neither ? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem: And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot, To mark the full-fraught man and best indued With some suspicion. I will weep for thee; For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like Another fall of man. Their faults are open: 369 } To which we all appeal. ACT ff. Arrest them to the answer of the law; And God acquit them of their practices! Exe. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Richard Earl of Cambridge. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Henry Lord Scroop of Masham. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland. Scroop. Our purposes God justly hath discover’d ; And I repent my fault more than my death; Which I beseech your highness to forgive, Although my body pay the price of it. Cam. For me, the gold of France did not seduce; Although I did admit it as a motive The sooner to effect what I intended: But God be thanked for prevention ; Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice, Beseeching God and you to pardon me. Grey. Never did faithful subject more rejoice At the discovery of most dangerous treason Than I do at this hour joy o’er myself, Prevented from a damned enterprise: My fault,but not my body,pardon, sovereign. [tence. | AK. Hen. God quit you in his mercy! Hear yoursen- | You have conspired against our royal person, Join’d with an enemy proclaim’d and from his coffers Received the golden earnest of our death; Wherein you would have sold your king toslaughter, His princes and his peers to servitude, His subjects to oppression and contempt And his whole kingdom into desolation. Touching our person seek we no revenge; But we our kingdom’s safety must so tender, Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence, Poor miserable wretches, to your death: The taste whereof, God of his mercy give You patience to endure, and true repentance Of all your dear offences! Bear them hence. [| Hxeunt Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, guarded. Now, lords, for France; the enterprise whereof Shall be to you, as us, like glorious. We doubt not of a fair and lucky war, Since God so graciously hath brought to light This dangerous treason lurking in our way To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now But every rub is smoothed on our way. Then forth, dear countrymen: let us deliver Our puissance into the hand of God, Putting it straight in expedition. Cheerly to sea; the signs of war advance: No king of England, if not king of France. [ Exeunt. SCENE III. — London. Enter Pistol, Hostess, Nym, Bardolph, and Boy. Host. Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring | thee to Staines. Pist. No; for my manly heart doth yearn. Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins: Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead, And we must yearn therefore. Bard. Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell! Host. Nay, sure, he’s not in hell: he’s in Arthur’s | bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. A’ made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child; a’ parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o’ the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with flowers and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a’ babbled of green fields. ‘ How now, Sir John!’ quoth I: ‘ what, man! be 0’ good cheer.’ Soa’ cried out ‘God, God, God!’ three or | four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a’ should not think of God; I hoped there was no need | 370 Before a tavern. KING HENRY VF. SCENE IV. to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So a’ bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and they were as cold as any stone, and so upward and up- ward, and all was as cold as any stone. -Nyn. They say he cried out of sack. Host. Ay, that a’ did. Bard. And of women. Host. Nay, that a’ did not. [incarnate. Boy. Yes, that a’ did; and said they were devils Host. A’ could never abide carnation; ’t was a colour he never liked. [women. Boy. A’ said once, the devil would have him about Host. A’ did in some sort, indeed, handle women ; but then he was rheumatic, and talked of the whore of Babylon. Boy. Do you not remember, a’ saw a flea stick upon Bardolph’s nose, and a’ said it was a black | soul burning in hell-fire ? Bard. Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that | fire: that’s all the riches I got in his service. _ Nym. Shall we shog? the king will be gone from Southampton. [lips. Pist. Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy Look to my chattels and my movables: Let senses rule; the word is ‘ Pitch and Pay:’ Trust none; For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes, And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck: Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor. Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys, To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck! Boy. And tiat’s but unwholesome food, they say. Pist. Touch her soft mouth, and march. Bard. Farewell, hostess. [Kissing her. Nym. I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu. [command. Pist. Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee Host. Farewell; adieu. [ Exeunt. SCENE IV.— France. The King’s palace. Flourish. Enter the French King, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berri and Bretagne, the Constable, and others. Fr. King. Thus comes the English with full power And more than carefully it us concerns [upon us; To answer royally in our defences. Therefore the Dukes of Berri and of Bretagne, Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth, And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch, To line and new repair our towns of war With men of courage and with means defendant ; For England his approaches makes as fierce As waters to the sucking of a gulf. It fits us then to be as provident As fear may teach us out of late examples Left by the fatal and neglected English Upon our fields. Dau. My most redoubted father, It is most meet we arm us ’gainst the foe; For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom, Though war nor no known quarrel were in question, But that defences, musters, preparations, Should be maintain’d, assembled and collected, AS were a war in expectation. Therefore, I say ’t is meet we all go forth To view the sick and feeble parts of France: And let us do it with no show of fear; No, with no more than if we heard that England Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance: For, my good liege, she is so idly king’d, Her sceptre so fantastically borne By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth, That fear attends her not. ACT III. KING JHEN RY VV. PROLOGUE, Con. O peace, Prince Dauphin! You are too much mistaken in this king: Question your grace the late ambassadors, With what great state he heard their embassy, How well supplied with noble counsellors, How modest in exception, and withal How terrible in constant resolution, And you shall find his vanities forespent Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus, Covering discretion with a coat of folly; As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots That shall first spring and be most delicate. Dau. Well, ’tis not so, my lord high constable ; But though we think it so, it is no matter: In cases of defence ’t is best to weigh The enemy more mighty than he seems: So the proportions of defence are fill’d; Which of a weak and niggardly projection Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting A little cloth. Fr. King. Think we King Harry strong ; And, princes, look you strongly arm to meet him. The kindred of him hath been fleshed upon us; And he is bred out of that bloody strain That haunted us in our familiar paths: Witness our too much memorable shame When Cressy battle fatally was struck, And all our princes captived by the hand Of that black name, Edward, Black Prince of Wales; Whiles that his mountain sire, on mountain stand- Up in the air, crown’d with the golden sun, __[ing, Saw his heroical seed, and smiled to see him, Mangle the work of nature and deface The patterns that by God and by French fathers Had twenty years been made. This is a stem Of that victorious stock; and let us fear _ The native mightiness and fate of him. Enter a Messenger. Mess. Ambassadors from Harry King of England Do crave admittance to your majesty. Fy. King. We’ll give them present audience. Go, and bring them. [Hxeunt Messenger and certain Lords. You see this chase is hotly follow’d, friends. [dogs Dau. Turn head, and stop pursuit; for coward Most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten Runs far before them. Good my sovereign, Take up the English short, and let them know Of what a monarchy you are the head: Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin As self-neglecting. Re-enter Lords, with Exeter and train. Er. King. From our brother England ? Hxe. From him; and thus he greets your majesty. He wills you, in the name of God Almighty, That you divest yourself, and lay apart The borrow’d glories that by gift of heaven, By law of nature and of nations, long To him and to his heirs; namely, the crown And all wide-stretched honours that pertain By custom and the ordinance of times Unto the crown of France. That you may know *T is no sinister nor no awkward claim, Pick’d from the worm-holes of long-vanish’d days, Nor from the dust of old oblivion raked, He sends you this most memorable line, In every branch truly demonstrative; Willing you overlook this pedigree: And when you find him evenly derived From his most famed of famous ancestors, Edward the Third, he bids you then resign Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held From him the native and true challenger. Ir. King. Or else what follows ? xe. Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it: Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming, In thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove, That, if requiring fail, he will compel; And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord, Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy On the poor souls for whom this hungry war Opens his vasty jaws; and on your head Turning the widows’ tears, the orphans’ cries, The dead men’s blood, the pining maidens’ groans, For husbands, fathers and betrothed lovers, That shall be swallow’d in this controversy. This is his claim, his threatening and my message; Unless the Dauphin be in presence here, To whom expressly I bring greeting too. fr, King. For us, we will consider of this further : To-morrow shall you bear our full intent Back to our brother England. Dau. For the Dauphin, I stand here for him: what to him from England ? Exe. Scorn and defiance; slight regard, contempt, And any thing that may not misbecome The mighty sender, doth he prize you at. Thus says my king; an if your father’s highness Do not, in grant of all demands at large, Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his majesty, He’ll call you to so hot an answer of it, That caves and womby vaultages of France Shall chide your trespass and return your mock In second accent of his ordnance. Dau. Say, if my father render fair return, It is against my will; for I desire Nothing but odds with England: to that end, As matching to his youth and vanity, I did present him with the Paris balls. Exe. He’ll make your Paris Louvre shake for it, Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe: And, be assured, you ’ll find a difference, As we his subjects have in wonder found, Between the promise of his greener days And these he masters now: now he weighs time Even to the utmost grain: that you shall read In your own losses, if he stay in France. [at full. I’y, King. To-morrow shall you know our mind xe. Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our Come here himself to question our delay ; [king For he is footed in this land already. Fr. King. You shall be soon dispatch’d with fair conditions: A night is but small breath and little pause To auswer matters of this consequence. [flourtsh.—Hxeunt. WOT TTT. PROLOGUE. Enter Chorus. Chor. Thus with imagined wing our swift scene In motion of no less celerity [flies Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen The well-appointed king at Hampton pier Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phcebus fanning. Play with your fancies, and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing ; Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give ov 1 ACT III. To sounds eonfused; behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think You stand upon the rivage and behold A city on the inconstant billows dancing ; For so appears this fleet majestical, Holding due course to Harilear. Follow, follow: Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, And leave your England, as dead midnight still, Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, Either past or not arrived to pith and puissance; For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d With one appearing hair, that will not follow These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France ? Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege ; Behold the ordnance on their carriages, With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur. Suppose the ambassador from the French comes Tells Harry that the king doth offer him _ [back,; Katharine his daughter, and with her, to dowry, Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. The offer likes not: and the nimble gunner With linstock now the devilish cannon touches. [Alarum, and chambers go off. And down goes all before them. Still be kind, And eke out our performance with your mind. [ Hxit. SCENE I.—France. Before Harfleur. Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester, and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders. AK. Hen. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there ’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage ; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm if As fearfully as doth a galled rock O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof ! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeo- men Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear [not ; That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt For there is none of you so mean and base, ‘That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’ [Hxeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off. SCENE II.— The same. Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol, and Boy. ‘Bard. On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the breach ! Nym. Pray thee, corporal, stay: the knocks are too hot; and, for mine own part, I have not a case QBno 014 KING HENRY V. SCENE Il. of lives: the humour of it is too hot, that is the very plain-song of it. Pist. The plain-song is most just; for humours do abound: Knocks go and come; God’s vassals drop and die; And sword and shield, In bloody field, Doth win immortal fame. Boy. Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety. Pist. And I: If wishes would prevail with me, My purpose should not fail with me, But thither would LI hie. Boy. As duly, but not as truly, As. bird doth sing on bough. Enter Fluellen. Flu. Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you cullions! Driving them forward. Pist. Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould. Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage, Abate thy rage, great duke! [chuck ! Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet Nym. These be good humours! your honour wins bad humours. | Hxeunt all but Boy. Boy. AS young as I am, I have observed these three swashers. I am boy to them all three: but ali they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered and red-faced; by the means where- of a’ faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the means whereof a’ breaks words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest a’ should be thought a coward: but his few bad words are matched with as few good deeds; for a’ never broke any man’s head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal any thing, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute- case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three half-pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel: I knew by that piece of service the men would carry coals. They would have me as familiar with men’s pockets as their gloves or their handkerchers : which makes much against my manhood, if I should take from another’s pocket to put into mine; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them, and seek some better service: their villany goes against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up. [ Havit. Re-enter Fluellen, Gower following. Gow. Captain Fluellen, you must come presently — to the mines; the Duke of Gloucester would speak with you. Flu. To the mines! tell you the duke, it is not so good to come to the mines; for, look you, the mines is not according to the disciplines of the war: the concavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you, th’ athversary, you may discuss unto the duke, look you, is digt himself four yard under the counter- mines: by Cheshu, I think a’ will plow up all, if there is not better directions. . Gow. The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the siege is given, is altogether directed by an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i’ faith. Flu. It is Captain Macmorris, is it not ? Gow. I think it be. Flu. By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world: I will verify as much in his beard: he has no more directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog. ACT IIl. Enter Macmorris and Captain Jamy. Gow. Here a’ comes; and the Scots captain, Cap- tain Jamy, with him. Flu. Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gen- tleman, that iscertain; and of great expedition and knowledge in th’ aunchient wars, upon my particu- lar knowledge of his directions: by Cheshu, he will maintain his argument as well as any military man in the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars ot the Romans. Jamy. I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen. Flu. God-den to your worship, good Captain James. Gow. How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit the mines? have the pioners given o’er ? Mac. By Chrish, la! tish ill done: the work ish give over, the trompet sound the retreat. By my hand, I swear, and my father’s soul, the work ish ill done; it ish give over: I would have blowed up the town, so Chrish save me, la! in an hour: O, tish ill done, tish illdone; by my hand, tish ill done: Flu. Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argu- ment, look you, and friendly communication ; partly to satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, look you, of my mind, as touching the direction of the military discipline; that is the point. Jamy. It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath: and I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may pick occasion; that sall I, marry. Mac. It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me: the day is hot, and the weather, and the wars, and the king, and the dukes: it is no time to dis- course. The town is beseeched, and the trumpet call us to the breach; and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing: *tis shame for us all: so God sa’ me, tis shame to stand still; it is shame, by my hand: and there is throats to be cut, and works to be done; and there ish nothing done, so Chrish sa’ me, la! Jamy. By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves to slomber, ay ’1] de gud service, or ay ’l] lig i’ the grund for it; ay, or go todeath; and ay ‘ll pay ’t as valorously as I may, that sall I suerly do, that is the breff and the long. Marry, 1 wad full fain hear some question ’tween you tway. Flu. Captain Matcmorris, I think, look you, under your correction, there is not many of your nation— Mac. Of my nation! Whatish my nation? Ish a villain, and a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal. What ish my nation? Who talks of my nation ? Flu. Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is meant, Captain Macmorris, peradventure I shall think you do not use me with that affability as in discretion you ought to use me, look you; being as good a man as yourself, both in the disci- plines of war, and in the derivation of my birth, and in other particularities. Mac. I do not know you so good a man as myself: so Chrish save me, I will cut off your head. Gow. Gentlemen both, you will mistake each Jamy. A! that’s a foul fault. [other. [A parley sounded. Gow. The town sounds a parley. Flu. Captain Macmorris, when there is more better opportunity to be required, look you, I will be so bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of war; and there is an end. | Exeunt. SCENE III.— The same. The Governor and some Citizens on the walls ; the ' English forces below. Enter King Henry and train. 4x. Hen. How yet resolves the governor of the This is the latest parle we will admit: Before the gates. OLN GY EIN BY. [town ? | SCENE IV. te Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves ; Or like to men proud of destruction Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier, A name that in my thoughts becomes me best, If I begin the battery once again, I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur Till in her ashes she lie buried. The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand shall range With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants. What is it then to me, if impious war, Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends, Do, with his smirch’d complexion, all fell feats Enlink’d to waste and desolation ? What is ’t to me, when you yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and forcing violation ? What rein can hold licentious wickedness When down the hill he holds his fierce career ? We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil As send precepts to the leviathan To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town and of your people, Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command; Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of heady murder, spoil and villany. If not, why, in a moment look to see The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters ; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash’d to the walls, Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen. What say you? will you yield, and this avoid, Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d ? Gov. Our expectation hath this day an end: The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated, Returns us that his powers are yet not ready To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great king, We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours; For we no longer are defensible. Kk. Hen. Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter, Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain, And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French: Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle, The winter coming on and sickness growing Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais. To-night in Harfleur we will be your guest, To-morrow for the march are we addrest. [Flourish. The King and his train enter the town. SCENE IV. —The French King’s palace. Enter Katharine and Alice. Kath. Alice, tu as été en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage. Alice. Un peu, madame. Kath. Je te prie, m’enseignez; il faut que j’ap- prenne a4 parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en Anglois ? Alice. La main? elle est appelée de hand. Kath. Dehand. Et les doigts? Alice. Les doigts? ma foi, j’oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? je pense qu’ils sont appelés de fingres; oui, de fingres. Kath. La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense que je suis le bon écolier; j’ai gagné deux mots d’Anglois vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles ? . . Alice. Les ongles ? nous les appelons de nails. 373 AQT ai dL: KING HENRY VJ. SCENE VI. Kath. De nails. Ecoutez; dites-moi, si je parle Dau. By faith and honour, bien: de hand, de fingres, et de nails. Our madams mock at us, and plainly say Alice. C’est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon ; Our mettle is bred out and they will give Ang lois. Kath. Dites-moi l’Anglois pour le bras. Alice. De arm, madame. | Kath. Et le coude ? Alice. De elbow. Kath. De elbow. Je m’en fais la répétition de tous les mots que vous m’avez appris dés a présent. Alice. Lest trop difficile, madame, comme Je pense. Kath. Excusez-moi, Alice; écoutez: de hand, de fingres, de nails, de arma, de bilbow. Alice. De elbow, madame. Kath. O Seigneur Dieu, je m’en oublie! de elbow. Comment appelez-yous le col ? Alice. De neck, madame. Kath. De nick. Et le menton? Alice. De chin. Kath. De sin. Le col, de nick; de menton, de sin. Alice. Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en vérité, vous prononcez les mots aussi droit que les natifs d’An- gleterre. Kath. Je ne doute point d’apprendre, par la grace de Dieu, et en peu de temps. Alice. N’avez vous pas déja oublié ce que je vous ai enseigné ? Kath. Non, je reciterai 4 vous promptement: de hand, de fingres, de mails,— Alice. De nails, madame. Kath. De nails, de arm, de ilbow. Alice. Sauf votre honneur, de elbow. Kath. Ainsi dis-je; de elbow, de nick, et de sin. Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe ? Alice. De foot, madame; et de coun. Kath. De foot et de coun! O Seigneur Dieu! ce sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et im- pudique, et non pour les dames d’honneur d’user: je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots devant les seig- neurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh! le foot et le coun! Néanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois ma legon ensemble: de hand, de fingres, de nails, de arm, de elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun. Alice. Excellent, madame! Kath. C’est assez pour une fois: allons-nous A diner. [ Hxeunt. SCENE V.— The same. Enter the King of France, the Dauphin, the Duke of Bourbon,the Constable of France, andothers. Fy. King. Tis certain he hath pass’d the river Somme. Con. And if he be not fought withal, my lord, Let us not live in France; let us quit all And give our vineyards to a barbarous people. Dau. O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us, The emptying of our fathers’ luxury, Our scions, put in wild and savage stock, Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, And overlook their grafters ? [bastards ! Bour. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman Mort de ma vie! if they march along Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm In that nook-shotten isle of Albion. [tle ? Con. Dieu de batailles! where have they this met- Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull, On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale, Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water, A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley-broth, Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat ? And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine, | Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land, Let us not hang like roping icicles Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty people Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields! Poor we may call them in their native lords. | S74 Their bodies to the lust of English youth To new-store France with bastard warriors. Bour. They bid us to the English dancing-schools, And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos; Saying our grace is only in our heels, And that we are most lofty runaways. Fy. King. Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence: Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged More sharper than your swords, hie to the field: Charles Delabreth, high constable of France; You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri. Alencgon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconberg, Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois; High dukes, great princes, barons, lords and knights, For your great seats now quit you of great shames. Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur : Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon: Go down upon him, you have power enough, And in a captive chariot into Rouen Bring him our prisoner. Con. This becomes the great. Sorry am I his numbers are so few, His soldiers sick and famish’d in their march, For I am sure, when he shall see our army, He ’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear And for achievement offer us his ransom. Fr. King. Therefore, lord constable, haste on Montjoy, And let him say to England that we send To know what willing ransom he will give. Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen. Dau. Not so, I do beseech your majesty. [us. Fr. King. Be patient, for you shall remain with Now forth, lord constable and princes all, And quickly bring us word of England’s fall. [ Hxewnt. SCENE VI.— The English camp in Picardy. Enter Gower and Fluellen, meeting. Gow. How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge? Flu. I assure you, there is very excellent services committed at the bridge. Gow. Is the Duke of Exeter safe ? Flu. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon; and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life, and my living, and my uttermost power: he is not—God be praised and blessed!—any hurt in the world; but keeps the pridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. ‘There is an aunchient lieutenant there at the pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony ; and he is a man of no estimation in the world; but I did see him do as gallant service. Gow. What do you call him ? Flu. He is called Aunchient Pistol. Gow. I know him not. Enter Pistol. Flu. Here is the man. Pist. Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours: The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well. Flu. Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands. Pist. Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart, ACT IIl. AINGIEEN BY VY SCENE VI. ee ee ee SE ee ee ee ee ee ee See And of buxoin valour, hath, by cruel fate, And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, That goddess blind, That stands upon the rolling restless stone — Flu. By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. For- tune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and incon- stant, and mutability, and variation: and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls: in good truth, the poet makes a most excellent description of it: Fortune is an excellent moral. [him ; Pist. Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must a’ be: A damned death! Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free And let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate: But Exeter hath given the doom of death For pax of little price. Therefore, go speak: the duke will hear thy voice: And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut With edge of penny cord and vile reproach: Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite. Flu. Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning. Pist. Why then, rejoice therefore. Flu. Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to re- joice at: for if, look you, he were my brother, I would desire the duke to use his good pleasure, and put him to execution; for discipline ought to be used. Pist. Die and be damn’d! and figo for thy friend- Flu. Itis well. - [ship ! Pist. The fig of Spain! | Hact. Flu. Very good. Gow. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal ; I remember him now; a bawd, a cutpurse. Flu. 1’ll assure you, a’ uttered as brave words at the pridge as you shall seein asummer’s day. But it is very well; what he has spoke to me, that is well, I warrant you, when time is serve. Gow. Why, ’tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars, to grace himself at his return into London under the form of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in the great command- ers’ names: and they will learn you by rote where services were done; at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was shot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy stood on; and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, which they trick up with new- tuned oaths: and what a beard of the general’s cut and a horrid suit of the camp will do among foam- ing bottles and ale-washed wits, is wonderful to be thought on. But you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or else you may be marvel- lously mistook. flu. I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do per- ceive he is not the man that he would gladly make show to the world he is: if I find a hole in his coat, I will tell him my mind. [Drum heard.] Hark you, the king is coming, and I must speak with him from | the pridge. Drum and colours. Enter King Henry, Glouces- ter, and Soldiers. God pless your majesty! kK. Hen. How now, Fluellen! camest thou from Flu. Ay, so please your majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintained the pridge: the French is gone off, look you; and there is gal- Jant and most prave passages; marry, th’ athver- sary was have possession of the pridge; but he is enforced to retire, and the Duke of Exeter is mas- ter of the pridge: I can tell your majesty, the duke is @ prave man. K. Hen. What men have you lost, Fluellen ? Flu. The perdition of th’ athversary hath been very great, reasonable great: marry, for my part, J think the duke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your majesty know the man: his face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames 0’ fire: and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red; but his nose is executed, and his fire’s out. K. Hen. We would have all such offenders so cut off: and we give express charge, that in our marches through the country, there be nothing compelled from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful lan- guage; for when lenity and cruelty play for a king- dom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner. Tucket. Enter Montjoy. Mont. You know me by my habit. KK. Hen. Well then I know thee: what shall I know of thee? Mont. My master’s mind. K. Hen. Unfold it. Mont. Thus says my king: Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seemed dead, we did but sleep: advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him we could have rebuked him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to bruise an injury till it were full ripe: now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is imperial: England shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom; which must proportion the losses we have borne, the sub- jects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in weight to re-answer, his pettiness would bow under. For our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint a number; and for our dis- grace, his own person, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction. 'To this add defi- ance; and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounced. So far my king and master; so much my office. K. Hen. What is thy name? I know thy quality. Mont. Montjoy. [back, K. Hen. Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee And tell thy king I do not seek him now; But could be willing to march on to Calais Without impeachment: for, to say the sooth, Though ’tis no wisdom to confess so much Unto an enemy of craft and vantage, My people are with sickness much enfeebled, My numbers lessened, and those few I have Almost no better than so many French; Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald, I thought upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God, That I do brag thus! This your air of France Hath blown that vice in me; I must repent. Go therefore, tell thy master here I am; My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk, My army but a weak and sickly guard; Yet, God before, tell him we will come on, Though France himself and such another neighbour Stand inour way. There’sfor thy labour, Montjoy. | Go, bid thy master well advise himself: [the bridge ? | If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d, We shall your tawny ground with your red blood Discolour: and so, Montjoy, fare you well. The sum of all our answer is but this: We would not seek a battle, as we are; | Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it: So tell your master. Mont. I shall deliver so. ness. Glou. I hope they will not come upon us now. 375 Thanks to your high- [ Heit. ACT Ill. Kk. Hen. We are in God’s hand, brother, not in theirs. March to the bridge; it now draws toward night: Beyond the river we ’ll encamp ourselves, And on to-morrow bid them march away. [Ezxeunt. SCENE VII.— The French camp, near Agincourt. Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Ram- bures, Orleans, Dauphin, with others. Con. Tut! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day! Orl. You have an excellent armour; but let my horse have his due. Con. It is the best horse of Europe. Orl. Will it never be morning ? Dau. My Lord of Orleans, and my lord high con- stable, you talk of horse and armour ? Orl. You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world. Dau. Whatalong nightisthis! I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ca, ha! he bounds from the earth, as if his entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, chez les narines de feu! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more mu- sical than the pipe of Hermes. Orl. He’s of the colour of the nutmeg. Dau. And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast for Perseus: he is pure air and tire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him: he is indeed a horse; and all other jades you may call beasts. Con. Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse. Dau. It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like the bidding of a monarch and his countenance en- forces homage. Orl. No more, cousin. Dau. Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey: it is a theme as fluent as the sea: turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is argument for them all: *tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and fora sovereign’s sovereign to ride on; and for the world, familiar to us and unknown, to lay apart their par- ticular functions and wonder at him. I once writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus: ‘ Wonder of nature,’— [tress. Orl. I have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s mis- Dau. Then did they imitate that which I com- posed to my courser, for my horse is my mistress. Orl. Your mistress bears well. Dau. Me well; which is the prescript praise and perfection of a good and particular mistress. Con. Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back. Dau. So perhaps did yours. Con. Mine was not bridled. Dau. O then belike she was old and gentle; and you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your French hose off, and in your strait strossers. Jon. You have good judgment in horsemanship. Dau. Be warned by me, then: they that ride so and ride not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had rather have my horse to my mistress. Con. I had as.lief have my mistress a jade. Dau. I tell thee, constable, my mistress wears his own hair. Con. I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a sow to my mistress. Dau. ‘ Le chien est retourné 4 son propre vomisse- ment, et la truie lavée au bourbier:’ thou makest use of any thing. 076 KING «HEN BY VY. SCENE VII. Con. Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any such proverb so little kin to the purpose. Ram. My lord constable, the armour that I saw in your tent to-night, are those stars or suns upon it ? Con. Stars, my lord. Dau. Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope. Con. And yet my sky shall not want. Dau. That may be, for you bear a many super- tluously, and ’t were more honour some were away. Con. Even as your horse bears your praises; who would trot as well, were some of your brags dis- mounted. Dau. Would I were able to load him with his desert! Will it never be day? I will trot to-mor- Hi a mile, and my way shall be paved with English aces. Con. I will not say so, for fear I should be faced out of my way: but I would it were morning; for I would fain be about the ears of the English. tum. Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners ? Con. Youmust first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them. Dau. "Tis midnight; Ill go arm myself. [Ezit. Orl. The Dauphin longs for morning. Ram. He longs to eat the English. Con. I think he will eat all he kills. [prince. Orl. By the white hand of my lady, he’s a gallant Con. Swear by her foot, that she may tread out the oath. Orl. He is simply the most active gentleman of France. Con. Doing is activity; and he will still be doing. Orl. He never did harm, that I heard of. Con. Nor will do none to-morrow: he will keep that good name still. Orl. I know him to be valiant. Con. I was told that by one that knows him bet- ter than you. Orl. What ’s he ? Con. Marry, he told me sohimself; and he said he cared not who knew it. Orl. He needs not; it isno hidden virtue in him. Con. By my faith, sir, but it is; never anybody saw it but his lackey: *t is a hooded valour; and when it appears, it will bate. Orl. Ill will never said well. Con. I will cap that proverb with ‘ There is flat- tery in friendship.’ {his due.’ Orl. And I will take up that with ‘ Give the devil Con. Well placed: there stands your friend for the devil: have at the very eye of that proverb with ‘ A pox of the devil.’ Orl. You are the better at proverbs, by how much ‘A fool’s bolt is soon shot.’ Con. You have shot over. Orl. ’T is not the first time you were overshot. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord high constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents. Con. Who hath measured the ground ? Mess. The Lord Grandpré. Con. A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were day! Alas, poor Harry of England! he longs not for the dawning as we do. Orl. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this king of England, to mope with his fat-brained fol- lowers so far out of his knowledge! Con. If the English had any apprehension, they would run away. Orl. That they lack; for if their heads had any intellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy head-pieces. Ram. That island of England breeds very valiant creatures; their mastiffs are of unmatchable cour- age. ACT IV. AIG HENRY ¥. SCENE I. Orl. Foolish curs, that run winking into the mouth of a Russian bear and have their heads crushed like rotten apples! You may as well say, that’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion. Con. Just, just ; and the men do sympathize with the mastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, leaving their wits with their wives: and then give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils. eef. Orl. Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of Con. Then shall we find to-morrow they have only stomachs to eat and none to fight. Now is it time to arm: come, shall we about it ? Orl. It is now two o’clock: but, let me see, by ten Weshall have eacha hundred Englishmen.’ [Hxeuwnt. PEED? LIV. PROLOGUE. “nter Chorus. Chor. Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fixed sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch: Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear, and from the tents The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation: The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, And the third hour of drowsy morning name. Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The contident and over-lusty French Do the low-rated English play at dice; And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp So tediously away. The poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires Sit patiently and inly ruminate The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats Presenteth them unto the gazing moon So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold The royal captain of this ruin’d band Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, Let him cry ‘ Praise and glory on his head!’ For forth he goes and visits all his host, Bids them good morrow with a modest smile And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen. Upon his royal face there is no note How dread an army hath enrounded him; Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watched night, But freshly looks and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty ; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: A largess universal like the sun THis liberal eye doth give to every one, Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all, Behold, as may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night. And so our scene must to the battle fly ; Where — O for pity !— we shall much disgrace With four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill-disposed in brawl] ridiculous, The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see, Minding true things by what their yn ahae Lt. SCENE I. — The English camp at Agincourt. Enter King Henry, Bedford, and Gloucester. kK, Hen. Gloucester, ’t is true that we are in great danger ; The greater therefore should our courage be. Good morrow, brother Bedford. God pea There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out. For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, Which is both healthful and good husbandry: Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all, admonishing That we should dress us fairly for our end. Thus may we gather honey from the weed, And make a moral of the devil himself. Enter Erpingham. Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham: A good soft pillow for that good white head Were better than a churlish turf of France. _[ter, Erp. Not so, my liege: this lodging likes me bet- Since I may say ‘ Now lie I like a king.’ [pains KK. Hen. "Tis good for men to love their present Upon example; so the spirit is eased: And when the mind is quicken’d, out of doubt, The organs, though defunct and dead before, Break up their drowsy grave and newly move, With casted slough and fresh legerity. Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both, Commend me to the princes in our camp; Do my good morrow to them, and anon Desire them all to my pavilion. Glou. We shall, my liege. Erp. Shall I attend your grace? A. Hen. No, my good knight ; Go with my brothers to my lords of England: I and my bosom must debate a while, And then I would no other company. Erp. The Lord in heaven bless thee, nobie Harry ! [Hxeunt all but King. ik. Hen. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st oh tn Enter Pistol. Pist. Qui va 1a? Kk. Hen. A friend. Pist. Discuss unto me; art thou officer ? Or art thou base, common and popular ? K. Hen. Iam a gentleman of a company. Pist. Trail’st thou the puissant pike ? K. Hen. Even so. What are you? Pist. As good a gentleman as the emperor. kK. Hen. Then you are a better than the king. Pist. The king ’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold, A lad of life, an imp of fame; _ Of parents good, of fist most valiant. _ I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string I love the lovely bully. What is thy name? K. Hen. Harry le Roy. Pist. Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew ? Kk. Hen. No, lam a Welshman. Pist. Know’st thou Fluellen ? K. Hen. Yes. Pist. Tell him, I ll knock his leek about his pate Upon Saint Davy’s day. kk. Hen. Do not you wear your dagger in your Cap that day, lest he knock that about yours. v7 ACT DY, KING HENEY YF. SCENE I. Pist. Art thou his friend ? K,. Hen. And his kinsman too. Pist. The tigo for thee, then! K. Hen. I thank you: God be with you! Pist. My name is Pistol call’d. [ Heit. K. Hen. It sorts well with your fierceness. Enter Fluellen and Gower. Gow. Captain Fluellen! Flu. So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest admiration in the universal world, when the true and aunchient prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept: if you would take the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle nor pibble pabble in Pompey’s camp; I war- rant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be other- wise. Gow. Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all night. Flu. If the enemy is an ass and a foo! and a prat- ing coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb ? in your own conscience, now ? Gow. I will speak lower. Flu. I pray you and beseech you that you will. [ Exeunt Gower and Fluellen. K. Hen. Though it appear a little out of fashion, There is much care and valour in this Welshman. Enter three soldiers, John Bates, Alexander Court, and Michael Williams. Court. Brother John Bates, is not that the morn- ing which breaks yonder ? Bates. I think it be: but we have no great cause. to desire the approach of day. Will. We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who goes there ? A. Hen. A friend. Will. Under what captain serve you ? K. Hen. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham. Will. A good old commander and a most kind gentleman: I pray you, what thinks he of our estate ? kK. Hen. Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be washed off the next tide. Bates. He hath not told his thought to the king ? K, Hen. No; nor it is not meet he should. For, though I speak it to you, I think the king is but a man, aS I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions: his cere- monies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. Therefore when he sees reason of fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are: yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army. Bates. He may show what outward courage he will; but I believe, as cold a night as ’tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here. K. Hen. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king: I think he would not wish himself any where but where he is. Bates. Then I would he were here alone: so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men’s lives saved. KK. Hen. I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men’s minds: methinks I could not die | 378 any where so contented as in the king’s company ; his cause being just and his quarrel honourable. Will. That ’s more than we know. Bates. Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the king’s subjects: if his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us. Will. But if the cause be not good, the king him- self hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and arms and heads, chopped off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all ‘We died at such a place;’ some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor be- hind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it; whom to disobey were against all pro- portion of subjection. Kk. Hen. So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him: or if a servant, under his master’s command trans- porting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the ser- vant’s damnation: but this is not so: the king is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers: some peradventure have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived mur- der; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; some, making the wars their bul- wark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have defeated the law and outrun native punish- ment, though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God: war is his beadle, war is his vengeance; so that here men are punished for be- fore-breach of the king’s laws in now the king’s quarrel: where they feared the death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they perish: then if they die unprovided, no more is the king guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. ‘Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his con- science: and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare. Will. "Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head, the king is not to answer it. Bates. I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him. K. Hen. 1 myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed. Will. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully ; but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we ne’er the wiser. K. Hen. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after. Will. You pay him then. That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and private dis- pleasure can do against a monarch! you may as AGT IV. well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock’s feather. Youll never trust his word after! come, ’t is a foolish saying. kK. Hen. Your reproof is something too round: I should be angry with you, if the time were con- venient. Will. Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live. K. Hen. I embrace it. Will. How shall I know thee again ? kK. Hen. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet: then, if ever thou darest ucknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel. Will. Here’s my glove: give me another of thine. K. Hen. There. Will. This will I also wear in my cap: if ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, ‘ This is my glove,’ by this hand, I will take thee a box on the ear. K. Hen. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it. Will. Thou darest as well be hanged. K. Hen. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the king’s company. Will. Keep thy word: fare thee well. Bates. Be friends, you English fools, be friends: we have French quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon. K. Hen. Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to one, they will beat us; for they bear them on their shoulders: but it is no English treason to cut French crowns, and to-morrow the king himself will be a clipper. [Hxeunt Soldiers. Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children and our sins lay on the king! We must bear all. O hard condition, Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel But his own wringing! What infinite heart’s-ease Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy! And what have kings, that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony ? And what art thou, thou idol ceremony ? What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers ? What are thy rents ? what are thy comings in ? O ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration ? Art thou aught else but place, degree and form, Creating awe and fear in other men ? Wherein thou art less happy being fear’d Than they in fearing. What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison’d flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy ceremony give thee cure! Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation ? Willit give place to flexure and low bending? [knee, Canst thou, when thou command’st the beggar’s Command the health of it? No,thou proud dream, That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose ; Lam a king that find thee, and I know *T is not the balm, the sceptre and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running *fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread ; Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Phebus and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, KING HENRY VJ. SCENE Il. And follows so the ever-running year, With profitable labour, to his grave: And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country’s peace, Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace, Whose hours the peasant best advantages. Enter Erpingham. Kirp. My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence. Seek through your camp to find you. . Hen. Good old knight, Collect them all together at my tent: J ll be before thee. Tp. Ishall do’t, my lord. [Hzit. KK. Hen. O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; Possess them not with fear; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day,O Lord, O, not to-day, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown! I Richard’s body have interred new; And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears Than from it issued forced drops of blood: Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon. Enter Gloucester. Glou. My liege! Kk. Hen. My brother Gloucester’s voice ? I know thy errand, I will go with thee: The day, my friends and all things stay for me. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— The French camp. Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures, and others. Orl. The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords! Dau. Montez 4 cheval! My horse! varlet! la- Orl. O brave spirit ! [quais! ha! Dau. Via! les eaux et la terre. Orl. Rien puis? lair et le feu. Dau. Ciel, cousin Orleans. Enter Constable. Now, my lord constable! Con. Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh ! [hides, Dau. Mount them, and make incision in their That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, And dout them with superfluous courage, ha! Ram. What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood ? How shall we, then, behold their natural tears ? Ay; Enter Messenger. Mess. The English are embattled, you French peers. [horse ! Con. To horse, you gallant princes! straight to Do but behold yon poor and starved band, And your fair show shall suck away their souls, Leaving them but the shales and husks of men. There is not work enough for all our hands; Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins To give each naked curtle-axe a stain, That our French gallants shall to-day draw out, And sheathe for lackof sport: let us but blowon them The vapour of our valour will o’erturn them. ’T is positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords. 379 ACTA: That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants, Who in unnecessary action swarm About our squares of battle, were enow To purge this field of such a hilding foe, Though we upon this mountain’s basis by Took stand for idle speculation: But that our honours must not. What’s to say? A very little little let us do, And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound The tucket sonance and the note to mount; For our approach shall so much dare the field That England shall couch down in fear and yield. Enter Grandpré. Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lords: of France? Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones, Il-favouredly become the morning field: Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, And our air shakes them passing scornfully: Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d host And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps: The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks, [ jades With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips, The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes, And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit Lies foul with chew’d grass, still and motionless ; And their executors, the knavish crows, Fly o’er them, all impatient for their hour. Description cannot suit itself in words To demonstrate the life of such a battle In life so lifeless as it shows itself. Con. They have said their prayers, and they stay for death. [suits Dau. Shall we go send them dinners and fresh And give their fasting horses provender, And after fight with them ? Con. I stay but for my guidon: to the field! I will the banner from a trumpet take, And use it for my haste. Come, come, away! The sun is high, and we outwear the day. [ Hxeunt. SCENE III.—The English camp. Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, | with all his host: Salisbury and Westmoreland. Glou. Where is the king ? Bed. The king himself is rode to view their battle. West. Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand. [fresh. Exe. There’s five to one; besides, they all are Sal. God’s arm strike with us! ’tis a fearful odds. God be wi’ you, princes all; Ill to my charge: If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu! Led. Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee! Exe. Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day: And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour. ; [| Hxit Salisbury. Bed. He is as full of valour as of kindness; Princely in both. Enter the King. West. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! K,. Hen. What’s he that wishes so ? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin: If we are mark’d to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, 380 KING HENEY VF. SCENE III. Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England: God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more, methinks, would share from me For the best hope I have. O,do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this f ht, Let him depart; his passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse: We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call’d the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age. Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say ‘ To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his sears, And say ‘ These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he ’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day: then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. This story shall the good man teach his son ; And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered ; We few,.we happy few, we band of brothers ; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day. Re-enter Salisbury. Sal. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with The French are bravely in their battles set, [speed, And will with all expedience charge on us. kK. Hen. All things are ready, if our minds be so. West. Porish the man whose mind is backward now! K. Hen. Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz? [alone, West. God’s will! my liege, would you and 1 Without more help, could fight this royal battle! Kk. Hen. Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thou- sand men; Which likes me better than to wish us one. You know your places: God be with you all! Tucket. Enter Montjoy. Mont. Once more I come to know of thee, King arry, If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, Before thy most assured overthrow: For certainly thou art so near the gulf, Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy, The constable.desires thee thou wilt mind Thy followers of repentance; that their souls May make a peaceful and a sweet retire [bodies From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor Must lie and fester. | KK. Hen. Who hath sent thee now ? Mont. The Constable of France. KK. Hen. I pray thee, bear my former answer back: Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones. Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus ? ACT IV. The man that once did sell the lion’s skin While the beast lived, was killed with hunting him. A many of our bodies shall no doubt ‘ind native graves; upon the which, I trust, Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work: And those that leave their valiant bones in France, Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, They shall be famed; for there the sun shall greet them, And draw their honours reeking up to heaven; Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime, The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France. Mark then abounding valour in our English, That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing, Break out into a second course of mischief, Killing in relapse of mortality. Let me speak proudly; tell the constable We are but warriors for the working-day ; Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d With rainy marching in the painful field ; There ’s not a piece of feather in our host — Good argument, [I hope we will not fly — And time hath worn us into slovenry: But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim; And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night They ’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads And turn them out of service. If they do this,— As, if God please, they shall,— my ransom then Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour ; Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald; They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints; Which if they have as I will leave ’em them, Shall yield them little, tell the constable. [well: Mont. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee Thou never shalt hear herald any more. [ Exit. K. Hen. I fear thou It once more come again for ransom. Enter York. York. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg The leading of the vaward. kK. Hen. Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away: And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day! [EHxeunt. SCENE IV.—The field of battle. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Sol- dier, and Boy. Pist. Yield, cur! Fy. Sol. Je pense que vous étes gentilhomme de bonne qualité. Pist. Qualtitie calmie custure me! gentleman ? what is thy name? discuss. Fy. Sol. O Seigneur Dieu! Pist. O Signieur Dew should be a gentleman: Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark ; O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox, Except, O signieur, thou do give to me Egregious ransom. fr. Sol. O, prenez miséricorde! ayez pitié de moi! Pist. Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys; Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat In drops of crimson blood. Fr. Sol. Est-il impossible d’échapper la force de Pist. Brass, cur! [ton brass ? Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat, Offer’st me brass ? Fr. Sol. O pardonnez moi! Pist. Say’st thou me so? is that a ton of moys? Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French What Gpae name. Boy. Ecoutez: comment étes-vous appelé ? Fr. Sol. Monsieur le Fer. Boy. He says his name is Master Fer. Pist. Master Fer! Ill fer him, and firk him, and ferret him: discuss the same in French unto him. Alarum. Art thou a | KING VHENEY *Vi SCENE V. ’ Boy. I do not know the French for fer, and fer- ret, and firk. Pist. Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat. Fr, Sol. Que dit-il, monsieur ? Boy. 11 me commande de vous dire que vous faites vous prét; car ce soldat ici est disposé tout A cette heure de couper votre gorge. Pist. Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy, Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns; Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword. Fr, Sol. O, je vous supplie, pour l’ amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison: gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents écus. Pist. What are his words ? Boy. He prays you to save his life: he is a gen- tleman of a good house; and for his ransom he will give you two hundred crowns. Pist. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I The crowns will take. Fr. Sol. Petit monsieur, que dit-il ? Boy. Encore qu’il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucun prisonnier, néanmoins, pour les écus que vous |’ avez promis, il est content de vous donner la liberté, le franchisement. Fr. Sol. Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remercimens; et je m’estime heureux que je suis tombé entre les mains d’un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, vaillant, et trés distingué seigneur d’ Pist. Expound unto me, boy. [Angleterre. Boy. He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into the hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of Eng- land. [Follow me! Pist. As I suck blood, I will some mercy show. Boy. Suivez-vous le grand capitaine. [EHxeunt Pistol, and French Soldier.] I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the | saying is true, ‘The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.’ Bardolph and Nym had ten times more valour than this roaring devil i’ the old play, that, every one may pare his nails with a wooden dagger; and they are both hanged; and so would this be, if he durst steal any thing adventurously. I must stay with the lackeys, with the luggage of our camp: the French might have a good prey of us, if he knew of it; for there is none to guard it but boys. [ Hatt. SCENE V.— Another part of the field. Enter Constable, Orleans, Bourbon, Dauphin, and Rambures. Con. O diable! Orl. O seigneur! le jour est perdu, tout est perdu ! Dau. Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all! Reproach and everlasting shame Sits mocking in our plumes. O méchante fortune! Do not run away. [A short alarun. Con. Why, all our ranks are broke. Dau. O perdurable shame! let ’s stab ourselves. Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for ? Orl. Is this the king we sent to for his ransom ? Bour. Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame! Let us die in honour: once more back again ; And he that will not follow Bourbon now, Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand, Like a base pander, hold the chamber-door Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog, His fairest daughter is contaminated. Con. Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now! Let us on heaps go offer up our lives. Orl. We are enow yet living in the field To smother up the English in our throngs, If any order might be thought upon. 381 A CTs bY). Bour. The devil take order now! I’ to the throng : Let life be short ; else shame will be too aa | Hxeunt. SCENE VI.—Another part of the field. Alarums. Enter King Henry and forces, Exeter, and others. K. Hen. Well have we done, thrice valiant coun- | trymen: But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field. Exe. The Duke of York commends him to your majesty. [this hour | K. Hen. Lives he, good uncle? thrice within | I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting ; From helmet to the spur all blood he was. Exe. In which array, brave soldier, doth he le, Larding the plain; and by his bloody side, Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds, The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies. Suffolk first died: and York, all haggled over, Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteep’d, And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes That bloodily did yawn upon his face; And cries aloud ‘ Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk! My soul shall thine keep company to heaven: Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast, As in this glorious and well-foughten field We kept together in our chivalry!’ Upon these words I came and cheer’d him up: He smiled me in the face, raught me his hand, And, with a feeble gripe, says ‘ Dear my lord, Commend my service to my sovereign.’ So did he turn and over Suffolk’s neck | He threw his wounded arm and kiss’d his lips; And so espoused to death, with blood he seal’d | A testament of noble-ending love. | The pretty and sweet manner of it forced Those waters from me which I would have stopp’d; | But I had not so much of man in me, And all my mother came into mine eyes | And gave me up to tears. K. Hen. I blame you not; | For, hearing this, I must perforce compound With mistful eyes, or they willissue too. [Alarum. But, hark! what new alarum is this same ? The French have reinforced their scatter’d men: | Then every soldier kill his prisoners: Give the word through. [ Hxewnt. SCENE VII.— Another part of the field. Enter Fluellen and Gower. Flu. Kill the poys and the luggage! ’t is expressly | against the law of arms: ’tis as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offer’t; in your conscience, now, is it not ? Gow. ’T is certain there’s not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha’ done this slaughter: besides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the king’s tent; wherefore the king, most worthily, hath caused every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat. O, ’tisa gallant king! Flu. Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What call you the town’s name where Alexander the Pig was born! Gow. Alexander the Great. Flu. Why, I pray you, is not pig great? the pig, or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase is a little variations. Gow. I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon: his father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it. Flu. I think it is in Macedon where Alexander | 882 KING HENRY V. | for there is figures in all things. | Alarum. SCENE VII. is porn. I tell you, captain, if you look in the maps of the ’orld, I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth: it is called Wye at Mon- | mouth; but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river; but ’tis all one, ’tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there 1s salmons in both. If you mark Alexander’s life well, Harry of Monmouth’s life is come after it indifferent well ; Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and: his displeasures, and his indignations, and _also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus. Gow. Our king is not like him in that: he never killed any of his friends. Flu. It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and _ finished. I speak but in the figures and compari- sons of it: as Alexander killed his friend Cleitus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Mon. mouth, being in his right wits and his good judg- ments, turned away the fat knight with the great _belly-doublet: he was full of jests, and gipes, and _knaveries, and mocks; I have forgot his name. Gow. Sir John Falstaff. Flu. That is he: 1’ll tell you there is good mei porn at Monmouth. Gow. Here comes his majesty. Enter King Henry and forces; War- wick, Gloucester, Exeter, and others. kK. Hen. I was not angry since I came to France Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald; Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill: If they will fight with us, bid them come down, Or void the field; they do offend our sight: If they ’ll do neither, we will come to them, And make them skirr away, as swift as stones Enforced from the old Assyrian slings: Besides, we 711 cut the throats of those we have, And not a man of them that we shall take Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so. Enter Montjoy. Exe. Here comes the herald of the French, my liege. Glo. His eyes are humbler than they used to be. k. Hen. How now! what means this, herald ? know’st thou not That I have fined these bones of mine for ransom ? Comest thou again for ransom ? Mont. No, great king: I come to thee for charitable license, That we may wander o’er this bloody field To look our dead, and then to bury them; To sort our nobles from our common men. For many of our princes— woe the while! — Lie drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood ; So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs In blood of princes; and their wounded steeds Fret fetlock deep in gore and with wild rage Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters, Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great king, To view the field in safety and dispose Of their dead bodies! ik. Hen. I tell thee truly, herald, I know not if the day be ours or no; ~ For yet a many of your horsemen peer And gallop o’er the field. Mont. The day is yours. KK. Hen. Praised be God, and not our strength, for What is this castle call’d that stands hard by? [it! Mont. They call it Agincourt. ACT IV. i. Hen. Then call we this the field of Agincourt, Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus. Flu. Your grandfather of famous memory, an ’t please your majesty, and your great-uncle Edward the Plack Prince of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles,fought a most prave pattle here in France. Kk. Hen. They did, Fluellen. Flu. Your majesty says very true: if your majes- ties is remembered of it, the Welshmen did good service in a garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps ; which, your majesty know, to this hour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do believe your majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy’s day. kK. Hen. I wear it for a memorable honour ; For [am Welsh, you know, good countryman. Fiu. All the water in Wye cannot wash your majesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you that: God pless it and preserve it, as long as it pleases his grace, and his majesty too! it, Hen. Thanks, good my countryman. Flu. By Jeshu, Iam your majesty’s countryman, L care not who know it ; I will confess it to all the ’orld: I need not to be ashamed of your majesty, praised be God, so long as your majesty is an honest man. K. Hen. God keep me so! Our heralds go with Bring me just notice of the numbers dead {him : On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither. [Points to Williams. Hxeunt Heralds with Montjoy. Exe. Soldier, you must come to the king. [cap? JI. Hen. Soldier,why wearest thou that glove in thy Will. An’t please your majesty, ’tis the gage of one that I should fight withal, if he be alive. kK. Hen. An Englishman ? Will. An’t please your majesty, a rascal that swaggered with me last night; who, if alive and ever dare to challenge this glove, I have sworn to take him a box o’ th’ ear: or if I can see my glove in his cap, which he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear if alive, I will strike it out soundly. cK. Hen. What think you, Captain Fluellen ? is it fit this soldier keep his oath ? Flu. He is a craven and a villain else, an ’t please your majesty, in my conscience. Kk. Hen. It may be his enemy is a gentleman of great sort, quite from the answer of his degree. Flu. Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil is,as Lucifer and Belzebub himself, it is neces- sary, look your grace, that he keep his vow and his oath: if he be perjured, see you now, his reputation is aS arrant a villain and a Jacksauce, as ever his black shoe trod upon God’s ground and his earth, in my conscience, la! kK. Hen. Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meetest the fellow. | Will. So I will, my liege, as I live. K. Hen. Who servest thou under ? Will. Under Captain Gower, my liege. Flu. Gower is a good captain, and is good knowl- edge and literatured in the wars. Kk. Hen. Call him hither to me, soldier. Will. I will, my liege. [ Hxit. K. Hen. Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me and stick it in thy cap: when Alencon and myself were down together, I plucked this glove from his helm: if any man challenge this, he isa friend to Alengon, and an enemy to our person; if thou encounter any such, apprehend him, an thou dost me love. ilu. Your grace doo’s me as great honours as can be desired in the hearts of his subjects: I would fain see the man, that has but two legs, that shall find himself aggriefed at this glove; that is all; but I would fain see it once, an please God of his grace that I might:see. K. Hen. Knowest thou Gower ? Flu. He is my dear friend, an please you. FOUN GREE ME YR V. SCENE VIII. KK. Hen. Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my tent. Flu. I will fetch him. [ Hai. KK. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Follow Fluellen closely at the heels: [Gloucester, The glove which I have given him for a favour May haply purchase him a box 0’ th’ ear; It is the soldier’s; I by bargain should ; Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick : if that the soldier strike him, as I judge By his blunt bearing he will keep his word, Some sudden mischief may arise of it; For I do know Fluellen valiant And, touched with choler, hot as gunpowder, And quickly will return an injury: Follow, and see there be no harm between them. Go you with me, uncle of Exeter. [ Hxeunt. SCENE VIII. — Before King Henry’s pavilion. Enter Gower and Williams. Will. I warrant it is to knight you, captain. Enter Fluellen. Flu. God’s will and his pleasure, captain, I be- seech you now, come apace to the king: there is more good toward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of. Will. Sir, know you this glove? [glove. Flu. Know the glove! I know the glove is a Will. I know this; and thus I challenge it. [ Strikes him. Flu. ’Sblood! an arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England! Gow. How now, sir! you villain! Will. Do you think I 711 be forsworn ? Flu. Stand away, Captain Gower; I will give trea- son his payment into plows, I warrant you. Will. I am no traitor. Flu. That’s a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his majesty’s name, apprehend him: he’s a friend of the Duke Alengon’s. Enter Warwick and Gloucester. War. How now, how now! what’s the matter ? Flu. My Lord of Warwick, here is—praised be God for it!—a most contagious treason come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer’s day. Here is his majesty. Enter King Henry and Exeter. Kk. Hen. How now! what’s the matter ? Flu. My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that, look your grace, has struck the glove which your majesty is take out of the helmet of Alencon. Will. My liege, this was my glove; here is the fel- low of it; and he that I gave it to in change prom- ised to wear it in his cap: I promised to strike him, if he did: I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I have been as good as my word. Flu. Your majesty hear now, saving your majes- ty’s manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy knave it is: I hope your majesty is pear me testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that this is the glove of Alengon, that your majesty is give me; in your conscience, now ? K. Hen. Give me thy glove, soldier: look, here is the fellow of it. °T was I, indeed, thou promised’st to strike ; And thou hast given me most bitter terms. Flu. An please your majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any martial law in the world. Kk. Hen. How canst thou make me satisfaction ? Will. All offences, my iord, come from the heart : never came any from mine that might offend your K. Hen. It was ourself thou didst abuse. (majesty. Will. Your majesty came not like yourself: you 383 ACT V. appeared to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your highness suffered under that shape, I beseech you take it for your own fault and not mine: for had you been as I took you for, 1 made no offence ; there- tore, I beseech your highness, pardon me. [crowns, K. Hen. Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow; And wear it for an honour in thy cap Till I do challenge it. Give him the crowns: And, captain, you must needs be friends with him. Flu. By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his belly. Hold, there is twelve pence for you; and I pray you to serve Got, and keep you out of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, ana dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the better for you. Will. I will none of your money. Flu. It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will serve you to mend your shoes: come, wherefore should you be so pashful ? your shoes is not so good: ‘tis a good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it. Enter an English Herald. Kk. Hen. Now, herald, are the dead number’d ? Her. Here is the number of the slaughtered French. [uncle ? K. Hen. What prisoners of good sort are taken, Exe. Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the king; John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt: Of other lords and barons, knights and squires, Full fifteen hundred, besides common men. K. Hen. This note doth tell me of ten thousand French That in the field lie slain: of princes, in this number, And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead One hundred twenty-six: added to these, Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen, Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which, Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d knights: So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries ; KING CHENEY SY, SCENE I. The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires, And gentlemen of blood and quality. The names of those their nobles that lie dead: Charles Delabreth, high constable of France: Jacques of Chatillon, admiral of France; The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures ; Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dolphin, John Duke of Alencon, Anthony Duke of Brabant, The brother to the Duke of Burgundy, And Edward Duke of Bar: of lusty earls, Grandpré and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix, Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale. Here was a royal fellowship of death! Where is the number of our English dead ? [Herald shows him another paper. Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire: None else of name; and of all other men But five and twenty. O God, thy arm was here; And not to us, but to thy arm alone, Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem, But in plain shock and even play of battle, Was ever known so great and little loss On one part and on the other? Take it, God, For it is none but thine! Exe. ’T is wonderful! Kt. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the village: And be it death proclaimed through our host To boast of this or take that praise from God Which is his only. Flu. Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is killed ? K. Hen. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledg- That God fought for us. {ment, Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great good. Kk. Hen. Do we all holy rites; Let there be sung ‘ Non nobis’ and ‘ Te Deum,’ The dead with charity enclosed in clay: And then to Calais; and to England then; Where ne’er from France arrived more nap men. eunt. Wa eh Boas PROLOGUE. Enter Chorus. Chor. YVouchsafe to those that have not read the story, That I may prompt them: and of such as have, I humbly pray them to admit the excuse Of time, of numbers and due course of things, Which cannot in their huge and proper life Be here presented. Now we bear the king Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d Which like a mighty whiftler ’fore the king ___[sea, Seems to prepare his way: so let him land, And solemnly see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought that even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath; Where that his lords desire him to have borne His bruised helmet and his bended sword Before him through the city: he forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride ; Giving full trophy, signal and ostent (uite from himself to God. But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens! The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, 384 Like to the senators of the antique Rome With the plebeians swarming at their heels, Go forth and fetch their conquering Ceesar in: As, by a lower but loving likelihood, Were now the general of our gracious empress, As in good time he may, from Ireland coming, Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, How many would the peaceful city quit, To welcome him! much more, and much more cause, Did they this Harry. Now in London place him; As yet the lamentation of the French Invites the King of England’s stay at home, The emperor’s coming in behalf of France, . To order peace between them; and omit All the occurrences, whatever chanced, Till Harry’s back-return again to France: There must we bring him; and myself have play’d The interim, by remembering you ’tis past. Then brook abridgement, and your eyes advance, After your thoughts, straight back again to France. [ Exit. SCENE I.—France. The English camp. Enter Fluellen and Gower. Gow. Nay, that’s right; but why wear you your leek to-day? Saint Davy’s day is past. Flu. There is occasions and causes why and where- fore in all things: I will tell you, asse my friend, Captain Gower: the rascally, scald, beggarly, lousy, AETV. pragging knave, Pistol, which you and yourself and all the world know to be no petter than a fellow, look you now, of no merits, he is come to me and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek: it was in a place where I could not breed no contention with him: but I will be so bold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell hin a little piece of my desires. Enter Pistol. ns Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey- cock. Flu. °Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, God pless you! Pist. Ha! art thou bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan, To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web ? Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek. Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek: because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections and your appetites and your digestions doo’s not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it. Pist. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats. Flu. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will you be so good, scauld knave, as eat it ? Pist. Base Trojan, thou shalt die. Flu. You say very true, scauld knave, when God’s will is: I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals: come, there is sauce for it. [Strikes him.] You called me yesterday mountain- squire; but I will make you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to: if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek. Gow. Enough, captain: you have astonished him. Flu. I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it is good for your green wound and your ploody coxcomb. Pist. Must I bite ? Flu. Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question too, and ambiguities. Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge; I eat and eat, I swear — Flu. Eat, I pray you: will you have some more sauce to your leek? there is not enough leek to Swear by. Pist. Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat. Flu. Much good do you, scauld knave, heartily. Nay, pray you, throw none away; the skin is good for your broken coxcomb. When you take occa- sions to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at ’em; that is all. . Pist. Good. Flu. Ay, leeks is good: hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate. Pist. Me a groat: Flu. Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it; or I have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat. Pist. I take thy groat in earnest of revenge. Flu. If I owe you anything, I will pay you in cudgels: you shall be a woodmonger, and buy noth- ing of me but cudgels. God b’ wi’ you, and keep you, and heal your pate. [ Hatt. Pist. All hell shall stir for this. Gow. Go, go; you are a counterfeit cowardly knave. Will you mock at an ancient tradition, begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of predeceased valour and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your words? I have seen you gleeking and galling at this gentle- man twice or thrice. You thought, because he could not speak English in the native garb, he could not therefore handle an English cugdel: you find it 25 KING HENRY YJ. SCENE II. otherwise; and henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well. Exit. Past: eget Fortune play the huswife iu me now tf News have I, that my Nell is dead i’ the spital Of malady of France; And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.’ Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd Ill turn, And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand. To England will I steal, and there Ill steal: And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d scars, And swear I got them in the Gallia wars. [ Kvit. SCENE II.— France. Enter, at one door, King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Glou- cester, Warwick, Westmoreland, und other Lords; at another, the French King, Queen Isabel, the Princess Katharine, Alice and other Ladies; the Duke of Burgundy, and his train. A royal palace. K. Hen. Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are Unto our brother France, and to our sister, [met! Health and fair time of day; joy and good wishes To our most fair and princely cousin Katharine; And, as a branch and member of this royalty, By whom this great assembly is contrived, We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy; And, princes French, and peers, health to you all! Fr. King. Right joyous are we to behold your Most worthy brother England; fairly met: [face, So are you, princes English, every one. Q. Isa. So happy be the issue, brother England, Of this good day and of this gracious meeting, AS we are now glad to behold your eyes; Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in them Against the French, that met them in their bent, The fatal balls of murdering basilisks: The venom of such looks, we fairly hope, Have lost their quality, and that this day Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love. Kk. Hen. To ery amen to that, thus we appear. Q. Isa. You English princes all, I do salute you.. Bur. My duty to you both, on equal love, Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour’d, With all my wits, my pains and strong endeavours, To bring your most imperial majesties Unto this bar and royal interview, Your mightiness on both parts best can witness. Since then my office hath so far prevail’d That, face to face and royal eye to eye, You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me, If I demand, before this royal view, What rub or what impediment there is, Why that the naked, poor and mangled Peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenties and joyful births, Should not in this best garden of the world Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage ? Alas, she hath from France too long been chased, And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps, Corrupting in its own fertility. Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart, Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach’d, Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair, Put forth disorder’d twigs; her fallow leas The darnel, hemlock and rank fumitory Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts That should deracinate such savagery ; The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility. And as our vineyards, fallows, meads and hedges, 385 Ae THY. KING Defective in their natures, grow to wildness, Even so our houses and ourselves and children Have lost, or do not learn for want of time, The sciences that should become our country ; But grow like savages,—as soldiers will That nothing do but meditate on blood,— To swearing and stern looks, diffused attire And everything that seems unnatural. Which to reduce into our former favour You are assembled: and my speech entreats That I may know the let, why gentle Peace Should not expel these inconveniences And bless us with her former qualities. [peace, K. Hen. If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the Whose want gives growth to the imperfections Which you have cited, you must buy that peace With full accord to all our just demands; Whose tenours and particular effects You have enscheduled briefly in your hands. Bur. The king hath heard them; to the which as There is no answer made. [yet K. Hen. Well then the peace, Which you before so urged, lies in his answer. Fr. King. I have but with a cursorary eye O’erglanced the articles: pleaseth your grace To appoint some of your council presently To sit with us once more, with better heed To re-survey them, we will suddenly Pass our accept and peremptory answer. KK. Hen. Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter, And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester, Warwick and Huntingdon, go with the king ; And take with you free power to ratify, Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best Shall see advantageable for our dignity, Anything in or out of our demands, And we ’ll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister, Go with the princes, or stay here with us? . Q. Isa. Our gracious brother, I will go with them : Haply a woman’s voice may do some good, When articles too nicely urged be stood on. KK. Hen. Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us: She is our capital demand, comprised Within the fore-rank of our articles. Q. Isa. She hath good leave. [Hxeunt all except Henry, Katharine, and Alice. Kk. Hen. Fair Katharine, and most fair, Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms Such as will enter at a lady’s ear And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart ? Kath. Your majesty shall mock at me; I cannot speak your England. kk. Hen. O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you like me, Kate? I: ath. Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell vat is ‘like me. KK. Hen. An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel. Kath. Que dit-il? que je suis semblable 4 les anges ? ; Bie Oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi dit-il. x. Hen. I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it. Kath. O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont pleines de tromperies. KK. Hen. What says she, fair one ? that the tongues of men are full of deceits ? Alice. Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de princess. K. Hen. The princess is the better English- woman. I’ faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding: I am glad thou canst speak no FPEEN EPA. a eS SCENE It. — find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say ‘I love you:’ then if you urge me farther than to say ‘ do you in faith?’ I wear out my suit. Give me your answer; i’ faith, do: and so clap hands and a bar- gain: how say you, lady? Kath. Sauf votre honneur, me understand vell. kK. Hen. Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me: for the one, I have neither words nor measure, and for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protes- tation: only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier: if thou canst love me for this, take me; if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and un- coined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies’ favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or rather the sun and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what sayest thou then to my love ? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee. Kath. Is it possible dat I sould love de enemy of France ? K. Hen. No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate: but,in loving me, you should love the friend of France; for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it; I will have it all mine: and, Kate, when France is mine and [I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine. Icath. I cannot tell vat is dat. Kk. Hen. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French ; which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband’s neck, hardly to be shook off. Je quand sur le possession de France, et quand vous avez le possession de moi,— let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed! —done votre est France et vous étes mienne. It is as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French: I shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me. Kath. Sauf votre honneur, le Frangois que vous parlez, il est meilleur que l’Anglois lequel je parle. Kk. Hen. No, faith, is’t not, Kate: but thy speak- ing of my tongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English, canst thou love me ? Kath. I cannot tell. K. Hen. Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? better English; for, if thou couldst, thou wouldst | I’ll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest me: and 386 —— AOT V. at night, when you come into your closet, youll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, — Kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart: but, good Kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because I love thee cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a saving faith within me tells me thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs prove a good soldier-breeder: shall not thou and I, between Saint Denis and Saint George, compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard ? shall we not ? what sayest thou, my fair flower-de-luce ? Kath. I do not know dat. K. Hen. No; ’tis hereafter to know, but now to promise: do but now promise, Kate, you will en- deavour for your French part of such a boy; and for my English moiety take the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer you, la plus belle Katha- rine du monde, mon tres cher et devin déesse ? Kath. Your majestee ave fausse French enough to deceive de most sage demoiselle dat is en France. kK. Hen. Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in true English, I love thee, Kate: by which honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew my father’s ambition ! he was thinking of civil wars when he got me: therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the | elder I wax, the better I shall appear: my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face: thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better: and therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand, and say ‘ Harry of England, I am thine: ’ which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud ‘ England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine;’ who, though I speak it be- fore his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken | English; wilt thou have me ? Kath. Dat is as it sall please de roi mon pere. i. Hen. Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate. Kath. Den it sall also content me. 4K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and [I call you my queen. } Kath. Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez: m foi, je ne veux point que vous abaissiez votre gran- deur en baisant la main d’une de votre seigneurie indigne serviteur; excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon tres-puissant seigneur. kK. Hen. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate. Kath. Les dames et demoiselles pour étre baisées devant leur noces, il n’est pas la coutume de France. kK. Hen. Madam my interpreter, what says she ? Alice. Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of France,—I cannot tell vat is baiser en Anglish. KK. Hen. To kiss. Alice. Your majesty entendre bettre que moi. A. Hen. It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would she say ? Alice. Oui, vraiment. K. Hen. O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country’s fashion: we are KING HENRY YJ. SCENE II. the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults ; as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying mea kiss: therefore, pa- tiently and yielding. [Jissing her.] You have witch- craft in your lips, Kate: there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner’ persuade Harry of England than a general petition of mon- archs. Here comes your father. fte-enter the French King and his Queen, Burgundy, and other Lords. Bur. God save your majesty! my royal cousin, teach you our princess English ? KK. Hen. I would have her learn, my fair cousin, how perfectly I love her; and that is good English. Bur. Is she not apt ? KK. Hen. Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condi- tion is notsmooth; so that, having neither the voice nor the heart of flattery about me, I cannot so con- jure up the spirit of love in her, that he will appear in his true likeness. Bur. Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I an- swer you for that. If you would conjure in her, you must make a circle; if conjure up love in her in his true likeness, he must appear naked and blind. Can you blame her then, being a maid yet rosed over with the virgin crimson of modesty, if she deny the appearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing self? It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid to consign to. K. Hen. Yet they do wink and yield, as love is blind and enforces. Bur. They are then excused, my lord, when they see not what they do. . kK. Hen. Then, good my lord, teach your cousin to consent winking. Bur. Iwill wink on her to consent, my lord, if you will teach her to know my meaning: for maids, well summered and warm kept, are like flies at Barthol- omew-tide, blind, though they have their eyes; and then they will endure handling, which before would not abide looking on. kK. Hen. This moral ties me over to time and a hot summer; and so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, in the latter end and she must be blind too. Bur. As love is, my lord, before it loves. KK. Hen. Itisso: and you may, some of you, thank love for my blindness, who cannot see many a fair French city for one fair French maid that stands in my way. Fr. King. Yes, my lord, you see them perspec- tively, the cities turned into a maid; for they are all girdled with maiden walls that war hath never entered. Kk. Hen. Shall Kate be my wife ? Fr. King. So please you. A. Hen. I am content; so the maiden cities you talk of may wait on her: so the maid that stood in the way for my wish shall show me the way to my will. [son. Fr. King. We have consented to all terms of rea- K. Hen. Is’t so, my lords of England ? West. The king hath granted every article: His daughter first, and then in sequel all, According to their firm proposed natures. Hxe. Only he hath not yet subscribed this: Where your majesty demands, that the King of France, having any occasion to write for matter of grant,shall name your highness in this formand with . this addition, in French, Notre trescher fils Henri, Roi d’Angleterre, Héritier de France; and thus in Latin, Preclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex Angliz, et Heres Franciz. ; Fy. King. Nor this I have not, brother, so denied, But your request shall make me let it pass. 387 ACT V. KINGVHENEY © V. SCENE II. K. Hen. I pray you then, in love and dear alliance, Let that one article rank with the rest; And thereupon give me your daughter. All. Amen! KK. Hen. Prepare we for our marriage: on which ay Fr. King. Take her, fair son, and from her blood | My Lord Of Burgundy, we ’ll take your oath, raise up Issue to me; that the contending kingdoms Of France and England, whose very shores look pale With envy of each other’s happiness, May cease their hatred, and this dear conjunction Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance His bleeding sword ’twixt England and fair France. All. Amen! K. Hen. Now, welcome, Kate: and bear me wit- ness all, That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen. [Flourish. Q. Isa. God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one! As man and wife, being two, are one in love, So be there ’twixt your kingdoms such a spousal, That never may ill office, or fell jealousy, Which troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage, Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms, To make divorce of their incorporate league; That English may as French, French Englishmen, Receive each other. God speak this Amen ! And all the peers’, for surety of our leagues. Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me; And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be! [Sennet.— Exeunt. EPILOGUE. Enter Chorus. Chor. Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen, Our bending author hath pursued the story, In little room confining mighty men, Mangling by starts the full course of their glory. Small time, but in that small most greatly lived This star of England: Fortune made his sword ; By which the world’s best garden he achieved, And of it left his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d King Of France and England, did this king succeed ; Whose state so many had the managing, oh they lost France and made his England eed : Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake, In your fair minds let this acceptance take. [Hvzit. G Wy = = King Henry.—O God, thy arm was here; And not to us, but to thy arm alone, Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem, But in plain shock and even play of battle, Was ever known so great and little loss On one part and on the other? Take it, God, For it is none but thine! Act IV., Scene viii. 388 ee, pedi ges VS ni os fe — Nip bas e AOE ox (ay SES bys Ps S ae THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH. DRAMATIS PERSON 4. King Henry the Sixth. Duke of Gloucester, uncle to the King, and Pro- tector. Duke of Bedford, uncle to the King, and Regent of France. Thomas Beaufort, Duke of Exeter, great-uncle to the King. Henry Beaufort, great-uncle to the King, Bishop of Winchester, and afterwards Cardinal. John Beaufort, Earl, afterwards Duke, of Somerset. Richard Plantagenet, son of Richard late Earl of Cambridge, afterwards Duke of York. Earl of Warwick. Earl of Salisbury. Earl of Suffolk. Lord Talbot, afterwards Earl of Shrewsbury. John Talbot, his son. Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. Sir John Fastolfe. Sir William Lucy. Sir William Glansdale. Sir Thomas Gargrave. Mayor of London. Woodvile, Lieutenant of the Tower. Vernon, of the White-Rose or York faction. Basset, of the Red-Rose or Lancaster faction. A Lawyer. Mortimer’s Keepers. Charles, Dauphin, and afterwards King, of France. Reignier, Duke of Anjou, and titular King of Naples. Duke of Burgundy. Duke of Alengon. Bastard of Orleans. Governor of Paris. Master-Gunner of Orleans, and his Son. General of the French forces in Bourdeaux. A French Sergeant. A Porter. An old Shepherd, father to Joan la Pucelle. Margaret, daughter to Reignier, afterwards married to King Henry. Countess of Auvergne. Joan la Pucelle, commonly called Joan of Are. Lords, Warders of the Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants. Fiends appearing to La Pucelle. SCENE — Partly in England, and partly in Framee. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LVI.] vet COE RRA Bi SCENE I.— Westminster Abbey. Dead March. Enter the Funeral of King Henry the Fifth, attended on by the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France ; the Duke of Gloucester, Protector ; ‘the Duke of Exe- ter, the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, Heralds, céc. Bed. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, And with them scourge the bad revolting stars That have consented unto Henry’s death! King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! England ne’er lost a king of so much worth. Glou. England ne’er had a king until his time. Virtue he had, deserving to command: His brandish’d sword did blind men with his beams: His arms spread wider than a dragon’s wings; His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, More dazzled and drove back his enemies Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. What should I say ? his deeds exceed all speech: He ne’er lift up his hand but conquered. [blood ? Exe. We mourn in black: why mourn we not in Henry is dead and never shall revive: Upon a wooden coffin we attend, And death’s dishonourable victory We with our stately presence glorify, Like captives bound to a triumphant car. What! shall we curse the planets of mishap That plotted thus our glory’s overthrow ? Or shall we think the subtle-witted French Conjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him By magic verses have contrived his end ? Win. He was a king bless’d of the King of kings. Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day So dreadful will not be as was his sight. The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought: The church’s prayers made him so prosperous. Glou. The church! where is it? Had not church- men pray’d, His thread of life had not so soon decay’d : None do you like but an effeminate prince, Whom, like a school-boy, you may over-awe. [tor Win. Gloucester, whate’er we like, thou art protec- And lookest to command the pr ince and realm. Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe, More than God or religious churchmen may. Glou. Name not religion, for thou lovest the flesh, And ne’er throughout the year to church thou go’st Except it be to pray against thy foes. [peace : Bed. Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in Let ’s to the altar: heralds, wait on us: Instead of gold, we ’ll offer’ up our arms; Since arms “avail not now that Henry ’s dead. Posterity, await for wretched years, When at their mothers’ moist eyes babes shall suck, Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears, And none but women left to wail the dead. Henry the Fifth, thy ghost [ invocate: Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils, 9 889 FIRST PART OF Combat with adverse planets in the heavens! A far more glorious star thy soul will make Than Julius Cesar or bright ACT I. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My honourable lords, health to you all! Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Of loss, of slaughter and discomfiture: Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans, Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. [corse? Bed. What say’st thou, man, before dead Henry’s Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns Will make him burst his lead and rise from death. Glou. Is Paris lost ? is Rouen yielded up ? If Henry were recall’d to life again, [ghost. These news would cause him once more yield the Exe. Howwere they lost? what treachery was used? Mess. No treachery; but want of men and money. Amongst the soldiers this is muttered, That here you maintain several factions, And whilst a field should be dispatch’d and fought, | You are disputing of your generals: One would have lingering wars with little cost; Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings; A third thinks, without expense at all, By guileful fair words peace may be obtain’d. Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot : Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms; Of England’s coat one half is cut away. Hxe. Were our tears wanting to this funeral, These tidings would call forth their flowing tides. Bed. Me they concern; Regent I am of France. Give me my steeled coat. Ill fight for France. Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes, To weep their intermissive miseries. Enter to them another Messenger. Mess. Lords, view these letters full of bad mis- France is revolted from the English quite, [chance. Except some petty towns of no import: The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims; The Bastard of Orleans with him is join’d; Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part; The Duke of Aleng¢on flieth to his side. Exe. The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him! O, whither shall we fly from this reproach ? Glou. We will not fly, but to our enemies’ throats. Bedford, if thou be slack, Ill fight it out. [mess ? Bed. Gloucester, why doubt’st thou of my forward- An army have I muster’d in my thoughts, W herewith already France is overrun. Enter another Messenger. Mess. My gracious lords, to add to your laments, Wherewith you now bedew King Henry’s hearse, I must inform you of a dismal fight Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. Win. What! wherein Talbot overcame? is’t so? Mess. O,no; wherein Lord Talbot was o’erthrown: The circumstance Ill tell you more at large. The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, Retiring from the siege of Orleans, Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, By three and twenty thousand of the French Was round encompassed and set upon. No leisure had he to enrank his men; He wanted pikes to set before his archers; Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck’d out of hedges They pitched in the ground confusedly, To keep the horsemen off from breaking in. More than three hours the fight continued; Where valiant Talbot above human thought Enacted wonders with his sword and lance: Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him ; Here, there, and every where, enraged he flew: 390 KING HENRY VI. The French exclaim’d, the devil was in arms; All the whole army stood agazed on him: His soldiers spying his undaunted spirit A Talbot! a Talbot! cried out amain And rush’d into the bowels of the battle. Here had the conquest fully been seal’d up, If Sir John Fastolfe had not play’d the coward: He, being in the vaward, placed behind With purpose to relieve and follow them, Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke. Hence grew the general wreck and massacre ; Enclosed were they with their enemies: A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin’s grace, Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back, Whomall Francewiththeir chief assembled strength Durst not presume to look once in the face. Bed. Is Talbot slain? then I will slay myself, For living idly here in pomp and ease, Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid, Unto his dastard foemen is betray’d. Mess. O no, he lives; but is took prisoner, | And Lord Scales with him and Lord Hungerford: | Most of the rest slaughter’d or took likewise. Bed. His ransom there is none but I shall pay: | Ill hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne: His crown shall be the ransom of my friend; Four of their lords I ll change for one of ours. Farewell, my masters; to my task will I; Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make, To keep our great Saint George’s feast withal: Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake. Mess. So you had need; for Orleans is besieged ; The English army is grown weak and faint: The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply, And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, Since they, so few, watch such a multitude. Exe. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. Bed. I do remember it; and here take my leave, To go about my preparation. [ Hecit Glou. Ill to the Tower with all the haste I can, To view the artillery and munition ; And then I will proclaim young Henry king. [ Ezit. Exe. To Eltham will I, where the young king is, Being ordain’d his special governor, And for his safety there I ’ll best devise. [ Exit. Win. Each hath his place and function to attend : IT am left out; for me nothing remains. But long [ will not be Jack out of office: The king from Eltham I intend to steal And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. SCENE II.— France. Before Orleans. Sound a flourish. Enter Charles, Alencon, and Reignier, marching with drum and soldiers. Char. Mars his true moving, even as in the So in the earth, to this day is not known: [heavens Late did he shine upon the English side; Now we are victors; upon us he smiles. What towns of any moment but we have ? At pleasure here we lie near Orleans; Otherwhiles the famish’d English, like pale ghosts, Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. Alen. They want their porridge and their fat bull-beeves : Hither they must be dieted like mules, ; And have their provender tied to their mouths, Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. Keig. Let’s raise the siege: why live we idly here ? Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear: Remaineth none but mad-brain’d Salisbury; And he may well in fretting spend his gall, Nor men nor money hath he to make war. ; Char. Sound,sound alarum ! we will rush on them. SCENE II. [ Haeeunt. ACT I. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VIL SCENE II. Now for the honour of the forlorn French ! Him I forgive my death that killeth me When he sees me go back one foot or fly. [Hxeunt. Here alarwm; they are beaten back by the English with great loss. Re-enter Charles, Alengon, and Reig- nier. Char. Who ever saw the like ? what men have I! Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne’er have fled, But that they left me ’midst my enemies. Reig. Salisbury is a desperate homicide ; He fighteth as one weary of his life. The other lords, like lions wanting food, Do rush upon us as their hungry prey. Alen. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records, England all Olivers and Rowlands bred During the time Edward the Third did reign. More truly now may this be verified ; For none but Samsons and Goliases It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten ! Lean raw-boned rascals! who would e’er suppose They had such courage and audacity ? Char. Let’s leave this town; for they are hair- brain’d slaves, And hunger will enforce them to be more eager: Of old I know them; rather with their teeth The walls they ’1] tear down than forsake the siege. fteig. I think, by some odd gimmors or device Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on; Else ne’er could they hold out so as they do. By my consent, we ’ll even let them alone. Alen. Be it so. Enter the Bastard of Orleans. Bast. Where ’s the Prince Dauphin ? I have news for him. Char. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. Bast. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall’d: Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence ? Be not dismay’d, for succor is at hand: A holy maid hither with me I bring, Which by a vision sent to her from heaven Ordained is to raise this tedious siege _And drive the English forth the bounds of France. The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome: What’s past and what ’s to come she can descry. Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words, For they are certain and unfallible. Char. Go, call her in. [Hit Bastard.] But first, to try her skill, Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place: Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern: By this means shall we sound what skill she hath. Re-enter the Bastard of Orleans, with Joan La Pucelle. Reig. Fair maid, is ’t thou wilt do these wondrous feats ? [me ? Puc. Reignier, is ’t thou that thinkest to beguile Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind; I know thee well, though never seen before. Be not amazed, there ’s nothing hid from me: In private will I talk with thee apart. Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. Reig. She takes upon her bravely at first dash. Puc. Dauphin,I am by birth a shepherd’s daughter, My wit untrain’d in any kind of art. Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleased To shine on my contemptible estate: Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs, And to sun’s parching heat display’d my cheeks, God’s mother deigned to appear to me And in a vision full of majesty Will’d me to leave my base vocation And free my country from calamity: Her aid she promised and assured success: In complete glory she reveal’d herself ; And, whereas I was black and swart before, With those clear rays which she infused on me That beauty am I bless’d with which you see. Ask me what question thou canst possible, And I will answer unpremeditated : My courage try by combat, if thou darest, And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate, If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. [terms: Char. Thou hast astonish’d me with thy high Only this proof Ill of thy valour make, In single combat thou shalt buckle with me, And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true; Otherwise I renounce all confidence. Puc. 1am prepared: here is my keen-edged sword, Deck’d with five flower-de-luces on each side; The which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine’s churchyard, Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth. Char. Then come, 0’ God’s name; I fear no wo- man. Puc. And while I live, I ll ne’er fly from a man. [ Here they fight, and Joan La Pucelle overcomes. Char. Stay, stay thy hands! thou art an Amazon And fightest with the sword of Deborah. _[weak. Puc. Christ’s mother helps me, else I were too Char. Whoe’er helps thee, tis thou that must help me: Impatiently I burn with thy desire ; My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued. Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so, Let me thy servant and not sovereign be: ’T is the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. Puc. I must not yield to any rites of love, For my profession ’s sacred from above: When I have chased all thy foes from hence, Then will I think upon a recompense. [thrall. Char. Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate Reig. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk. Alen. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock; Else ne’er could he so long protract his speech. feig. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean ? [know: Alen. He may mean more than we poor men do These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues. on? Reig. My lord, where are you? what devise you Shall we give over Orleans, or no? Puc. Why, no, I say, distrustful recreants! Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard. [out. Cia What she says I’ll confirm: we’ll fight it Puc. Assign’d am I to be the English scourge. This night the siege assuredly I ’ll raise: Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days, Since I have entered into these wars. Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. With Henry’s death the English circle ends; Dispersed are the glories it included. Now am J like that proud insulting ship Which Cesar and his fortune bare at once. Char. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove? Thou with an eagle art inspired then. Helen, the mother of great Constantine, Nor yet Saint Philip’s daughters, were like thee. Bright star of Venus, fall’n down on the earth, How may I reverently worship thee enough? | Alen. Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege. Reig. Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours ; Drive them from Orleans and be immortalized. [it: Char. Presently we ’ll try: come, let’s away about No prophet will 1 trust, if she prove false. [Hxeunt. 391 ACT I. SCENE III.—London. Before the Tower. Enter the Duke of Gloucester, with his Serving- men in blue coats. Glou. I am come to survey the Tower this day: Since Henry’s death, I fear, there is conveyance. Where be these warders, that they wait not here ? Open the gates; tis Gloucester that calls. First Warder. [Within] Who’s there that knocks so imperiously ? First Serv. It is the noble Duke of Gloucester. Second Warder. [| Within] Whoe’er he be, you may not be let in. First Serv. Villains, answer you so the lord pro- | tector ? First Warder. [Within] The Lord protect him! so we answer him: We do no otherwise than we are will’d. [mine ? Glou. Who willed you? or whose will stands but There ’s none protector of the realm but I. Break up the gates, Ill be your warrantize: Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms ? [Gloucester’s men rush at the Tower Gates, and Woodvile the Lieutenant speaks within. Woodv. What noise is this? what traitors have we here? Glou. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear ? Open the gates; here’s Gloucester that would enter. Woodv. Have patience, noble duke; I may not The Cardinal of Winchester forbids: [open ; From him I have express commandment That thou nor none of thine shall be let in. Glou. RPE Maly Woodvile, prizest him ’fore me! Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate, Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne’er could brook ? Thou art no friend to God or to the king: Open the gates, or I ’ll shut thee out shortly. Serving-men. Open the gates unto the lord pro- ector, Or we’ll burst them open, if that you come not quickly. Enter to the Protector at the Tower Gates Winches- ter and his men in tawny coats. Win. How now, ambitious Humphry! what means this ? Glou. Peel’d priest, dost thou command me to be shut out ? Win. I do, thou most usurping proditor, And not protector, of the king or realm. Glou. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, Thou that contrivedst to murder our dead lord; Thou that givest whores indulgences to sin: Ill canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat, If thou proceed in this thy insolence. foot: Win. Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain, To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. Glou. I will not slay thee, but I ll drive thee back: Thy scarlet robes as a child’s bearing-cloth I ll use to carry thee out of this place. Gu Do what thou darest; I beard thee to thy ace. Glou. What! am I dared and bearded to my face? Draw, men, for all this privileged place; Blue coats to tawny coats. Priest, beware your beard; I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly: Under my feet I stamp thy ecardinal’s hat: In spite of pope or dignities of church, Here by the cheeks Ill drag thee up and down. Win. Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the pope. Glou. Winchester goose, I cry, a rope! a rope! Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay ? Thee I’ chase hence, thou wolf in sheep’s array. Out, tawny coats! out, scarlet hypocrite! 392 FIRST. "PART VORP NEING PEN EY | | Ill never trouble you, if I may spy them. SCENE IV. Here Gloucester’s men beat out the Cardinal’s men, and enter in the hurly-burly the Mayor of London and his Officers. May. Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magis- trates, Thus contumeliously should break the peace! Glow. Peace, mayor! thou know’st little of my wrongs: Here’s Beaufort, that regards nor God nor king, Hath here distrain’d the Tower to his use. Win. Here’s Gloucester, a foe to citizens, One that still motions war and never peace, O’ercharging your free purses with large fines, That seeks to overthrow religion, Because he is protector of the realm, And would have armour here out of the Tower, To crown himself king and suppress the prince. Glow. I will not answer thee with words, but blows. [Here they skirmish again. May. Nought rests for me in this tumultuous But to make open proclamation: [strife aed officer; as loud as e’er thou canst. ry Off. All manner of men assembled here in arms this day against God’s peace and the king’s, we charge and command you, in his highness’ name, to repair to your several dwelling-places ; and not to wear, handle, or use any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death. Glou. Cardinal, Ill be no breaker of the law: But we shall meet, and break our minds at large. Win. Gloucester, we will meet; to thy cost, be sure: Thy heart-blood I will have for this day’s work. May. 171) call for clubs, if you will not away. This cardinal’s more haughty than the devil. Glou. Mayor, farewell: thou dost but what thou mayst. Win. Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head ; For I intend to have it ere long. [Hxeunt, severally, Gloucester and Winchester with their Serving-men. May. See the coast clear’d, and then we will depart. Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear! I myself fight not once in forty year. [ Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Orleans. Enter, on the walls, a Master-Gunner and his Boy. M. Gun. Sirrah, thou know’st how Orleans is be- sieged, And how the English have the suburbs won. Boy. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them, Howe’er unfortunate I miss’d my aim. M. Gun. But now thou shalt not. Be thou ruled Chief master-gunner am I of this town; [by me: Something I must do to procure me grace. The prince’s espials have informed me How the English, in the suburbs close intrench’d, Wont through a secret grate of iron bars In yonder tower to overpeer the city And thence discover how with most advantage They may vex us with shot or with assault. To intercept this inconvenience, A piece of ordnance ’gainst it I have placed ; And even these three days have I watch’d, If I could see them. Now do thou watch, for I can stay no longer. If thou spy’st any, run and bring me word; And thou shalt find me at the governor’s. [ Exit. Boy. Father, I warrant you; take you 310 care ; [ Exit. Enter, on the turrets, the Lords Salisbury and Talbot, Sir William Glansdale, Sir Thomas Gargrave, and others. Sal. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return’d! How wert thou handled being prisoner ? ACT I. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. SCENE V. Or by what means got’st thou to be released ? Discourse, I prithee, on this turret’s top. Tal. The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner Call’d the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles ; For him was I exchanged and ransomed. But with a baser man of arms by far Once in contempt they would have barter’d me: Which I disdaining scorn’d and craved death Rather than I would be so vile-esteem’d. In fine, redeem’d I was as I desired. But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart, Whom with my bare fists I would execute, If I now had him brought into my power. Sal. Yet tell’st thou not how thouwert entertain’d. Tal. With scoffs and scorns and contumelious In open market-place produced they me, __ [taunts. To be a public spectacle to all: Here, said they, is the terror of the French, The scarecrow that affrights our children so. Then broke I from the officers that led me, And with my nails digg’d stones out of the ground, To hurl at the beholders of my shame: My grisly countenance made others fly ; None durst come near for fear of sudden death. In iron walls they deem’d me not secure; So great fear of my name ’mongst them was spread That they supposed I could rend bars of steel And spurn in pieces posts of adamant: Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had That walked about me every minute while; And if I did but stir out of my bed, Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. Enter the Boy with a linstock. Sal. I grieve to hear what torments you endured, But we will be revenged sufticiently. Now it is supper-time in Orleans: Here, through this grate, I count each one And view the Frenchmen how they fortify : Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee. Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Sir William Glansdale, Let me have your express opinions Where is best place to make our battery next. Heat I aa at the north gate; for there stand ords. Glan. And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge. Tal. For aught I see, this city must be famish’d, Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. - [Here they shoot. Salisbury and Gargrave fall. Sal. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners! Gar. O Lord, have mercy on me, woful man! Tal. What chance is this that suddenly hath cross’d us? Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak: How farest thou, mirror of all martial men ? One of thy eyes and thy cheek’s side struck off! Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand That hath contrived this woful tragedy! In thirteen battles Salisbury o’ercame ; Henry the Fifth he first train’d to the wars ; Whilst any trump did sound, or drum struck up, His sword did ne’er leave striking in the field. Yet Sy thou, Salisbury? though thy speech doth ail, One eye thou hast, to look to heaven for grace: The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive, If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands! Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it. Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life? Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him. Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort; Thou shalt not die whiles — He beckons with his hand and smiles on me, As who should say ‘ When I am dead and gone, Remember to avenge me on the French.’ Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero, Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn: Wretched shall France be only in my name. [Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens. What stir is this ? what tumult ’s in the heavens ? Whence cometh this alarum and the noise ? Enter a Messenger. ee rh lord, my lord, the French have gather’d ead: The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join’d, A holy prophetess new risen up, Is come with a great power to raise the siege. [Here Salisbury lifteth himself up and groans. Tal. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan! It irks his heart he cannot be revenged. Frenchmen, I ’ll be a Salisbury to you: Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish, Your hearts I ll stamp out with my horse’s heels, And make a quagmire of your mingled brains. Convey me Salisbury into his tent, And then we ’ll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare. [Alarum. Exeunt. SCENE V.— The same. Here an alarum again: and Talbot pursueth the Dau- phin, and driveth him: then enter Joan La Pucelle, driving Englishmen before her, and exit after them: then re-enter Talbot. ies. Whee is my strength, my valour, and my orce | Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them ; A woman clad in armour chaseth them. Re-enter La Pucelle. Here, here she comes. Ill have a bout with thee; Devil or devil’s dam, Ill conjure thee: Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch, And straightway give thy soul to him thou servest. Puc. Come, come, ’tis only I that must disgrace thee. [Here they fight. Tal. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail ? My breast I’ll burst with straining of my courage And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder, But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet. [They fight again. Puc. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come: I must go victual Orleans forthwith. [A short alarum: then enter the town with soldiers. O’ertake me, if thou canst; I scorn thy strength. Go, go, cheer up thy hungry-starved men; Help Salisbury to make his testament : This day is ours, as many more shall be. [ Hxitt. Tal. My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s I know not where I am, nor what I do: [wheel ; A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal, Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists: So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench Are from their hives and houses driven away. They call’d us for our fierceness English dogs; Now, like to whelps, we crying run away. [A short alarum. Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight, Or tear the lions out of England’s coat; Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions’ stead: Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf, Or horse or oxen from the leopard, As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves. [Alarum. Here another skirmish. It will not be: retire into your trenches: You all consented unto Salisbury’s death, For none would strike a stroke in his revenge. Pucelle is enter’d into Orleans, In spite of us or aught that we could do. O, would I were to die with Salisbury ! The shame hereof will make me hide my head. [Hxit Talbot. Alarum; retreat; flourish. 393 ACD TE. SCENE VI.—The same. Enter, on the walls, La Pucelle, Charles, Reig- nier, Alencon, and Soldiers. Puc. Advance our waving colours on the walls; Rescued is Orleans from the English: Thus Joan la Pucelle hath performed her word. Char. Divinest creature, Astrza’s daughter, How shall I honour thee for this success ? Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next. France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess! . Recover’d is the town of Orleans: More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state. Reig. Why ring not out the bells aloud through- out the town ? Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires And feast and banquet in the open streets, To celebrate the joy that God hath given us. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. SCENE I. Alen. All France will be replete with mirth and JOY; When they shall hear how we have play’d the men. Char. ’T is Joan, not we, by whom the day is won; For which I will divide my crown with her, And all the priests and friars in my realm — Shall in procession sing her endless praise. A statelier pyramis to her Ill rear Than Rhodope’s or Memphis’ ever was: In memory of her when she is dead, Her ashes, in an urn more precious Than the rich-jewel’d coffer of Darius, Transported shall be at high festivals Before the kings and queens of France. No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint. Come in, and let us banquet royally, After this golden day of victory. [Flourish. Hceunt. PO) 5: Es SCENE I.— Before Orleans. Enter a Sergeant of a band, with two Sentinels. Serg. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant: If any noise or soldier you perceive Near to the walls, by some apparent sign Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. First Sent. Sergeant, you shall. [Hxit Sergeant.] Thus are poor servitors, When others sleep upon their quiet beds, Constrain’d to watch in darkness, rain and cold. Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, and forces, with scaling-ladders, their drums beating a dead march. Tal. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, By whose approach the regions of Artois, Wallon and Picardy are friends to us, This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having all day caroused and banqueted: Embrace we then this opportunity As fitting best to quittance their deceit Contrived by art and baleful sorcery. Bed. Coward of France! how much he wrongs his fame, Despairing of his own arm’s fortitude, To join with witches and the help of hell! Bur. Traitors have never other company. But what’s that Pucelle whom they term so pure ? Tal. A maid, they say. Bed. A maid! and be so martial! . Pray God she prove not masculine ere long, If underneath the standard of the French She carry armour as she hath begun. Tal. Well, let them practise and converse with spirits: God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. Bed. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. Tal. Not all together: better far, I guess, That we do make our entrance several ways; That, if it chance the one of us do fail, The other yet may rise against their force. Bed. Agreed: 1°ll to yond corner. Bur. And I to this. Tal. And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave. Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right Of English Henry, shall this night appear How much in duty I am bound to both. Sent. Arm! arm! the enemy doth make assault! [Cry: ‘ St. George,’ ‘A Talbot.’ 304 The French leap over the walls in their shirts. Enter, sev- eral ways, the Bastard of Orleans, Alengon, and Reig- nier, half ready, and half unready. Alen. How now, my lords! what, all unready so? Bast. Unready! ay, and glad we ’scaped so well. Reig. *T was time, { trow, to wake and leave our Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors. _[beds, Alen. Of all exploits since first I follow’d arms, Ne’er heard I of a warlike enterprise More venturous or desperate than this. Bast. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. Reig. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him. Alen. Here cometh Charles: I marvel how he sped. Bast. Tut, holy Joan was his defensive guard. Enter Charles and La Pucelle. Char. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame ? Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal, Make us partakers of a little gain, That now our loss might be ten times so much ? Puc. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his At all times will you have my power alike? [friend? Sleeping or waking must I still prevail, Or will you blame and lay the fault on me? Improvident soldiers! had your watch been good, This sudden mischief never could have fall’n. Char. Duke of Alencon, this was your default, That, being captain of the watch to-night, Did look no better to that weighty charge. Alen. Had all your quarters been as safely kept As that whereof I had the government, We had not been thus shamefully surprised. Bast. Mine was secure. Reig. And so was mine, my lord. Char. And, for myself, most part of all this night, Within her quarter and mine own precinct I was employ’d in passing to and fro, About relieving of the sentinels: Then how or which way should they first break in ? Puc. Question, my lords, no further of the case, How or which way: ’t is sure they found some place But weakly guarded, where the breach was made. And now there rests no other shift but this; . To gather our soldiers, scatter’d and dispersed, And lay new platforms to endamage them. Alarum. Enter an English Soldier, crying ‘A Talbot! a Talbot!’ They fly, leaving their clothes behind. Sold. Ill be so bold to take what they have left. The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword ; For I have loaden me with many spoils, Using no other weapon but his name. [ Heit. ACT II. SCENE II.— Orleans. Within the town. Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, a Captain, and others. Bed. The day begins to break, and night is fled, Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth. Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit. [ Retreat sounded. Tal. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury, And here advance it in the market-place, The middle centre of this cursed town. Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; For every drop of blood was drawn from him There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night. And that hereafter ages may behold What ruin happen’d in revenge of him, Within their chiefest temple I ll erect A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr’d: Upon the which, that every one may read, Shall be engraved the sack of Orleans, The treacherous manner of his mournful death And what a terror he had been to France. But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, . J muse we met not with the Dauphin’s grace, His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, Nor any of his false confederates. [began, Bed. °T is thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight Roused on the sudden from their drowsy beds, They did amongst the troops of armed men Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field. Bur. Myself, as far as I could well discern For smoke and dusty vapours of the night, Am sure I scared the Dauphin and his trull, When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves That could not live asunder day or night. After that things are set in order here, We’ll follow them with all the power we have. Enter a Messenger. Mess. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts [train So much applauded through the realm of France ? deme is the Talbot: who would speak with im Mess. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, With modesty admiring thy renown, By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe To visit her poor castle where she lies, That she may boast. she hath beheld the man Whose glory fills the world with loud report. Bur. Isitevenso? Nay, then, I see our wars Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport, When ladies crave to be encounter’d with. You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. Tal. Ne’er trust me then; for when a world of Could not prevail with all their oratory, [men Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-ruled: And therefore tell her I return great thanks, And in submission will attend on her. Will not your honours bear me company ? Bed. No, truly; it is more than manners will: And I have heard it said, unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. Tal. Well then, alone, since there ’s no remedy, I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy. Come hither, captain. [ Whispers.| You perceive my mind? Capt. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. | Hxeunt. SCENE III. — Awvergne. Enter the Countess and her Porter. Count. Porter, remember what I gave in charge ; And when you have done so, bring the keys to me. Port. Madam, I will. [Hxcit. The Countess’s castle. PYRSTUPART OFS RING HENRY VI. SCENE Iil. Count. The plot is laid: if all things fall out right, I shall as famous be by this exploit As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death. Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight, And his achievements of no less account : Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears, To give their censure of these rare reports. Enter Messenger and Talbot. Mess. Madam, According as your ladyship desired, By message craved, so is Lord Talbot come. Count. And he is welcome. What! is this the Mess. Madam, it is. [man ? Count. Is this the scourge of France ? Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad That with his name the mothers still their babes ? I see report is fabulous and false: I thought I should have seen some Hercules, A second Hector, for his grim aspect, And large proportion of his pata. limbs. Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf! It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp Should strike such terror to his enemies. Tal. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; But since your ladyship is not at leisure, I ll sort some other time to visit you. [he goes. Count. What means he now? Goask him whither Mess. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves To know the cause of your abrupt departure. Tal. Marry, for that she’s in a wrong belief, I go to certify her Talbot ’s here. Re-enter Porter with keys. Count. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. Tal. Prisoner! to whom ? Count. To me, blood-thirsty lord ; And for that cause I train’d thee to my house. Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, For in my gallery thy picture hangs: But now the substance shall endure the like, And I will chain these legs and arms of thine, That hast by tyranny these many years Wasted our country, slain our citizens And sent our sons and husbands captivate. Tal. Ha, ha, ha! Count. Laughest thou, wretch? thy mirth shall turn to moan. Tal. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond To think that you have aught but Talbot’s shadow Whereon to practise your severity. et Why, art not thou the man? al. Count. Then have I substance too. Tal. No, no, Iam but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here; For what you see is but the smallest part And least proportion of humanity: I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, It is of such a spacious lofty pitch, Your roof were not sufficient to contain ’t. Count. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce ; He will be here, and yet he is not here: How can these contrarieties agree ? Tal. That will I show you presently. [ Winds his horn. Drums strike up: a peal of ordnance. Enter Soldiers. How say you, madam ? are you now persuaded That Talbot is but shadow of himself ? These are his substance, sinews, arms and strength, With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, Razeth your cities and subverts your towns And in a moment makes them desolate. Count. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse: I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited And more than may be gather’d by thy shape. Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath; 395 I am indeed. ACT II. For I am sorry that with reverence I did not entertain thee as thou art. Tal. Be not dismay’d, fair lady; nor misconstrue The mind of Talbot, as you did mistake The outward composition of his body. What you have done hath not offended me; Nor other satisfaction do I crave, But only, with your patience, that we may Taste of your wine and see what cates you have; For soldiers’ stomachs always serve them well. Count. With all my heart, and think me honoured To feast so great a warrior in my house. [Hzewnt. SCENE IV. — London. Enter the Barls of Somerset, Suffolk, and Warwick; Richard Plantagenet, Vernon, and another Lawyer. Plan. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence ? Dare no man answer in a case of truth? Suf. Within the Temple-hall we were too loud; The garden here is more convenient. Plan. Then say at once if I maintain’d the truth ; Or else was wrangling Somerset in the error ? Suf. Faith, I have been a truant in the law, And never yet could frame my will to it; And therefore frame the law unto my will. Som. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, be- tween us. [pitch ; The Temple-garden. War. Between two hawks, which flies the higher | Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth; Between two blades, which bears the better temper ; Between two horses, which doth bear him best ; Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye; I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, 1 am no wiser than a daw. Plan. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance : The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may find it out. Som. And on my side it is so well apparell’d, So clear, so shining and so evident That it will glimmer through a blind man’s eye. Plan. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak, In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts: Let him that is a true-born gentleman And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. Som. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. War. I love no colours, and without all colour Of base insinuating flattery I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. Suf. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset And say withal I think he held the right. Ver. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more, Till you conclude that he upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp’d from the tree Shall yield the other in the right opinion. Som. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected: If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. Plan. And I. Ver. Then for the truth and plainness of the case, I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, Giving my verdict on the white rose side. Som. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest bleeding you do paint the white rose red And fall on my side so, against your will. Ver. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt And keep me on the side where still I am. Som. Well, well, come on: who else ? Law. Unless my study and my books be false, 396 FIRST PARTY OPS KW GARE NET AY. SCENE IV... The argument you held was wrong in you; [To Somersez. In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. Plan. Now, Somerset, where is your argument ? Som. Here in my scabbard, meditating that Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. [roses ; Plan. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our For pale they look with fear, as witnessing The truth on our side. Som. No, Plantagenet °T is not for fear but anger that thy cheeks Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. Plan. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset ? Som. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet ? sit Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. Som. Well, Ill find friends to wear my bleeding roses, That shall maintain what I have said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. Plan. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, T scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. Suf. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. Plan. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee. Suf. I?ll turn my part thereof into thy throat. Som. Away, away, good William de la Pole! We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. War. Now, by God’s will, thou wrong’st him, Somerset ; His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence, Third son to the third Edward King of England: Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root ? Plan. He bears him on the place’s privilege, Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus. Som. By him that made me, 1’ll maintain my On any plot of ground in Christendom. [words Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge, For treason executed in our late king’s days ? And, by his treason, stand’st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry ? His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; And, till thou be restored, thou art a yeoman. Plan. My father was attached, not attainted, Condemn’d to die for treason, but no traitor; And that Ill prove on better men than Somerset, Were growing time once ripen’d to my will. For your partaker Pole and you yourself, Ill note you in my book of memory, To scourge you for this apprehension : Look to it well and say you are well warn’d. Som. Ah, thou shalt find us ready for thee still ; And know us by these colours for thy foes, For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear. Plan. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, Will I for ever and my faction wear, Until it wither with me to my grave Or flourish to the height of my degree. [tion ! Suf. Go forward and be choked with thy ambi- And so farewell until I meet thee next. [ vit. Som. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard. [ Hicit. Plan. How I am braved and must perforce en- dure it! {house War. This blot that they object against your Shall be wiped out in the next parliament Call’d for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester ; And if thou be not then created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick. Meantime, in signal of my love to thee, Against proud Somerset and William Pole, Will I upon thy party wear this rose: And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day, Grown to this faction in the Temple-garden, ACT II. Shall send between the red rose and the white A thousand souls to death and deadly night. Plan. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you, ‘That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. Ver. In your behalf still will I wear the same. Law. And so will I. Plan. Thanks, gentle sir. Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say This quarrel will drink blood another day. [Hzxeunt. SCENE V.—The Tower of London. Finter Mortimer, brought in a chair, and Gaolers. Mor. Kind Keepers of my weak decaying age, Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. Even like a man new haled from the rack, So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent ; Weak shoulders, overborne with burthening grief, And pithless arms, like to a wither’d vine That droops his sapless branches to the ground: Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, Unable to support this lump of clay, Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other comfort have. But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come ? First Gaol. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come: We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber ; And answer was return’d that he will come. Mor. Enough: my soul shall then be satisfied. Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine. Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign, Before whose glory I was great in arms, This loathsome sequestration have I had; And even since then hath Richard been obscured, Deprived of honour and inheritance. But now the arbitrator of despairs, Just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence : I would his troubles likewise were expired, That so he might recover what was lost. Enter Richard Plantagenet. First Gaol. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. Mor. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come ? Plan. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly used, Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. Mor. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck, And in his bosom spend my latter gasp: O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks, That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. And now Ashlea sweet stem from York’s great stock, Why didst-thou say, of late thou wert despised ? ' Plan. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm ; And, in that ease, I ’ll tell thee my disease. This day, in argument upon a case, Some words there grew ’twixt Somerset and me; Among which terms he used his lavish tongue And did upbraid me with my father’s death: Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, Else with the like I had requited him. Therefore, good uncle, for my father’s sake, In honour of a true Plantagenet And for alliance sake, declare the cause My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. Mor. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison’d me And hath detain’d me all my flowering youth FIRST PART (OF KING: HENRY VI. SCENE V. Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, Was cursed instrument of his decease. Plan. Discover more at large what cause that was, For I am ignorant and cannot guess. . Mor. I will, if that my fading breath permit And death approach not ere my tale be done. Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, Deposed his nephew Richard, Edward’s son, The first-begotten and the lawful heir Of Edward king, the third of that descent: During whose reign the Percies of the north, Finding his usurpation most unjust, Endeavour’d my advancement to the throne: The reason moved these warlike lords to this Was, for that — young King Richard thus removed, Leaving no heir begotten of his body — I was the next by birth and parentage; For by my mother I derived am From Lionel Duke of Clarence, the third son To King Edward the Third; whereas he From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, Being but fourth of that heroic line. But mark: as in this haughty great attempt They laboured to plant the rightful heir, I lost my liberty and they their lives. Long after this, when Henry the Fifth, Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign, Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then derived From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, Marrying my sister that thy mother was, Again in pity of my hard distress Levied an army, weening to redeem And have install’d me in the diadem: But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers, In whom the title rested, were suppress’d. Plan. Of which, my lord, your honour is the last. Mor. True; and thou seest that I no issue have And that my fainting words do warrant death: Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather: But yet be wary in thy studious care. Plan. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me: But yet, methinks, my father’s execution Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. Mor. With silence, nephew, be thou politic: Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster And like a mountain, not to be removed. But now thy uncle is removing hence; As princes do their courts, when they are cloy’d With long continuance in a settled place. Plan. O, uncle, would some part of my young years Might but redeem the passage of your age! Mor. Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaugh- terer doth Which giveth many wounds when one will kill. Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good; Only give order for my funeral: And so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes And prosperous be thy lifein peaceand war! [Dies. Plan. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul! In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage And like a hermit overpass’d thy days. Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast ; And what I do imagine let that rest. Keepers, convey him hence, and I myself Will see his burial better than his life. [Hxeunt Gaolers, bearing out the body of Mortimer. Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer, Choked with ambition of the meaner sort: And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, Which Somerset hath offer’d to my house, I doubt not but with honour to redress; And therefore haste I to the parliament, Either to be restored to my blood, Or make my ill the advantage of my good. 397 [ Exit. ACT Ill. FIRST PART OF KING HENEY VI. 7 — an Ca) LE BS Bd Bp SCENE I.— London. The Parliament-house. Flourish. Enter King, Exeter, Gloucester, Warwick, Somerset, and Suffolk; the Bishop of Winchester, Richard Plantagenet, and others. Gloucester offers to put up a bill; Winchester snatches it, and tears tt. Win. Comest thou with deep premeditated lines, With written pamphlets studiously devised, Humphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse, Or aught intend’st to lay unto my charge, Do it without invention, suddenly ; As I with sudden and extemporal speech Purpose to answer what thou canst object. Glou. Presumptuous priest! this place commands my patience, Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour’d me. Think not, although in writing I preferr’d The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes, That therefore I have forged, or am not able Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen: No, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness, Thy lewd, pestiferous and dissentious pranks, As very infants prattle of thy pride. Thou art a most pernicious usurer, Froward by nature, enemy to peace; Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems A man of thy profession and degree; And for thy treachery, what ’s more manifest ? In that thou laid’st a trap to take my life, As well at London bridge as at the Tower. Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted, The king, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt From envious malice of thy swelling heart. [safe Win. Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouch- | To give me hearing what I shall reply. If I were covetous, ambitious or perverse, As he will have me, how am I so poor ? Or how haps it I seek not to advance Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling ? And for dissension, who preferreth peace More than I do ?— except I be provoked. No, my good lords, it is not that offends; It is not that that hath incensed the duke: It is, because no one should sway but he; No one but he should be about the king; And that engenders thunder in his breast And makes him roar these accusations forth. But he shall know I am as good — Glou. As good! Thou bastard of my grandfather! Win. Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray, But one imperious in another’s throne ? Glou. Am I not protector, saucy priest ? Win. And am not I a prelate of the church ? Glou. Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps And useth it to patronage his theft. Win. Unreverent Gloster! Glou. Thou art reverent Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life. Win. Rome shall remedy this. ar. ~ Roam thither, then. Som. My lord, it were your duty to forbear. War. Ay, see the bishop be not overborne. Som. Methinks my lord should be religious And know the office that belongs to such. War. Methinks his lordship should be humbler ; It fitteth not a prelate so to plead. Som. Yes, when his holy state is touch’d so near. War. State holy or unhallow’d, what of that ? Is not his grace protector to the king ? [tongue, Plan. [Aside] Plantagenet, I see, must hold his Lest it be said ‘ Speak, sirrah, when you should; Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?’ Else would I have a fling at Winchester. 398 King. Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester, The special watchmen of our English weal, I would prevail, if prayers might prevail, To join your hearts in love and amity. O, what a scandal is it to our crown, That two such noble peers as ye should jar! Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth. [A noise within, ‘Down with the tawny-coats!’ What tumult ’s this ? War. An uproar, I dare warrant, Begun through malice of the bishop’s men. [A noise again, ‘Stones! stones!’ Enter Mayor. . May. O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry, Pity the city of London, pity us! The bishop and the Duke of Gloucester’s men, Forbidden late to carry any weapon, Have fill’d their pockets full of pebble stones And banding themselves in contrary parts Do pelt so fast at one another’s pate That many have their giddy brains knock’d out: Our windows are broke down in every street And we for fear compell’d to shut our shops. Enter Serving-men, in skirmish, with bloody pates. King. We charge you, on allegiance to ourself, To hold your slaughtering hands and keep the peace. Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. SCENE I.. First Serv. Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we ’ll | fall to it with our teeth. Sec. Serv. Do what ye dare, we are as resolute. [Skirmish again. Glou. You of my household, leave this peevish And set this unaccustom’d fight aside. [broil Third Serv. My lord, we know your grace to be a Just and upright; and, for your royal birth, [man Inferior to none but to his majesty: And ere that we will suffer such a prince, So kind a father of the commonweal, To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate, We and our wives and children all will fight And have our bodies slaughter’d by thy foes. First Serv. Ay, and the very parings of our nails Shall pitch a field when we are dead. [Begin again. Glou. Stay, stay, I say! And if you love me, as you say you do, Let me persuade you to forbear awhile. King. O, how this discord doth afflict my soul! Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold My sighs and tears and will not once relent ? Who should be pitiful, if you be not ? Or who should study to prefer a peace, If holy churchmen take delight in broils ? War. Yield, my lord protector; yield, Winchester; Except you mean with obstinate repulse | To slay your sovereign and destroy the realm. You see what mischief and what murder too Hath been enacted through your enmity ; Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood. Win. He shall submit, or I will never yield. Glou. Compassion on the king commands me Or I would see his heart out, ere the priest [stoop; Should ever get that privilege of me. War. Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke Hath banish’d moody discontented fury, As by his smoothed brows it doth appear: - Why look you still so stern and tragical ? Glou. Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand. King. Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach That malice was a great and grievous sin; ACHenIT . And will not you maintain the thing you teach, But prove a chief offender in the same ? War. Sweet king! the bishop hath a kindly gird. For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent! What, shall a child instruct you what to do? Win. Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee; Love for thy love and hand for hand I give. Glow. [Aside] Ay, but, I fear me, with a hollow heart.— See here, my friends and loving countrymen; This token serveth for a flag of truce Betwixt ourselves and all our followers: So help me God, as I dissemble not! Win. [Aside] So help me God, as I intend it not! King. O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester, How joyful am I made by this contract ! Away, my masters! trouble us no more; But join in friendship, as your lords have done. First Serv. Content: Ill to the surgeon’s. Sec. Serv. And so will I. Third Serv. And I will see what physic the tav- ern affords. [Hxeunt Serving-men, Mayor, &c. War. Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign, Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet We do exhibit to your majesty. [prince, Glow. Well urged, my Lord of Warwick: for, sweet An if your grace mark every circumstance, You have great reason to do Richard right: Especially for those occasions At Eltham Place I told your majesty. King. And those occasions, uncle, were of force: Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is That Richard be restored to his blood. War. Let Richard be restored to his blood: So shall his father’s wrongs be recompensed. Win. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester. King. If Richard will be true, not that alone But all the whole inheritance I give That doth belong unto the house of York, From whence you spring by lineal descent. Plan. Thy humble servant vows obedience And humble service till the point of death. ([foot; King. Stoop then and set your knee against my And, in reguerdon of that duty done, I gird thee with the valiant sword of York: Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet, And rise created princely Duke of York. Plan. And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall! And as my duty springs, so perish they That grudge one thought against your majesty ! All. Welcome, high prince, the mighty Duke of York! [of York! Som. [Aside] Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke Glow. Now will it best avail your majesty To cross the seas and to be crown’d in France: The presence of a king engenders love Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends, As it disanimates his enemies. [Henry goes; King. When Gloucester says the word, King For friendly counsel cuts off many foes. Glou. Your ships already are in readiness. [Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Exeter. Exe. Ay, we may march in England or in France, Not seeing what is likely to ensue. . This late dissension grown betwixt the peers urns under feigned ashes of forged love And will at last break out into a flame: As fester’d members rot but by degree, Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, So will this base and envious discord breed. And now I fear that fatal prophecy Which in the time of Henry named the Fifth Was in the mouth of every sucking babe; That Henry born at Monmouth should win all And Henry born at Windsor lose all: Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish His days may finish ere that hapless time. [vit. TLESIVTARTVOLRAKING MEN RYVWVL SCENE II. SCENE II.—France. Before Rouen. Enter La Pucelle disguised, with four Soldiers with sacks upon their backs. Puc. These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen, Through which our policy must make a breach: Take heed, be wary how you place your words; Talk like the vulgar sort of market men That come to gather money for their corn. If we have entrance, as I hope we shall, And that we find the slothful watch but weak, Ill by a sign give notice to our friends, That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them. First Sol. Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the And we be lords and rulers over Rouen; [city, Therefore we ’ll knock. [ Knocks. Watch. [Within] Qui est 1a ? Puc. Paysans, pauvres gens de France; Poor market folks that come to sell their corn. Watch. Enter, go in; the market bell is rung. Puc. Now, Rouen, Ill shake thy bulwarks to the ground. [ Hxeunt. Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alencon, Reignier, and forces, Char. Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem ! And once again we ’ll sleep secure in Rouen. Bast. Here enter’d Pucelle and her practisants ; Now she is there, how will she specify Where is the best and safest passage in ? Reign. By thrusting out atorch from yonder tower ; Which, once discern’d, shows that her meaning is, No way to that, for weakness, which she enter’d. Enter La Pucelle on the top, thrusting out a torch burning. Puc. Behold, this is the happy wedding torch That joineth Rouen unto her countrymen, But burning fatal to the Talbotites! [ Hit. Bast. See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend ; The burning torch in yonder turret stands. Char. Now shine it like a comet of revenge, A prophet to the fall of all our foes! Reign. Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends: Enter, and cry ‘The Dauphin!’ presently, And then do execution on the watch. [Alarum. Hxeunt. Analarum. Enter Talbot in an excursion. Tal. France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy If Talbot but survive thy treachery. [tears, Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress, Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares, That hardly we escaped the pride of France. |Hzit. An alarum: excursions. Bedford, brought in sick in a chair. Enter Talbot and Burgundy without : within La Pucelle, Charles, Bastard, Alengon, and Reig- nier, on the walls, Puc. Good morrow, gallants! want ye corn for J think the Duke of Burgundy will fast [bread ? Before he ’ll buy again at such arate: ’'T was full of darnel; do you like the taste ? Bur. Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan ! I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own And make thee curse the harvest of that corn. Char. Your grace may starve perhaps before that time. [treason ! Bed. O, let no words, but deeds, revenge this Puc. What will you do, good grey-beard ? break And run a tilt at death within a chair? [a lance, Tal. Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite. Encompass’d with thy lustful paramours! Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with cowardice a man half dead ? Damsel, Ill have a bout with you again, Or else let Talbot perish with this shame. 399 ACT III. Puc. Are ye so hot, sir? yet, Pucelle, hold thy If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow. [peace; [The English whisper aes ak in council. God speed the parliament! who shall be the speaker ? Tal. Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field ? Puc. Belike your lordship takes us then for fools, To try if that our own be ours or no. Tal. I speak not to that railing Hecate, But unto thee, Alencgon, and the rest ; Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out ? Alen. Signior, no. Tal. Signior, hang! base muleters of France! Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls And dare not take up arms like gentlemen. Puc. Away, captains! let ’s get us from the walls; For Talbot means no goodness by his looks. God be wi’ you, my lord! we came but to tell you That we are here. [EHxeunt from the walls. Tal. And there will we be too, ere it be long, Or else reproach be Talbot’s greatest fame! Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house, Prick’d on by publie wrongs sustain’d in France, Either to get the town again or die: And I, as sure as English Henry lives And as his father here was conqueror, As sure as in this late-betrayed town Great Coeur-de-lion’s heart was buried, So sure I swear to get the town or die. Bur. My vows are equal partners with thy vows. Tal. But, ere we go, regard this dying prince, The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord, We will bestow you in some better place, Fitter for sickness and for crazy age. Bed. Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me: Here will I sit before the walls of Rouen And will be partner of your weal or woe. [you. Bur. Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade Bed. Not to be gone from hence; for once I read That stout Pendragon in his litter sick Came to the field and vanquished his foes: Methinks I should revive the soldiers’ hearts, Because [ ever found them as myself. Tal. Undaunted spirit in a dying breast! Then be it so: heavens keep old Bedford safe! And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, But gather we our forces out of hand And set upon our boasting enemy. [Hxeunt all but Bedford and Attendants. An alarum: excursions. Enter Sir John Fastolfe and a Captain. ae ya hee away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such 1aste 1 Fast. Whither away! to save myself by flight: We are like to have the overthrow again. Cap. What! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot! Fast. Ay, All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. [ Hvit. Cap. Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow oe eit. Retreat: excursions. La Pucelle, Alengon, and Charles jly. Bed. Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please, For I have seen our enemies’ overthrow. What is the trust or strength of foolish man ? They that of late were daring with their scoffs Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves. [Bedford dies, and is carried in by two in his chair. Analarum. Re-enter Talbot, Burgundy, and the rest. Tal. Lost, and recover’d in a day again! This is a double honour, Burgundy: Yet heavens have glory for this victory! Bur. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy 400 FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene 111. Enshrines thee in his heart and there erects Thy noble deeds as valour’s monuments. Tal. Thanks, gentle duke. But where is Pucelle I think her old familiar is asleep: {now ? Now where ’s the Bastard’s braves, and Charles his gleeks ? What, all amort ? Rouen hangs her head for grief That such a valiant company are fled. Now will we take some order in the town, Placing therein some expert officers, And then depart to Paris to the king, For there young Henry with his nobles lie. Bur. What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy, Tal. But yet, before we go, let ’s not forget The noble Duke of Bedford late deceased, But see his exequies fulfill’d in Rouen: A braver soldier never couched lance, A gentler heart did never sway in court; But kings and mightiest potentates must die For that’s the end of human misery. [ mt. SCENE III.—The plains near Rouen. Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alencon, La Pucelle, and forces. Puc. Dismay not, princes, at this accident, Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered: Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied. Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while And like a peacock sweep along his tail; We’ll pull his plumes and take away his train, If Dauphin and the rest will be but ruled. Char. We have been guided by thee hitherto And of thy cunning had no diffidence: One sudden foil shall never breed distrust. Bast. Search out thy wit for secret policies, And we will make thee famous through the world. Alen. We’ll set thy statue in some holy place, And have thee reverenced like a blessed saint: Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good. Puc. Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise: By fair persuasions mix’d with sugar’d words We will entice the Duke of Burgundy To leave the Talbot and to follow us. Char. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that, France were no place for Henry’s warriors ; Nor should that nation boast it so with us, But be extirped from our provinces. Alen. For ever should they be expulsed from And not have title of an earldom here. [France Puc. Your honours shall perceive how I will work To bring this matter to the wished end. [Drum sounds afar off. Hark! by the sound of drum you may perceive Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward. Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over at a distance, Talbot and his forces. There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread, And all the troops of English after him. French march. Enter the Duke of Burgundy and Sorces. Now in the rearward comes the duke and his: Fortune in favour makes him lag behind. Summon a parley; we will talk with him. _ [Trumpets sound a parley. Char. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy! Bur. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy ? Puc. The princely Charles of France, thy coun- tryman. [ing hence. Bur. What say’st thou, Charles ? for Iam march- Char. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words. Puc. Brave Suu undoubted hope of France! Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee. ACT IV. EPYR STIL ART? OF Bur. Speak on; but be not over-tedious. Puc. Look on thy country, look on fertile France, And see the cities and the towns defaced By wasting ruin of the cruel foe. As looks the mother on her lowly babe When death doth close his tender dying eyes, | See, see the pining malady of France; Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, Which thou thyself hast given her-:woful breast. O, turn thy edged sword another way ; Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help. One drop of blood drawn from thy country’s bosom Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore: Return thee therefore with a flood of tears, And wash away thy country’s stained spots. Bur. Either she hath bewitch’d me with her words, Or nature makes me suddenly relent. Puc. Besides, all French and France exclaims on Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny. [thee, Who join’st thou with but with a lordly nation That will not trust thee but for profit’s sake ? When Talbot hath set footing once in France And fashion’d thee that instrument of ill, Who then but English Henry will be lord And thou be thrust out like a fugitive ? Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof, Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe ? And was he not in England prisoner ? But when they heard he was thine enemy, They set him free without his ransom paid, In spite of Burgundy and all his friends. See, then, thou fight’st against thy countrymen And join’st with them will be thy slaughter-men. Come, come, return; return, thou wandering lord; Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms. Bur. I am vanquished; these haughty words of Have batter’d me like roaring cannon-shot, [hers And made me almost yield upon my knees. Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen, And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace: My forces and my power of men are yours: So farewell, Talbot; Ill no longer trust thee. Puc. [Aside] Done like a Frenchman: turn, and turn again! Char. W elcome, brave duke! thy friendship makes us fresh. Bast. And doth beget new courage in our breasts. Alen. Pucelle hath bravely play’d her part in this, And doth deserve a coronet of gold. [powers. Char. Now let us on, my lords, and join our And seek how we may prejudice the foe. [Hzxewnt. enh O78 by SCENE I.—Paris. A hall of state. Enter the King, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Talbot, Exeter, the Governor of Paris, and others. Glou. Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head. Win. God save King Henry,of that name thesixth! Glou. Now, governor of Paris, take your oath, That you elect no other king but him; Esteem none friends but such as are his friends, And none your foes but such as shall pretend Malicious practices against his state: This shall ye do, so help you righteous God! Enter Sir John Fastolfe. Fast. My gracious sovereign, as I rode from To haste unto your coronation, [Calais, A letter was deliver’d to my hands, | Writ to your grace from the Duke of Burgundy. 26 KING HENRY VI. SCENE L SCENE IV.—Paris. The palace. Enter the King, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, - York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Exeter: Ver- non, Basset, and others. To them with his Soldiers, Talbot. |. Tal. My gracious prince, and honourable peers, Hearing of your arrival in this realm, ‘ | I have awhile given truce unto my wars, To do my duty to my sovereign : In sign whereof, this arm, that hath reclaim’d To your obedience fifty fortresses, Twelve cities and seven walled towns of strength, Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem, Lets fall his sword before your highness’ feet, And with submissive loyalty of heart Ascribes the glory of his conquest got First to my God and next unto your grace. [Kneels. King. Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester, That hath so long been resident in France ? Glou. Yes, if it please your majesty, my liege. King.Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord! When I was young, as yet I am not old, I do remember how my father said A stouter champion never handled sword. Long since we were resolved of your truth, Your faithful service and your toil in war; Yet never have you tasted our reward, Or been reguerdon’d with so much as thanks, Because till now we never saw your face: Therefore, stand up; and, for these good deserts, We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury ; And in our coronation take your place. [Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Vernonand Basset. Ver. Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea, Disgracing of these colours that I wear In honour of my noble Lord of York: —[spakest ? Darest thou maintain the former words thou Bas. Yes, sir; as well as you dare patronage The envious barking of your saucy tongue Against my lord the Duke of Somerset. Ver. Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is. Bas. Why, what is he? as good a man as York. Ver. Hark ye; not so: in witness, take ye that. [Strikes him. Bas. Villain, thou know’st the law of arms is such That whoso draws a sword, ’t is present death, | Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood. | But Ill unto his majesty, and crave I may have liberty to venge this wrong; When thou shalt see I 71] meet thee to thy cost. Ver. Well, miscreant, I ll be there as soon as you; And,after,meet you sooner than you would. [Hxeunt. IV. Tal. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee! I vow’d, base knight, when I did meet thee next, To tear the garter from thy craven’s leg, [Plucking it off. Which I have done, because unworthily Thou wast installed in that high degree. Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest: This dastard, at the battle of Patay, When but in all I was six thousand strong And that the French were almost ten to one, Betore we met or that a stroke was given, Like to a trusty squire did run away: In which assault we lost twelve hundred men ; Myself and divers gentlemen beside Were there surprised and taken prisoners. | Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss ; Or whether that such cowards ought to wear This ornament of knighthood, yea or no. Glou. To say the truth, this fact was infamous 401 ACT IV. FIRST (PART YOR And ill beseeming any common man, Much more a knight, a captain and a leader. Tal. When first this order was ordain’d, my lords, Knights of the garter were of noble birth, Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage, Such as were grown to credit by the wars; Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress, But always resolute in most extremes. He then that is not furnish’d in this sort Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight, Profaning this most honourable order, And should, if I were worthy to be judge, Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain That doth presume to boast of gentle blood. [doom! King. Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear’st thy Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight: Henceforth we banish thee, on pain of death. [Ewit Fastolfe. | And now, my lord protector, view the letter Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy. [his style? Glou. What means his grace, that he hath changed No more but, plain and bluntly, ‘To the king!’ Hath he forgot he is his sovereign ? Or doth this churlish superscription Pretend some alteration in good will? What ’s here ? [Reads] ‘ I have, upon especial cause, Moved with compassion of my country’s wreck, Together with the pitiful complaints Of such as your oppression feeds upon, Forsaken your pernicious faction And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of O monstrous treachery! can this be so, That in alliance, amity and oaths, There should be found such false dissembling guile? King. What! doth my uncle Burgundy revolt ? Glou. He doth, my lord, and is become your foe. King. Is that the worst this letter doth contain ? Glou. It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes. King. Why, then, Lord Talbot there shall talk with | And give him chastisement for this abuse. How say you, my lord? are you not content ? Tal. Content, my liege! yes, but that I am pre- vented, I should have begg’d I might have been employ’d. King. Then gather strength and march unto him straight : Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason And what offence it is to flout his friends. Tal. I go, my lord, in heart desiring still You may behold confusion of your foes. [him [ Exit. Enter Vernon and Basset. Ver. Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign. Bas. And me, my lord, grant me the combat too. York. This is my Servant: hear him, noble prince. Som. And this is mine: sweet Henry, favour him. K. Hen. Be patient, lords; and give them leave to speak. i Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim ? And wherefore crave you combat ? or with whom ? Ver. With him, my lord; for he hath done me wrong. Bas. And I with him; for he hath done me wrong. K. Hen. What is that wrong whereof you both | complain ? First let me know, and then I ’ll answer you. Bas. Crossing the sea from England into France, This fellow here, with envious carping tongue, Upbraided me about the rose I wear; Saying, the sanguine colour of the leaves Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks, When stubbornly he did repugn the truth About a certain question in the law Argued betwixt the Duke of York and him; With other vile and ignominious terms: In econfutation of which rude reproach And in defence of my lord’s worthiness, I crave the benefit of law of arms. 402 [France.’ | KING HENRY VI. SCENE I. Ver. And that is my petition, noble lord: For though he seem with forged quaint conceit To set a gloss upon his bold intent, Yet know, my lord, I was provoked by him; And he first took exceptions at this badge, Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart. York. Will not this malice, Somerset, be left ? Som. Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it. fout, K. Hen. Good Lord, what madness rules in brain- sick men, When for so slight and frivolous a cause Such factious emulations shall arise! Good cousins both, of York and Somerset, Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace. York. Let this dissension first be tried by fight, And then your highness shall command a peace. Som. The quarrel toucheth none but us alone; Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then. York. There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. Ver. Nay, let it rest where it began at first. Bas. Confirm it so, mine honourable lord. Glow. Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife! And perish ye, with your audacious prate! Presumptuous vassals, are you not ashamed With this immodest clamorous outrage To trouble and disturb the king and us? _ And you, my lords, methinks you do not well To bear with their perverse objections ; Much less to take occasion from their mouths To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves: Let me persuade you take a better course. Exe. It grieves his highness: good my lords, be friends. . [batants : kK. Hen. Come hither, you that would be com- Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour, Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause. And you, my lords, remember where we are; In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation: If they perceive dissension in our looks And that within ourselves we disagree, | How will their grudging stomachs be provoked | To wilful disobedience, and rebel! Beside, what infamy will there arise, When foreign princes shall be certified | That for a toy, a thing of no regard, King Henry’s peers and chief nobility Destroy’d themselves, and lost the realm of France! O, think upon the conquest of my father, _ My tender years, and let us not forego That for a trifle that was bought with blood! Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife. I see no reason, if I wear this rose, [Putting on a red rose. That any one should therefore be suspicious I more incline to Somerset than York: Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both: As well they may upbraid me with my crown, Beeause. forsooth, the king of Scots is crown’d. | But your discretions better can persuade Than I am able to instruct or teach: | And therefore, as we hither came in peace, So let us still continue peace and love. | Cousin of York, we institute your grace To be our regent in these parts of France: And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot; And, like true subjects, sons of your progenitors, Go cheerfully together and digest Your angry choler on your enemies. Ourself, my lord protector and the rest After some respite will return to Calais; From thence to England; where I hope ere long To be Bereiods by your victories, With Charles, Alencon and that traitorous rout. [Flourish. Exeunt all but York, Warwick, Exeter and Vernon. ACT IV. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE IV. War. My Lord of York, I promise you, the king Prettily, methought, did play the orator. York. And so he did; but yet I like it not, In that he wears the badge of Somerset. [not ; War. Tush, that was but his fancy, blame him | I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm. York. An if I wist he did,— but let it rest; Other affairs must now be managed. [ Hxeunt all but Exeter. Exe. Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy For, had the passions of thy heart burst out, [voice; I fear we should have seen decipher’d there More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils, Than yet can be imagined or supposed. But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees This jarring discord of nobility, This shouldering of each other in the court, This factious bandying of their favourites, But that it doth presage some ill event. *T is much when sceptres are in children’s hands; But more when envy breeds unkind division; There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. SCENE II. — Before Bourdeaux. Enter Talbot, with trump and drum. Tal. Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter ; Summon their general unto the wall. Y at. Trumpet sounds. Enter General and others, aloft. English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth, Servant in arms to Harry King of England; And thus he would: Open your city gates; Be humble to us; call my sovereign yours, And do him homage as obedient subjects; And I’ withdraw me and my bloody power: But, if you frown upon this proffer’d peace, You tempt the fury of my three attendants, Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire; Who in a moment even with the earth Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers, If you forsake the offer of their love. Gen. Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge! The period of thy tyranny approacheth. On us thou canst not enter but by death; For, I protest, we are well fortified And strong enough to issue out and fight: If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee: On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d, To wall thee from the liberty of flight; And no way canst thou turn thee for redress, But death doth front thee with apparent spoil And pale destruction meets thee in the face. Ten thousand French have ta’en the sacrament To rive their dangerous artillery Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. Lo, there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man, Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit! This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For ere the glass, that now begins to run, I’inish the process of his sandy hour, These eyes, that see thee now well coloured, Shall see thee wither’d, bloody, pale and dead. [Drum afar off. Hark! hark! the Dauphin’s drum, a warning bell, Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. [Hxeunt General, Ke. Tal. He fables not; I hear the enemy: Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. O, negligent and heedless discipline! How are we park’d and bounded in a pale, A little herd of England’s timorous deer, Mazed with a yelping kennel of French curs! If we be English deer, be then in blood; Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch, But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags, Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel And make the cowards stand aloof at bay: Sell every man his life as dear as mine, And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and England’s right, Prosper our colours inthis dangerous fight! [Exeunt. SCENE III.—Plains in Gascony. Enter a Messenger that meets York. Enter York with trumpet and many Soldiers. York. Are not the speedy scouts return’d again, That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin ? Mess. ‘They are returned, my lord, and give it out That he is march’d to Bourdeaux with his power, To fight with Talbot: as he march’d along, By your espials were discovered Two mightier troops tHan that the Dauphin led, Which join’d with him and made their march for Bourdeaux. York. A plague upon that villain Somerset, That thus delays my promised supply Of horsemen, that were levied for this siege! Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, And I am lowted by a traitor villain And cannot help the noble chevalier: God comfort him in this necessity ! If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. Enter Sir William Lucy. Lucy. Thou princely leader of our English strength, Never so needful on the earth of France, Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot, Who now is girdled with a waist of iron And hemm’d about with grim destruction: To Bourdeaux, warlike duke! to Bourdeaux, Y ork ! Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England’s hon- our. York. O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot’s place! So should we save a valiant gentleman By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep, That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep. Lucy. O, send some succour to the distress’d lord! York. He dies, we lose; I break my warlike word ; We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get ; All ’long of this vile traitor Somerset. [soul ; Lucy. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot’s And on his son young John, who two hours since I met in travel toward his warlike father! This seven years did not Talbot see his son; And now they meet where both their lives are done. York. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot-have To bid his young son welcome to his grave ? Away! vexation almost stops my breath, That sunder’d friends greet in the hour of death. Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can, But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours are won away, ’Long all of Somerset and his delay. [Hxit, with his soldiers. Lucy. Thus, while the vulture of sedition Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror, That ever living man of memory, Henry the Fifth: whiles they each other cross, Lives, honours, lands and all hurry to loss. [Hvil. SCENE IV.—Other plains in Gascony. Enter Somerset, with his army; a Captain of Talbot’s with him. Som. It is too late; I cannot send them now: This expedition was by York and Talbot 403 FIRST PART OF Too rashly plotted: all our general force Might with a sally of the very town Be buckled with: the over-daring Talbot Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure: York set him on to fight and die in shame, That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name. Cap. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me Set from our o’ermatched forces forth for aid. ACT IV. Enter Sir William Lucy. Som. How now, Sir William! whither were you sent ? [Lord Talbot; Lucy. Whither, my lord? from bought and sold Who, ring’d about with bold adversity, Cries out for noble York and Somerset, To beat assailing death from his weak legions: And whiles the honourable captain there Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs, And, in advantage lingering, looks for rescue, You, his false hopes, the trust of England’s honour, Keep off aloof with worthless emulation. Let not your private discord keep away The levied succours that should lend him aid, While he, renowned noble gentleman, Yields up his life unto a world of odds: Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy, Aleng¢on, Reignier, compass him about, And Talbot perisheth by your default. [him aid. Som. York set him on; York should have sent Lucy. And Y ork as fast upon your grace exclaims ; Swearing that you withhold his levied host, Collected for this expedition. [horse; Som. York lies; he might have sent and had the I owe him little duty, and less love; And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending. Lucy.The fraudof England ,not the force of France, Hath now entrapp’d the noble-minded Talbot: Never to England shall he bear his life; But dies, betray’d to fortune by your strife. Som. Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen Within six hours they will be at his aid. [straight: Lucy. Too late comes rescue: he is ta’en or slain; For fly he could not, if he would have fled; And fiy would Talbot never, though he might. Som. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu! Lucy. His fame lives in the world, his shame in you. [| Hxeunt. SCENE V.—The English camp near Bourdeaux. Enter Talbot and John his son. Tal. O young John Talbot! I did send for thee To tutor thee in stratagems of war, That Talbot’s name might be in thee revived When sapless age and weak unable limbs Should bring thy father to his GE eoning, chair. But, O malignant and ill-boding stars! Now thou art come unto a feast of death, A terrible and unavoided danger: Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse ; And Ill direct thee how thou shalt escape By sudden flight: come, dally not, be gone. John. Is my name Talbot ? and am I your son ? And shall I fly? O, if you love my mother, Dishonour not her honourable name, To make a bastard and a slave of me! The world will say, he is not Talbot’s blood, That basely fled when noble Talbot stood. Tal. Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain. John. He that flies so will ne’er return again. Tal. If we both stay, we both are sure to die. John. Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly: Your loss is great, so your regard should be; My worth unknown, no loss is known in me. Upon my death the French ean little boast ; In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost. Flight cannot stain the honour you have won; 404 KENG VEEN fr? OT, SCENE VI. But mine it will, that no exploit have done: You fled for vantage, every one will swear: But, if I bow, they ’Il say it was for fear. There is no hope that ever I will stay, If the first hour I shrink and run away. Here on my knee I beg mortality, Rather than life preserved with infamy. Tal. Shall all thy mother’s hopes lie in one tomb ? John. Ay, rather than Ill shame my mother’s ~ womb. Tal. Upon my blessing, I command thee go. John. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe. Tal. Part of thy father may be saved in thee. John. No part of him but will be shame in me. Tal. ree never hadst renown, nor canst not ite it. it? John. Yes, your renowned name: shall flight abuse Tal. Thy father’s charge shall clear thee from that stain. John. You cannot witness for me, being slain. If death be so apparent, then both fly. Tal. And leave my followers here to fight and die ? My age was never tainted with such shame. John. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? No more can I be sever’d from your side, Than can yourself yourself in twain divide: Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; For live I will not, if my father die. . Tal. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon. Come, side by side together live and die; And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. | [ Hxeunt. SCENE VI. —A field of battle. Alarum: excursions, wherein Talbot’s son is hemmed about, and Talbot rescues him. poe ee George and victory! fight, soldiers, ght: ; The regent hath with Talbot broke his word And left us to the rage of France his sword. Where is John Talbot ? Pause, and take thy breath; I gave thee life and rescued thee from death. John. O, twice my father, twice am I thy son! The life thou gavest me first was lost and done, Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, To my determined time thou gavest new date. Tal. When from the Dauphin’s crest thy sword struck fire, R It warm’d thy father’s heart with proud desire Of bold-faced victory. Then leaden age, Quicken’d with youthful spleen and warlike rage, Beat down Alengon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered, And interchanging blows I quickly shed Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace Bespoke him thus; ‘Contaminated, base And misbegotten blood I spill of thine, Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy: Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy, Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father’s care, Art thou not weary, John ? how dost thou fare ? Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, Now thou art seal’d the son of chivalry ? Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead: The help of one stands me in little stead. O, too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all our lives in one small boat! If I to-day die not with Frenchmen’s rage, To-morrow I shall die with mickle age: By me they nothing gain an if I stay; *T is but the shortening of my life one day: In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name, My death’s revenge, thy youth, and England’s fame: ACT V. TLRSE PART, OF. KING) (HENEY ) VI All these and more we hazard by thy stay; All these are saved if thou wilt fly away. [smart; John. The sword of Orleans hath not made me These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart : On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The coward horse that bears me fall and die! And like me to the peasant boys of France, To be shame’s scorn and subject of mischance! Surely, by all the glory you have won, An if I fly, [am not Talbot’s son: Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot. Tal. Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete, Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet: If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side; And, commendable proved, let ’s die in pride. [Hxeunt. SCENE VII. — Another part of the field. Alarum: excursions. Enter old Talbot led by a Servant. Tal. Where is my other life? mine own is gone; O, where’s young Talbot ? where is valiant John ? Triumphant death, smear’d with captivity, Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee: When he perceived me shrink and on my knee, His bloody sword he brandish’d over me, And, like a hungry lion, did commence Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; But when my angry guardant stood alone, Tendering my ruin and assail’d of none, Dizzy-eyed fury and great rage of heart Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the clustering battle of the French; And in that sea of blood my boy did drench His over-mounting spirit, and there died, My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. Serv. O my dear lord, lo, where your son is borne! Enter Soldiers, with the body of young Talbot. Tal. Thou antic death, which laugh’st us here to Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, [scorn, Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, In thy despite shall ’scape mortality. O thou, whose wounds become hard-favour’d death, Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath! Brave death by speaking, whether he will or no; Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say, Had death been French, then death had died to-day. Come, come and lay him in his father’s arms: My spirit can no longer bear these harms. Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave. Dies. Enter Charles, Alencon, Burgundy, Bastard, La Pucelle, and forces. Char. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, We should have found a bloody day of this. Last. How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging- Woo Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood! SCENE. I, Puc. Once I encounter’d him, and thus I said: ‘Thou maiden youth, be vanquish’d by a maid:’ But, with a proud majestical high scorn, He answer’d thus: ‘ Young Talbot was not born To be the pillage of a giglot wench: ’ So, rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. [knight - Bur. Doubtless he would have made a noble See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms Of the most bloody nurser of his harms! [der, Bast. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asun- Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder. Char. O,no, forbear! for that which we have fled During the life, let us not wrong it dead. Enter Sir William Lucy, attended; Herald of the French preceding. ; Lucy. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent, To know who hath obtain’d the glory of the day. Char. On what submissive message art thou sent? Lucy. Submission, Dauphin! ’t is a mere French word ; We English warriors wot not what it means. I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en And to survey the bodies of the dead. [is. Char. For prisoners ask’st thou? hell our prison But tell me whom thou seek’st. Lucy. But where ’s the great Alcides of the field. Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Created, for his rare success in arms, Great Earl of Washford, Waterford and Valence ; Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, -| Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge; Knight of the noble order of Saint George, Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece; Great marshal to Henry the Sixth Of all his wars within the realm of France? Puc. Here is a silly stately style indeed! The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, Writes not so tedious a style as this. Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. Inucy. Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only scourge, Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis ? O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turn’d, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! O, that I could but call these dead to life! It were enough to fright the realm of France: Were but his picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence And give them burial as beseems their worth. Puc. I think this upstart is old Talbot’s ghost, He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. For God’s sake, let him have ’em; to keep them here, They would but stink, and putrefy the air. Ohar. Go, take their bodies hence. Lucy. 1711 bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear’d A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. Char. So we be rid of them, do with ’em what thou | And now to Paris, in this conquering vein: [wilt. | All will be ours, now bloody Talbot ’s slain. [Hxeunt. ONG) TL OV: SCENE I.— London. Enter King, Gloucester, and Exeter. The palace. Sennet. Glow. I have, my lord: and their intent is this: They humbly sue unto your excellence To have a godly peace concluded of King. Have you perused the letters from the | Between the realms of England and of France. . pope, The emperor and the Earl of Armagnac ? King. How doth your grace affect their motion ? Glou. Well, my good lord; and as the only means 406 A CHEV, To stop effusion of our Christian blood | And stablish quietness on every side. King. Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought It was both impious and unnatural That such immanity and bloody strife Should reign among professors of one faith. Glou. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect And surer bind this knot of amity, The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, A man of great authority in France, Proffers his only daughter to your grace In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry. King. Marriage, uncle! alas, my years are young ! And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. Yet call the ambassadors; and, as you please, So let them have their answers every one: I shall be well content with any choice Tends to God’s glory and my country’s weal. Enter Winchester in Cardinal’s habit, a Legate and two Ambassadors. Exe. What! is my Lord of Winchester install’d, And call’d unto a cardinal’s degree ? Then I perceive that will be verified Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy, ‘If once he come to be a cardinal, He’ll make his cap co-equal with the crown.’ King. My lords ambassadors, your several suits Have been consider’d and debated on. Your purpose is both good and reasonable ; And therefore are we certainly resolved To draw conditions of a friendly peace; Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean Shall be transported presently to France. Glou. And for the proffer of my lord your master, I have inform’d his highness so at large As liking of the lady’s virtuous gifts, Her beauty and the value of her dower, He doth intend she shall be England’s queen. King. In argument and proof of which contract, Bear her this Jewel, pledge of my affection. And so, my lord protector, see them guarded And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp’d Commit them to the fortune of the sea. [Hxeunt all but Winchester and Legate. Win. Stay, my lord legate: you shall first receive The sum of money which I promised Should be deliver’d to his holiness For clothing me in these grave ornaments. Leg. I will attend upon your lordship’s leisure. im. [Aside] Now Winchester will not submit, I Or be inferior to the proudest peer. [trow, Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive That, neither in birth or for authority, The bishop will be overborne by thee: I’ll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee, Or sack this country with a mutiny. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.—France. Enter Charles, Burgundy, Alencon, Bastard, Reignier, La Pucelle, and forces. Char. These news, my lords, may cheer our droop- ing spirits: *T is said the stout Parisians do revolt And turn again unto the warlike French. [France, Alen. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of And keep not back your powers in dalliance. Puc. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us; Else, ruin combat with their palaces! Plains in Anjou. Enter Scout. Scout. Success unto our valiant general, And happiness to his accomplices! [speak. Char. What tidings send our scouts? I prithee, Scout. The English army, that divided was 406 FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE III. Into two parties, is now conjoin’d in one, And means to give you battle presently. Char. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is: But we will presently provide for them. Bur. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there: Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. Puc. Of all base passions, fear is most accursed. Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine, Let Henry fret and all the world repine. Char. Then on, my lords; and France be for- tunate! [ Exeunt. SCENE III. — Before Angiers. Alarum. EHzacursions. Enter La Pucelle. Puc. The regent conquers, and the Frenchmen Now help, ye charming spells and periapts; _[fly. And ye choice spirits that admonish me And give me signs of future accidents. [Thunder. You speedy helpers, that are substitutes Under the lordly monarch of the north, Appear and aid me in this enterprise. Enter Fiends. This speedy and quick appearance argues proof Of your accustom’d diligence to me. Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cull’d | Out of the powerful regions under earth, Help me this once, that France may get the field. They walk, and speak not. O, hold me not with silence over-long! Where I was wont to feed you with my blood, I ll lop a member off and give it you In earnest of a further benefit, So you do condescend to help me now. [| They hang their heads. No hope to have redress? My body shall Pay recompense, if you will ee my suit. [They shake their heads. Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice Entreat you to your wonted furtherance ? Then take my soul, my body, soul and all, Before that England give the French the foil. [They depart. See, they forsake me! Now the time is come That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest And let her head fall into England’s lap. My ancient incantations are too weak, And hell too strong for me to buckle with: Now, France, thy glory droopeth tothedust. [Zwit. Excursions. Re-enter La Pucelle fighting hand to hand with York: La Pucelle is taken. The French fly. York. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast: Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms And try if they can gain your liberty. A goodly prize, fit for the devil’s grace! See, how the ugly wench doth bend her brows, As if with Circe she would change my shape! Puc. Changed to a worser shape thou canst not be. York. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man; No shape but his can please your dainty eye. Puc. A plaguing mischief light on Charles and And may ye both be suddenly surprised [thee ! By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds! York. Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue! Puc. I prithee, give me leave to curse awhile. York. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake. [ Hxeunt. Alarum. Enter Suffolk, with Margaret in his hand. Suf. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. tee on her. O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly! For I will touch thee but with reverent hands; I kiss these fingers for eternal peace, ei ACT Vv. And lay them gently on thy tender side. Who art thou? say, that I may honour thee. Mar. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king, The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art. Suf. An earl I am, and Suffolk am [ call’d. Be not offended, nature’s miracle, Thou art allotted to be ta’en by me: So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. Yet, if this servile usage once offend, Go and be free again as Suffolk’s friend. [She is going. O, stay! I have no power to let her pass; My hand would free her, but my heart says no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, Twinkling another counterfeited beam, So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak : I'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind. Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself ; Hast not a tongue? is she not here ? Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight ? Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such, Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. Mar. Say, Earl of Suffolk —if thy name be so— What ransom must I pay before I pass ? For I perceive I am thy prisoner. Suf. How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit, Before thou make a trial of her love ? I pay ? Mar. Why speak’st thou not ? what ransom must Suf. She ’s beautiful and therefore to be woo’d: She is a woman, therefore to be won. Mar. Wilt thou accept of ransom? yea, or no. Suf. Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife; Then how can Margaret be thy paramour ? Mar. I were best to leave him, for he will not hear. Suf. There allis marr’d; there lies a cooling card. ar. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad. She And yet a dispensation may be had. ar. And yet I would that you would answer me. Suf. Ill win this Lady Margaret. For whom ? Why, for my king: tush, that’s a wooden thing! Mar. He talks of wood: it is some carpenter. Suf. Yet so my fancy may be satisfied. And peace established between these realms. But there remains a scruple in that too; For ptr her father be the King of Naples, Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor, And our nobility will scorn the match. Mar. Hear ye, captain, are you not at leisure ? Suf. It shall be so, disdain they ne’er so much: Henry is youthful and will quickly yield. Madam, I have a secret to reveal. {knight, Mar. What though I be enthrall’d ? he seems a And will not any way dishonour me. Suf. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say. ar. Perhaps I shall be rescued by the French ; And then I need not crave his courtesy. che Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause — ar. Tush, women have been captivate ere now. Suf. Lady, wherefore talk you so ? ar. L cry you mercy, ’t is but Quid for Quo. Suf. Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose | Your bondage happy, to be made a queen ? Mar. To be a queen in bondage is more vile Than is a slave in base servility ; For princes should be free. uf. And so shall you, If happy England’s royal king be free. Mar. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me ? Suf. 1’ll undertake to make thee Henry’s queen, To put a golden sceptre in thy hand And set a precious crown upon thy head, If thou wilt condescend to be my — Mar. What ? Suf. His love. ar. Tam unworthy to be Henry’s wife. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. scenettt. Suf. No, gentle madam; I unworthy am To woo so fair a dame to be his wife And have no portion in the choice myself. How say you, madam, are ye so content ? Mar. An it my father please, I am content. Suf. Then call our captains and our colours forth, And, madam, at your father’s castle walls We'll crave a parley, to confer with him., A parley sounded. Enter Reignier on the walls. See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner! Feig. To whom ? Suf. To me. Reig. Suffolk, what remedy ? I am a soldier and unapt to weep Or to exclaim on fortune’s fickleness. Suf. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord: Consent, and for thy honour give consent, Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king; Whom I with pain have woo’d and won thereto; And this her easy-held imprisonment Hath gain’d thy daughter princely liberty. Reig. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks ? Suf. Fair Margaret knows That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. Reig. Upon thy princely warrant, I descend To give thee answer of thy just demand. [Exit from the walls. Suf. And here I will expect thy coming. Trumpets sound. Enter Reignier, below, Reig. Welcome, brave earl, into our territories: Command in Anjou what your honour pleases. Suf. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child, Fit to be made companion with a king: What answer makes your grace unto my suit ? Reig. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth To be the princely bride of such a lord; Upon condition I may quietly Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou, Free from oppression or the stroke of war, My daughter shall be Henry’s, if he please. Suf. That is her ransom; I deliver her; And those two counties I will undertake Your grace shall well and quietly enjoy. Reig. And I again, in Henry’s royal name, As deputy unto that gracious king, Give thee her hand, for sign of plighted faith. Suf. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks, Because this is in traffic of a king. [Aside] And yet, methinks, I could be well content To be mine own attorney in this case. I ll over then to England with this news, And make this marriage to be solemnized. So farewell, Reignier: set this diamond safe In golden palaces, as it becomes. Reig. I do embrace thee, as I would embrace The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here. Mar. Farewell, my lord: good wishes, praise and prayers Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [Going. Suf. Farewell, sweet madam: but hark you, Mar: No princely commendations to my king? __[garet; Mar. Such commendations as becomes a maid, A virgin and his servant, say to him. Suf. Words sweetly placed and modestly directed. But, madam, I must trouble you again ; No loving token to his majesty ? Mar. Yes, my good lord, a pure unspotted heart, Never yet taint with love, I send the king. Suf. And this withal. [ Kisses her. ar. That for thyself: I will not so presume To send such peevish tokens to a king. [Exeunt Reignier and Margaret. Suf. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay ; Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth ; There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk. 407 ACT V. Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise: Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount, And natural graces that extinguish art ; Repeat their semblance often on the seas, That, when thou comest to kneel at Henry’s feet, Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with ies vit. SCENE IV.— Camp of the Duke of York in Anjou. Enter York, Warwick, and others. York. Bring forth that sorceress condemn’d to burn. Enter La Pucelle, guarded, and a Shepherd. Shep. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father’s heart out- Have I sought every country far and near, [right! And, now it is my chance to find thee out, Must I behold thy timeless cruel death ? Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I ll die with thee! Puc. Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch! I am descended of a gentler blood: Thou art no father nor no friend of mine. [not so; Shep. Out, out! My lords, an please you, ’tis I did beget her, all the parish knows: Her mother liveth yet, can testify She was the first fruit of my bachelorship. War. Graceless! wilt thou deny thy parentage ? York. This argues what her kind of life hath been, Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes. Shep. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle! God knows thou art a collop of my flesh; And for thy sake have I shed many a tear: Deny me not, I prithee, Benue Joan. [man, Puc. Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn’d this Of purpose to obscure my noble birth. Shep. ’T is true, I gave a noble to the priest The morn that I was wedded to her mother. Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl. Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time Of thy nativity! I would the milk Thy mother gave thee when thou suck’dst her breast, Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake! Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field, I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee! Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab ? O, burn her, burn her! hanging is too good. [Ezxit. York. Take her away; for she hath lived too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities. [demn’d: Puce. First, let me tell you whom you have con- Not me begotten of a shepherd swain, But issued from the progeny of kings; Virtuous and holy; chosen from above, By inspiration of celestial grace, To work exceeding miracles on earth. I never had to do with wicked spirits: But you, that are polluted with your lusts, Stain’d with the guiltless blood of innocents, Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, Because you want the grace that others have, You judge it straight a thing impossible To compass wonders but by help of devils. No, misconceived! Joan of Are hath been A virgin from her tender infancy, Chaste and immaculate in very thought; Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effused, Wiil cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. York. Ay, ay: away with her to execution! _ War. And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid, Spare for no faggots, let there be enow: Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake, That so her torture may be shortened. Puc. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts ? Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity, That warranteth by law to be thy privilege. { am with child, ye bloody homicides: Murder not then the fruit within my womb, Although ye hale me to a violent death. [child ! York. Now heaven forfend! the holy maid with 408 FIRST PARTVOR KING HENEY Ve SCENE IV. War. The greatest miracle that e’er ye wrought: Is all your strict preciseness come to this ? York. She and the Dauphin have been juggling: I did imagine what would be her refuge. War. Well, go to; we’ll have no bastards live; Especially since Charles must father it. Puc. You are deceived; my child is none of his: It was Alencgon that enjoy’d my love. York. Alengon! that notorious Machiavel! It dies, an if it had a thousand lives. Puc. O, give me leave, I have deluded you: °T was neither Charles nor yet the duke I named, But Reignier, king of Naples, that prevail’d. War. A married man! that’s most intolerable. York. Why, here’s a girl! I think she knows not well, There were so many, whom she may accuse. War. It’s sign she hath been liberal and free. York. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure. Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee: Use no entreaty, for it is in vain. [curse : Puc. Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my May never glorious sun refiex his beams Upon the country where you make abode; But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you, till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or nan yourselves! [| Hxit, guarded, York. Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes, Thou foul accursed minister of hell! Enter Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winches*r, attended. Car. Lord regent, I do greet your excellence With letters of commission from the king. For know, my lords, the states of Christendom, Moved with remorse of these outrageous broils, | Have earnestly implored a general peace Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French; And here at hand the Dauphin and his train Approacheth, to confer about some matter. York. Is all our travail turn’d to this effect ? After the slaughter of so many peers, So many captains, gentlemen and soldiers, That in this quarrel have been overthrown And sold their bodies for their country’s benefit. Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace ? Have we not lost most part of all the towns, By treason, falsehood and by treachery, Our great progenitors had conquered ? O, Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief The utter loss of all the realm of France. War. Be patient, York: if we conclude a peaca, It shall be with such strict and severe covenants As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby. Enter Charles, Alencon, Bastard, Reignier, and others. Char. Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed That peaceful truce shall be proclaim’d in Franc, We come to be informed by yourselves | What the conditions of that league must be. York. Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes The hollow passage of my poison’d voice, By sight of these our baleful enemies. Win. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus: That, in regard King Henry gives consent, Of mere compassion and of lenity, To ease your country of distressful war, And sufier you to breathe in fruitful peace, You shall become true liegemen to his crown: And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear To pay him tribute, and submit thyself, Thou shalt be placed as viceroy under him, And still enjoy thy regal dignity. Alen. Must he be then as shadow of himself ? Adorn his temples with a coronet, And yet, in substance and authority, AGT. V. Retain but privilege of a private man ? This proffer is absurd and reasonless. Char. ’Tis known already that I am possess’d With more than half the Gallian territories, And therein reverenced for their lawful king: Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish’d, Detract so much from that prerogative, _ As to be call’d but viceroy of the whole ? No, lord ambassador, I ’ll rather keep That which I have than, coveting for more, Be cast from possibility of all. [means York. Insulting Charles! hast thou by secret Used intercession to obtain a league, And, now the matter grows to compromise, Stand’st thou aloof upon comparison ? Either accept the title thou usurp’st, Of benefit proceeding from our king And not of any challenge of desert, Or we will plague thee with incessant wars. Reig. My lord, you do not well in obstinacy To cavil in the course of this contract: If once it be neglected, ten to one We shall not find like opportunity. Alen. To say the truth, it is your policy To save your subjects from such massacre And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen By our proceeding in hostility ; And therefore take this compact of a truce, Although you break it when your pleasure serves. War. How say’st thou, Charles ? shall our condi- Char. It shall; [tion stand ? Only reserved, you claim no interest In any of our towns of garrison. York. Then swear allegiance to his majesty, As thou art knight, never to disobey Nor be rebellious to the crown of England, Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England. So, now dismiss your army when ye please; Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still, For here we entertain a solemn peace. [ Hxeunt. SCENE V.— London. Enter Suffolk in conference with the King, Glou- cester and Exeter. King. Your wondrous rare description, noble earl, Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish’d me: Her virtues graced with external gifts Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart: And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love. Suf. Tush, my good lord, this superficial tale Is but a preface of her worthy praise ; The chief perfections of that lovely dame, Had I sufficient skill to utter them, Would make a volume of enticing lines, Able to ravish any dull conceit : And, which is more, she is not so divine, So full-replete with choice of all delights, But with as humble lowliness of mind She is content to be at your command; Command, I mean, of virtuous chaste intents, To love and honour Henry as her lord. King. And otherwise will Henry ne’er presume. Therefore, my lord protector, give consent That Margaret may be England’s royal queen. Glow. So should I give consent to flatter sin. You know, my lord, your highness is betroth’d Unto another lady of esteem: How shall we then dispense with that contract, And not deface your honour with reproach ? Suf. As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths; Or one that, at a triumph having vow’d To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists The palace. FIEST PART OF KING HENRY VI. SCENE Y. By reason of his adversary’s odds: . A poor earl’s daughter is unequal odds, And therefore may be broke without offence. Glou. Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than Her father is no better than an earl, {that ? Although in glorious titles he excel. Suf. Yes, my lord, her father is a king, The King of Naples and Jerusalem ; j And of such great authority in France As his alliance will contirm our peace And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance. Glou. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, Because he is near kinsman unto Chiles [dower Exe. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal Where Reignier sooner will receive than give. Suf. A dower, my lords! disgrace not so your king, That he should be so abject, base and poor, To choose for wealth and not for perfect love. Henry is able to enrich his queen And not to seek a queen to make him rich: So worthless peasants bargain for their wives, As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse. Marriage is a matter of more worth Than to be dealt in by attorneyship; Not whom we will, but whom his grace affects, Must be companion of his nuptial bed: And therefore, lords, since he affects her most, It most of all these reasons bindeth us, In our opinions she should be preferr ’d. For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife ? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace. Whom should we match with Henry, being a king, But Margaret, that is daughter to a king ? Her peerless feature, joined with her birth, Approves her fit for none but for a king: Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit, More than in women commonly is seen, Will answer our hope in issue of a king; For Henry, son unto a conqueror, Is likely to beget more conquerors, If with a lady of so high resolve As is fair Margaret he be link’d in love. Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she. King. Whether it be through force of your report, My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that My tender youth was never yet attaint With any passion of inflaming love, I cannot tell; but this I am assured, I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear, As I am sick with working of my thoughts. Take, therefore, shipping; post, my lord, to France; Agree to any covenants, and procure That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come To cross the seas to England and be crown’d King Henry’s faithful and anointed queen : For your expenses and sufficient charge, Among the people gather up a tenth. Be gone, I say; for, till you do return, I rest perplexed with a thousand cares. And you, good uncle, banish all offence: If you do censure me by what you were, Not what you are, I know it will excuse This sudden execution of my will. And so, conduct me where, from company, I may revolve and ruminate my grief. [ Kixtt. Glou. Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last. [Exeunt Gloucester and Hxeter. Suf. Thus Suffolk hath prevailed; and thus he As did the youthful Paris once to Greece, [goes, With hope to find the like event in love, But prosper better than the Trojan did. Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the kin us But [ will rule both her, the king and realm. [Hxv. 409 THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH. DRAMATIS PERSON. King Henry the Sixth. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, his uncle. Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, great- uncle to the King. Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York. Edward and Richard, his sons. Duke of Somerset. Duke of Suffolk. Duke of Buckingham. Lord Clifford. Young Clifford, his son. Earl of Salisbury. Earl of Warwick. Lord Scales. Lord Say. Sir Humphrey Stafford, and William Staf- ford, his brother. Sir John Stanley. Vaux. Matthew Goffe. A Sea-captain, Master, and Master’s-Mate, and Walter Whitmore. Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk. John Hume and John Southwell, priesta, Bolingbroke, a conjurer. Thomas Horner, an armourer. Peter, his man. Clerk of Chatham. Mayor of Saint Alban’s. Simpcox, an impostor. Alexander Iden, a Kentish gentleman. Jack Cade, a rebel. George Bevis, John Holland, Dick the butcher, Smith the weaver, Michael, &c., followers of Cade. Two Murderers. Margaret, Queen to King Henry. Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester. Margaret Jourdain, a witch. Wife to Simpcox. Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Herald, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers, Citizens, ’Pren- tices, Faleconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c. A Spirit. SCENE — England. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lvil.] oNK O01 RS SCENE I.— London. The palace. Flourish of trumpets: then hautboys. Enter the King, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, Salisbury, War- wick, und Cardinal Beaufort, on the one side; the Queen, Suffolk, York, Somerset, and Buckingham, on the other, Suf. As by your high imperial majesty I had in charge at my depart for France, As procurator to your excellence, To marry Princess Margaret for your grace, So, in the famous ancient city Tours, In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil, [eon, The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne and Alen- Seven earls, twelve barons and twenty reverend bishops, I have perform’d my task and was espoused : And humbly now upon my bended knee, In sight of England and her lordly peers, Deliver up my title in the queen To your most gracious hands, that are the substance Of that great shadow I did represent ; The happiest gift that ever marquess gave, The fairest queen that ever king received. King. Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Margaret: I can express no kinder sign of love Than this kind kiss. O Lord, that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness! For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts. lord, Queen. Great King of England and my gracious 410 | The mutual conference that my mind hath had, | By day, by night, waking and in my dreams, In courtly company or at my beads, With you, mine alder-liefest sovereign, Makes me the bolder to salute my king With ruder terms, such as my wit affords And over-joy of heart doth minister. King. Her sight did ravish; but her grace in speech, Her words y-clad with wisdom’s majesty, Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys; Such is the fulness of my heart’s content. Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love. All [kneeling]. Long live Queen Margaret, Eng- land’s happiness! eee We thank you all. [Flowrish. uff. My lord protector, so it please your grace. Here are the articles of contracted peace Between our sovereign and the French king Charles, For eighteen months concluded by consent. Glou. [Reads] ‘Imprimis, It is agreed between the | French king Charles, and William de la Pole, Mar- 'quess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item, that the duchy of Anjou and the county of Maine shall be released and delivered to the a: her father ’— [Lets the paper fal King. Uncle, how now! Glou. Pardon me, gracious lord ; oe ACT I. Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart And dimm/’d mine eyes, that I can read no further. King. Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on. Car. [Reads] ‘ Item, It is further agreed between them, that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered over to the king her father, and she sent over of the King of England’s own proper cost and charges, without having any dowry.’ King. They please us well. Lord marquess, kneel own: We here create thee the first duke of Suffolk, And gird thee with the sword. Cousin of York, We here discharge your grace from being regent I’ the parts of France, till term of eighteen months Be full expired. Thanks, uncle Winchester, Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset, Salisbury, and Warwick; We thank you all for this great favour done, In entertainment to my princely queen. Come, let us in, and with all speed provide To see her coronation be perform’d. [Hxeunt King, Queen, and Bee Glou. Brave peers of England, pillars of the state, To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief, Your griet, the common grief of all the land. What! did my brother Henry spend his youth, His valour, coin and people, in the wars ? Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter’s cold and summer’s parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance ? And did my brother Bedford toil his wits, To keep by policy what Henry got ? Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham, Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick, Received deep scars in France and Normandy ? Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself, With all the learned council of the realm, Studied so long, sat in the council-house Early and late, debating to and fro . How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe, And had his highness in his infancy Crowned in Paris in despite of foes ? And shall these labours and these honours die ? Shall Henry’s conquest, Bedford’s vigilance, Your deeds of. war and all our counsel die ? O peers of England, shameful is this league! Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame, Blotting your names from books of memory, Razing the characters of your renown, Defacing monuments of conquer’d France, Undoing all, as all had never been! [course, Car. Nephew, what means this passionate dis- This peroration with such circumstance ? For France, ’t is ours; and we will keep it still. Glou. Ay, uncle, we will keep it, if we can; But now it is impossible we should: Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast, Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style Agrees not with the leanness of his purse. Sal. Now, by the death of Him that died for all, These counties were the keys of Normandy. But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son ? War. For grief that they are past recovery: For, were there hope to conquer them again, My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears. Anjou and Maine! myself did win them both; Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer: And are the cities, that I got with wounds, Deliver’d up again with peaceful words ? Mort Dieu! York. For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffocate, That dims the honour of this warlike isle! France should have torn and rent my very heart, Before I would have yielded to this league. I never read but England’s kings have had Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives; SECOND PART OF KING HENRY ‘VI. SCENE I. And our King Henry gives away his own, To match with her that brings no vantages. Glou. A proper jest, and never heard before, That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth For costs and charges in transporting her! She should have stayed in France and starved in Before — [France, Car. My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow too It was the pleasure of my lord the king. [hot: Glou. My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind; *T is not my speeches that you do mislike, But ’t is my presence that doth trouble ye. Rancour will out: proud prelate, in thy face I see thy fury: if I longer stay, We shall begin our ancient bickerings. Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone, I prophesied France will be lost ere long. Car. So, there goes our protector in a rage. *T is known to you he is mine enemy, Nay, more, an enemy unto you all, And no great friend, I fear me, to the king. Consider, lords, he is the next of blood, And heir apparent to the English crown: Had Henry got an empire by his marriage, And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west, There ’s reason he should be displeased at it. Look to it, lords; let not his smoothing words Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect. What though the common people favour him, Calling See i Humphrey, the good Duke of Glou- cester, Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice, ‘ Jesu maintain your royal excellence! ’ With ‘God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!’ I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss, He will be found a dangerous protector. Buck. Why should he, then, protect our sovereign, He being of age to govern of himself ? Cousin of Somerset, join you with me, And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk, We ’ll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat. Car. This weighty business will not brook delay ; Ill to the Duke of Suffolk presently. [ Kaci. Som. Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey’s And greatness of his place be grief to us, [pride Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal: His insolence is more intolerable Than all the princes in the land beside: If Gloucester be displaced, he ’ll be protector. Buck. Or thou or I, Somerset, will be protector, Despite Duke Humphrey or the cardinal. [Hxeunt Buckingham and Somerset. Sal. Pride went before, ambition follows him. While these do labour for their own preferment, Behoves it us to labour for the realm. I never saw but Humphrey Duke of Gloucester Did bear him like a noble gentleman. Oft have I seen the haughty cardinal, More like a soldier than a man 0’ the church, As stout and proud as he were lord of all, Swear like a ruffian and demean himself Unlike the ruler of a commonweal. Warwick, my son, the comfort of my age, Thy deeds, thy plainness and thy housekeeping, Hath won the greatest favour of the commons, Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey: And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland, In bringing them to civil discipline, Thy late exploits done in the heart of France, When thou wert regent for our sovereign, Have made thee fear’d and honour’d of the people: Join we together, for the public good, In what we can, to bridle and suppress The pride of Suffolk and the cardinal, With Somerset’s and Buckingham’s ambition j And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey’s deeds, While they do tend the profit of the land. 411 ACT I. War. So God help Warwick, as he loves the land, And common profit of his country! York. [Aside] And so says York, for he hath greatest cause. Sal. Then let ’s make haste away, and look unto the main. War. Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost; That Maine which by main force Warwick did win, And would have kept so long as breath did last! Main chance, father, you meant ; but Imeant Maine, Which I will win from France, or else be slain. [Hxeunt Warwick and Salisbury. York. Anjou and Maine are given to the French; Paris is lost; the state of Normandy Stands on a tickle point, now they are gone: Suffolk concluded on the articles, The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleased To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter. I cannot blame them all: what is ’t to them ? °T is thine they give away, and not their own. Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage And purchase friends and give to courtezans, Still revelling like lords till all be gone, While as the silly owner of the goods Weeps over them and wrings his hapless hands And shakes his head and trembling stands aloof, While all is shared and all is borne away, Ready to starve and dare not touch his own: So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue, While his own lands are bargain’d for and sold. Methinks the realms of England, Franceand Ireland Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood As did the fatal brand Althzea burn’d Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon. Anjou and Maine both given unto the French! Cold news for me, for I had hope of France, Even as I have of fertile England’s soil. A day will come when York shall claim his own; And therefore I will take the Nevils’ parts And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey, And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown, For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit: Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right, Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist, Nor wear the diadem upon his head, Whose church-like humours fits not for a crown. Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve: Watch thou and wake when others be asleep, To pry into the secrets of the state; Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love, [queen, With his new bride and England’s dear-bought And Humphrey with the peers be fall’n at jars: Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose, With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed ; And in my standard bear the arms of York, To grapple with the house of Lancaster; And, force perforce, I ll make him yield the crown, Whose bookish rule hath pull’d fair England Toit it. SCENE II.—The Duke of Gloucester’s house. Enter Duke Humphrey and his wife Eleanor. Duch. Why droops my lord, like over-ripen’d corn, Hanging the head at Ceres’ plenteous load ? Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows, As frowning at the favours of the world ? Why are thine eyes fix’d to the sullen earth, Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight ? What seest thou there ? King Henry’s diadem, Enchased with all the honours of the world ? If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face, Until thy head be circled with the same. Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold. What, is’t too short? Ill lengthen it with mine; And, having both together heaved it up, We'll both together lift our heads to heaven, 412 SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene tt. And never more abase our sight so low As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. Glou. O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord, Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts. And may that thought, when I imagine ill Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry, Be my last breathing in this mortal world! My troublous dream this night doth make me sad. Duch. What dream’d my lord? tell me, and Ill requite it With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream. Glou. aaa this staff, mine office-badge in cou Was broke in twain; by whom I have forgot, But, as I think, it was by the cardinal; And on the pieces of the broken wand Were placed the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset, And William de la Pole, first duke of Suffolk. This was my dream: what it doth bode, God knows. Duch. Tut, this was nothing but an argument That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester’s grove Shall lose his head for his presumption. But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke: Methought I sat in seat of majesty In the cathedral church of Westminster, And in that chair where kings and queens are crown’d; Where Henry and dame Margaret kneel’d to me And on my head did set the diadem. Glou. Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright: Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor, Art thou not second woman in the realm And the protector’s wife, beloved of him ? Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command, Above the reach or compass of thy thought ? And wilt thou still be hammering treachery, To tumble down thy husband and thyself From top of honour to disgrace’s feet ? Away from me, and let me hear no more! Duch. What, what, my lord! are you so choleric With Eleanor, for telling but her dream ? Next time [ll keep my dreams unto myself, And not be check’d. Glou. Nay, be not angry; I am pleased again. Enter Messenger. Mess. My lord protector, ’t is his highness’ pleasure You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban’s, Where as the king and queen do mean to hawk. Glou. I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us ? Duch. Yes, my good lord, Ill follow presently. [Exeunt Gloucester and Messenger. Follow I must; I cannot go before, While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind. Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood, I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks And smooth my way upon their headless necks; And, being a woman, I will not be slack . To play my part in Fortune’s pageant. Where are you there? Sir John! nay, fear not, man, We are alone; here ’s none but thee and I. Enter Hume. Hume. Jesus preserve your royal majesty ! Duch. What say’st thou? majesty! [am but grace. Hume. But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s Your grace’s title shall be multiplied. [advice, Duch. What say’st thou, man? hast thou as yet conferr’d With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch, With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer ? And will they undertake to do me good? [highness Hume. This they have promised, to show your A spirit raised from depth of under-ground, That shall make answer to such questions As by your grace shall be propounded him. Duch. It is enough; Ill think upon the questions: a ACT [f. When from Saint Alban’s we do make return, We’ll see these things effected to the full. Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man, With thy confederates in this weighty cause. [Hwit. Hume. Hume must make merry with the duchess’ old; (ee and shall. But, how now, Sir John Hume! Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum: The business asketh silent secrecy. Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch: Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil. Yet have I gold flies from another coast ; I dare not say, from the rich cardinal And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk, Yet I do find it so; for, to be plain, They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring humour, Have hired me to undermine the duchess And buz these conjurations in her brain. They say ‘ A crafty knave does need no broker; ’ Yet am I Suffolk and the cardinal’s broker. Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near To call them both a pair of crafty knaves. Well, so it stands; and thus, I fear, at last Hume’s knavery will be the duchess’ wreck, And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall: Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. SCENE III. — The palace. Enter three or four Petitioners, Peter, the Armourer’s man, being one. First Petit. My masters, let ’s stand close: my lord protector will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill. Sec. Petit. Marry, the Lord protect him, for he’s a good man! Jesu bless him! Enter Suffolk and Queen. Peter. Here a’ comes, methinks, and the queen with him. 171 be the first, sure. Sec. Petit. Come back, fool; this is the Duke of Suffolk, and not my lord protector. [me ? Suf. How now, fellow! wouldst any thing with First Petit. I pray, my lord, pardon me; I took ye for my lord protector. Queen. [Reading] ‘To my Lord Protector!’ Are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them: what is thine ? First Petit. Mine is, an’t please your grace, against John Goodman, my lord cardinal’s man, for keeping my house, and lands, and wife and all, from me. Suf. Thy wife too! that’s some wrong, indeed. What’s yours? What’s here! [Reads] ‘ Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of Melford.’ How now, sir knave! Sec. Petit. Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township. Peter. [Giving his petition] Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown. Queen. What say’st thou? did the Duke of York say he was rightful heir to the crown ? Peter. That my master was? no, forsooth: my master said that he was, and that the king was an usurper. Suf. Who is there ? [Enter Servant.] Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently: we’ll hear more of your matter before the king. [Hait Servant with Peter. Queen. And as for you, that love to be protected Under the wings of our protector’s grace, Begin your suits anew, and sue to him. [Tears the supplications. Away, base cullions! Suffolk, let them go. All. Come, let ’s be gone. [ Hxeunt. Queen. My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise, Is this the fashion in the court of England ? [ Exit. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI sceyeE rt. Is this the government of Britain’s isle, And this the royalty of Albion’s king ? What, shall King Henry be a pupil still Under the surly Gloucester’s governance ? Am I a queen in title and in style, And must be made a subject to a duke ? I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours Thou ran’st a tilt in honour of my love And stolest away the ladies’ hearts of France, I thought King Henry had resembled thee In courage, courtship and proportion: But all his mind is bent to holiness, To number Ave-Maries on his beads; His champions are the prophets and apostles, His weapons holy saws of sacred writ, His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves Are brazen images of canonized saints. I would the college of the cardinals Would choose him pope and carry him to Rome, And set the triple crown upon his head: That were a state fit for his holiness. Suf. Madam, be patient: as I was cause Your highness came to England, so will I In England work your grace’s full content. Queen. Beside the haughty protector, have we Beaufort The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham, And grumbling York; and not the least of these But can do more in England than the king. Suf. And he of these that can do most of all Cannot do more in England than the Nevils: Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers. Queen. Not all these lords do vex me half somuch As that proud dame, the lord protector’s wife. She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies, More like an empress than Duke Humphrey’s wife : Strangers in court do take her for the queen: She bears a duke’s revenues on her back, And in her heart she scorns our poverty: Shall I not live to be avenged on her ? Contemptuous base-born callet as she is, She vaunted ’mongst her minions t’other day, The very train of her worst wearing gown Was better worth than all my father’s lands, Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter. Suf. Madam, myself have limed a bush for her, And placed a quire of such enticing birds, That she will light to listen to the lays, And never mount to trouble you again. So, let her rest: and, madam, list to me; For I am bold to counsel you in this. Although we fancy not the cardinal, Yet must we join with him and with the lords, Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace. As for the Duke of York, this late complaint Will make but little for his benefit. So, one by one, we’ll weed them all at last, And you yourself shall steer the happy helm. Sound a sennet. Enter the King, Duke Humphrey of Gloucester, Cardinal Beaufort, Buckingham, York, Somerset, Salisbury, Warwick, and the Duchess of Gloucester. King. For my part,noble lords, I care not which ; Or Somerset or York, all’s one to me. York. If York have ill demean’d himself in France, Then let him be denay’d the regentship. Som. If Somerset be unworthy of the place, Let York be regent; I will yield to him. War. Whether your grace be worthy, yea or no, Dispute not that: York is the worthier. Car. Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak. War. The cardinal’s not my better in the field. riers eee in this presence are thy betters, War- wick. War. Warwick may live to be the best of all. 413 ACT I. SECOND. PART OF KING HENNEY ‘Vi. SGenE Tye Sal. Peace, son! and show some reason, Bucking- Why Somerset should be preferred in this. [ham, ueen. Because the king, forsooth, will have it so. Glou. Madam, the king is old enough himself To give his censure: these are no women’s matters. @ueen. If he be old enough, what needs your grace To be protector of his excellence ? Glou. Madam, I am protector of the realm ; And, at his pleasure, will resign my place. Suf. Resign it then and leave thine insolence. Since thou wert king —as who is king but thou ? — The commonwealth hath daily run to wreck; The Dauphin hath prevail’d beyond the seas; And all the peers and nobles of the realm Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty. Car. The commons hast thou rack’d; the clergy’s Are lank and lean with thy extortions. [bags Som. Thy sumptuous buildings and thy witfe’s Have cost a mass of public treasury. - [attire Buck. Thy cruelty in execution Upon offenders hath exceeded law And left thee to the mercy of the law. Queen. Thy sale of offices and towns in France, If they were known, as the suspect is great, Would make thee quickly hop without thy head. [| Exit Gloucester. The Queen drops her fan. Give me my fan: what, minion! can ye not? [ She gives the Duchess a box on the ear. I ery you mercy, madam; was it you? Duch. Was ’t I! yea, I it was, proud French- woman: Could I come near your beauty with my nails, I’Ild set my ten commandments in your face. King. Sweet aunt, be quiet ; ’t was against her will. Duch. Against her will! good king, look to’t in time; She 711 hamper thee, and dandle thee like a baby: Though in this place most master wear no breeches, She shall not strike Dame Eleanor ferris it. Buck. Lord cardinal, I will follow Eleanor, And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds: She ’s tickled now; her fume needs no spurs, She ’li gallop far enough to her destruction. [Evit. Re-enter Gloucester. Glou. Now, lords, my choler being over-blown With walking once about the quadrangle, I come to talk of commonwealth affairs. As for your spiteful false objections, Prove them, and I lie open to the law: But God in mercy so deal with my soul, As I in duty love my king and country! But, to the matter that we have in hand: I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man To be your regent in the realm of France. Suf. Before we make election, give me leave To show some reason, of no little force, That York is most unmeet of any man. York. Ill tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet: First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride; Next, if I be appointed for the place, My Lord of Somerset will keep me here, Without discharge, money, or furniture, Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands: Last time, I danced attendance on his will Till Paris was besieged, famish’d, and lost. War. That can I witness; and a fouler fact Did never traitor in the land commit. Suf. Peace, headstrong Warwick ! War. Image of pride, why should I hold my peace? Enter Horner, the Armourer, and his man Peter, guarded, Suf. Because here is a man accused of treason: Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself! ork. Doth any one accuse York for a traitor ? 414 | King. What mean’st thou, Suffolk; tell me, what are these ? Suf. Please it your majesty, this is the man That doth accuse his master of high treason: His words were these: that Richard Duke of York Was rightful heir unto the English crown And that your majesty was an usurper. King. Say, man, were these thy words? Hor. An’t shall please your majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter: God is my witness, I am falsely accused by the villain. Pet. By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night, as we were scouring my Lord of York’s armour. York. Base dunghill villain and mechanical, I ‘ll have thy head for this thy traitor’s speech. I do beseech your royal majesty, Let him have all the rigour of the law. Hor. Alas, my lord, hang me, if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my ’prentice; and when I did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees he would be even with me: I have good witness of this; therefore I beseech your majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a vil- lain’s accusation. King. Uncle, what shall we say to this in law? Glou. This doom, my lord, if I may judge: Let Somerset be regent o’er the French, Because in York this breeds suspicion: And let these have a day appointed them For single combat in convenient place, For he hath witness of his servant’s malice: This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey’s doom. Som. I humbly thank your royal majesty. Hor. And I accept the combat willingly. Pet. Alas, my lord, I cannot fight; for God’s sake, pity my case. The spite of man prevaileth against me. Lord, have mercy upon me! I shall never be able to fight a blow. O Lord, my heart! Glou. Sirrah, or you must fight, or else be hang’d. King. Away with them to prison; and the day of combat shall be the last of the next month. Come, Somerset, we ’ll see thee sent away. [Flourish. Hxeunt. SCENE IV. — Gloucester’s garden, Enter Margery Jourdain, Hume, Southwell, and Bolingbroke. Hume. Come, my masters; the duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises. Boling. Master Hume, we are therefore provided: will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms ? Hume. Ay, what else? fear you not her courage. Boling. I have heard her reported to be a woman of an invincible spirit: but it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft, while we be busy below; and so, I pray you, go, in God’s name, and leave us. [Hxit Hume.] Mother Jour- dain, be you prostrate and grovel on the earth; John Southwell, read you; and let us to our work. inter Duchess aloft, Hume following. Duch. Well said, my masters; and welcome all. To this gear the sooner the better. [times : Boling. Patience, good lady; wizards know their Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night, The time of night when Troy was set on fire; The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves, That time best fits the work we have in hand. Madam, sit you and fear not: whom we raise, We will make fast within a hallow’d verge. [Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; Bolingbroke or Southwell reads, Conjuro te, &c. Jt thunders and lightens terribly ; then the Spirit riseth. ACE At. SHCOND PART’ OF KING: HENRY VI. SCENE I. Spir. Adsum. M. Jourd. Asmath, By the eternal God, whose name and power Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask; For, till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence. Spir. Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and one! Boling. ‘ First of the king: what shall of him be- come ?’ | Reading out of a paper. Spir. The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose ; But him outlive, and die a violent death. [As the Spirit speaks, Southwell writes the answer. Boling. ‘ What fates await the Duke of Suffolk ?’ Spir. By water shall he die, and take his end. Boling. ‘What shall befall the Duke of Somerset ?’ Spir. Let him shun castles; Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains Than where castles mounted stand. Have done, for more I hardly can endure. Boling. Descend to darkness and the burning lake! False fiend, avoid! [Thunder and lightning. Exit Spirit. Enter the Duke of York and the Duke of Buck- ingham with their Guard and break in. York. Lay hands upon these traitors and their Beldam, I think we watch’d you at aninch. [trash. What, madam, are youthere? the king and com- monweal Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains: My lord protector will, I doubt it not, See you well guerdon’d for these good deserts. Duch. Not half so bad as thine to England’s king, Injurious duke, that threatest where ’s no cause. ie cease madam, none at all: what call you this : Away with them! let them be clapp’d up close, SCENE I.— Saint Alban’s. Enter the King, Queen, Gloucester, Cardinal, and Suffolk, with Falconers halloing. Queen. Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook, I saw not better sport these seven years’ day: Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high; And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out. King. But whata point, my lord, your falcon made, And what a pitch she flew above the rest! To see how God in all his creatures works! Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. Suf. No marvel, an it like your majesty, My lord protector’s hawks do tower so well; They know their master loves to be aloft And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s pitch. Glou. My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar. Car. I thought as much; he would be above the clouds. [that ? Glou. Ay, my lord cardinal? how think you by Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven ? King. The treasury of everlasting joy. [thoughts Car. Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart ; Pernicious protector, dangerous peer, That smooth’st it so with king and commonweal! Glou. What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown Tantzene animis ccelestibus ire ? [peremptory ? Churchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice; With such holiness can you do it ? Suf. No malice, sir; no more than well becomes So good a quarrel and so bad a peer. lou. As who, my lord ? And kept asunder. You, madam, shall with us. Stafford, take her to thee. | Kxeunt above Duchess and Hume, guarded. We'll see your trinkets here all forthcoming. All, away! . [Hxeunt guard with Jourdain, Southwell, &ec. York. Lord Buckingham, methinks, you watch’d her well: , A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon ! Now, pray, my lord, let ’s see the devil’s writ. What have we here ? [ Reads. ‘ The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose; But him outlive, and die a violent death.’ Why, this is just ‘ Aio te, Aiacida, Romanos vincere posse.’ Well, to the rest: ‘ Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk ?? By water shall he die, and take his end. What shall betide the Duke of Somerset ? ‘Let him shun castles; Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains Than where castles mounted stand.’ Come, come, my lords;. These oracles are hardly attain’d, And hardly understood. The king is now in progress towards Saint Alban’s, With him the husband of this lovely lady: Thither go these news, as fast as horse can carry A sorry breakfast for my lord protector. [them : Buck. Your grace shall give me leave, my Lord of To be the post, in hope of his reward. York, York. At your pleasure, my good lord. Who’s within there, ho! Enter a Servingman. Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick | Tosup with me to-morrow night. Away! [Hxeunt. Suf. Why, as you, my lord, An ’t like your lordly lord-protectorship. Glow. Why, Suffolk, England knows thine inso- — fei And thy ambition, Gloucester. {lence. ‘ing. I prithee, peace, good queen, And whet not on these furious peers ; For blessed are the peacemakers on earth. Car. Let me be blessed for the peace I make, Against this proud protector, with my sword! Glou. [Aside to Car.] Faith, holy uncle, woul ’t were come to that! Car. [Aside to Glou.] Marry, when thou darest. Glou. [Aside to Car.| Make up no factious num- bers for the matter; In thine own person answer thy abuse. Car. [Aside to Glou.] Ay, where thou darest not peep: an if thou darest, This evening, on the east side of the grove. King. How now, my lords! Car. Believe me, cousin Gloucester, Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly, We had had more sport. [Aside to Glow.] Come with thy two-hand sword. Glow. True, uncle. Oar. [Aside to Glou.] Are ye advised? the east side of the grove ? Glou. [Aside to Car.] Cardinal, I am with you. King. Why, how now, uncle Gloucester ! Glou. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord. [Aside to Car.] Now, by God’s mother, priest, I ‘ll shave your crown for this, Or all my fence shall fail. Car. [Aside to Glou.] Medice, teipsum — Protector, see to ’t well, protect yourself. 415 SECOND PART OF King. The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, How irksome is this music to my heart! [lords. When such strings jar, what hope of harmony ? I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife. ACT Il. Enter a Townsman of Saint Alban’s, crying ‘A miracle !” Glou. What means this noise ? Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim ? Towns. A miracle! a miracle! Suf. Come to the king and tell him what miracle. Towns. Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban’s shrine, Within this half-hour, hath received his sight ; A man that ne’er saw in his life before. King. Now, God be praised, that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair! Enter the Mayor of Saint Alban’s and his brethren, bear- ing Simpcox, between two in a chair, Simpcox’s Wife following. Car. Here comes the townsmen on procession, To present your highness with the man. King. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, Although by his sight his sin be multiplied. Glou. Stand by, my masters: bring him near the His highness’ pleasure is to talk with him. [king; King. Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance, That we for thee may glorify the Lord. What, hast thou been long blind and now restored ? Simp. Born blind, an ’t please your grace. Wife. Ay, indeed, was he. Suf. What woman is this ? Wife. His wife, an ’t like your worship. Glou. Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told. King. Where wert thou born ? grace. Simp. At Berwick in the north, an’t like your King. Poor soul, God’s goodness hath been great to thee: Let never day nor night unhallow’d pass, But still remember what the Lord hath done. Queen. Tell me, good fellow, camest thou here by Or of devotion, to this holy shrine ? [chance, Simp. God knows, of pure devotion; being call’d A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep, By good Saint Alban; who said, ‘ Simpcox, come, Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.’ Wife. Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft Myself have heard a voice to call him so. Car. What, art thou lame ? Simp. Ay, God Almighty help me! Suf. How camest thou so? Simp. A fall off of a tree. Wife. A plum-tree, master. Glow. How long hast thou been blind ? Simp. O, born so, master. Glow. What, and wouldst climb a tree ? Simp. But that in all my life, when I was a youth. Wife. Too true; and bought his climbing very dear. Glou. Mass, thou lovedst plums wells, that wouldst venture so. [damsons, Simp. Alas, good master, my wife desired some And made me climb, with danger of my life. Glou. A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve. Let me see thine eyes: wink now: now open them: In my opinion yet thou see’st not well. hide oe Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and aint Alban. [cloak of ? Glou. Say’st thou me so? What colour is this Simp. Red, master; red as blood. [gown of ? Glou. Why, that’s well said. What colour is my Simp. Black, forsooth: coal-black as jet. [is of? King. Why, then, thou know’st what colour jet Suf. And yet, I think, jet did he never see. Glou. But cloaks and gowns, before this day, a many. 416 KING HENRY VI Wife. Never, before this day, in all his life. Glou. Tell me, sirrah, what ’s my name? Simp. Alas, master, I know not. Glou. What’s his name ? Simp. I know not. Glou. Nor his ? Simp. No, indeed, master. Glou. What’s thine own name? [ter. Simp. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, mas- Glou. Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours, but suddenly to nomi- nate them all, it is impossible. My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs again ? Simp. O master, that you could! Glou. My masters of Saint Alban’s, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips ? May. Yes, my lord, if it please your grace. Glou. Then send for one presently. May. Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight. [ Hxit an Attendant. Glou. Now fetch me a stool hither by and by. Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away. Simp. Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone: You go about to torture me in vain. SCENE I. Enter a Beadle with whips. Glou. Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. pita beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool. Bead. I will, my lord. Come on, sirrah; off with your doublet quickly. Simp. Alas, master, what shallI do? Iam not able to stand. [After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over the stooland runs away; and they follow and cry, ‘ A miracle!’ King. O God, seest Thou this, and bearest so long ? ele It made me laugh to see the villain run. lou. Follow the knave; and take this drab away. Wife. Alas, sir, we did it for pure need. Glou. Let them be whipped through every mar- ket-town, till they come to Berwick, from whence they came. [EHxeunt Wife, Beadle, Mayor, é&c. Car. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day. Suf. True; made the lame to leap and fly away. Glou. But you have done more miracles than I; You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly. Enter Buckingham. bert Bee: tidings with our cousin Bucking- am | Buck. Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold. A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent, Under the countenance and confederacy Of Lady Eleanor, the protector’s wife, The ringleader and head of all this rout, Have practised dangerously against your state, Dealing with witches and with conjurers: Whom we have apprehended in the fact ; Raising up wicked spirits from under ground, Demanding of King Henry’s life and death, And other of your highness’ privy-counceil ; As more at large your grace shall understand. Car. [Aside to Glou.|] And so, my lord protector, by this means Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. This news, I think, hath turn’d your weapon’s edge ; ”T is like, my lord, you will not keep your hour. Caen Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my eart : Sorrow and grief have vanquish’d all my powers; ——————a CeCe ACT II. SHCOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene itt. And, vanquish’d as I am, I yield to thee, Or to the meanest groom. [ones, King. O God, what mischiefs work the wicked Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby ! Queen. Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest, And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best. Glou. Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal, How I have loved my king and commonweal: And, for my wife, I know not how it stands; Sorry I am to hear what I have heard : Noble she is, but if she have forgot Honour and virtue and conversed with such As, like to pitch, defile nobility, I banish her my bed and company And give her as a prey to law and shame, That hath dishonour’d Gloucester’s honest name. King. Well, for this night we will repose us here: To-morrow toward London back again, To look into this business thoroughly And call these foul offenders to their answers And poise the cause in justice’ equal scales, Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause pre- vails. [Flourish. Haxeunt. SCENE II.—London. The Duke of York’s garden. Enter York, Salisbury, and Warwick. York. Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick, Our simple supper ended, give me leave In this close walk to satisfy myself, In craving your opinion of my title, Which is infallible, to England’s crown. Sal. My lord, I long to hear it at full. War. Sweet York, begin: and if thy claim be The Nevils are thy subjects to command. [good, York. Then thus: Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons: The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales ; The second, William of Hatfield, and the third, Lionel Duke of Clarence; next to whom Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster ; The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York; The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of | Gloucester ; William of Windsor was the seventh and last. Edward the Black Prince died before his father And left behind him Richard, his only son, [king; Who after Edward the Third’s death reign’d as Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt, Crown’d by the name of Henry the Fourth, Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king, Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came, And him to Pomfret; where, as all you know, Harmless Richard was murder’d traitorously. War. Father, the duke hath told the truth; Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. York. Mee now they hold by force and not by right ; For Richard, the first son’s heir, being dead, The issue of the next son should have reign’d. Sal. But William of Hatfield died without an heir. York. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line I claim the crown, had issue, Philippe, a daughter, Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March: Edmund had issue, Roger Earl of March; Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne and Eleanor. Sal. This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke, As I have read, laid claim unto the crown ; And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king, Who kept him in captivity till he died. But to the rest. 27 York. His eldest sister, Anne, My mother, being heir unto the crown, Married Richard Earl of Cambridge; who was son To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third’s fifth son. By her I claim the kingdom: she was heir To Roger Earl of March, who was the son Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe, Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence: So, if the issue of the elder son Succeed before the younger, I am king. [this ? War. What plain proceeding is more plain than Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt, The fourth son; York claims it from the third. Till Lionel’s issue fails, his should not reign: It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock. Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together ; And in this private plot be we the first That shall salute our rightful sovereign With honour of his birthright to the crown. Both. Long live our sovereign Richard, England’s king! [king York. We thank you, lords. But I am not your Till I be crown’d and that my sword be stain’d With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster ; And that’s not suddenly to be perform’d, But with advice and silent secrecy. Do you as I do in these dangerous days: Wink at the Duke of Suffolk’s insolence, At Beaufort’s pride, at Somerset’s ambition, At Buckingham and all the crew of them, Till they have snared the shepherd of the flock, That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey: ’T is that they seek, and they in seeking that Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy. Sal. My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full. [wick War. My heart assures me that the Earl of War- Shall one day make the Duke of York a king. York. And, Nevil, this I do assure myself: Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick The greatest man in England but the king. [ Exeunt. SCENH ITI. — A hall of justice. Sound trumpets. Hnter the King, the Queen, Glouces- ter, York, Suffolk, and Salisbury; the Duchess of Gloucester, Margery Jourdain, Southwell, Hume, and Bolingbroke, under guard. King. Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Glou- cester’s wife: In sight of God and us, your guilt is great: Receive the sentence of the law for sins Such as by God’s book are adjudged to death. You four, from hence to prison back again ; From thence unto the place of execution : The witch in Smithfield shall be burn’d to ashes, And you three shall be strangled on the gallows. You, madam, for you are more nobly born, Despoiled of your honour in your life, Shall, after three days’ open penance done, Live in your country here in banishment, With Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man. Duch. Welcome is banishment; welcome were my death. [thee: Glow. Eleanor, the law, thou see’st, hath judged I cannot justify whom the law condemns. [Exveunt Duchess and other prisoners, guarded. Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief. Ah, Humphrey, this dishonour in thine age Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground! I beseech your majesty, give me leave to go; Sorrow would solace and mine age would ease. ae Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester: ere ou go, Give up thy staff: Henry will to himself Protector be; and God shall be my hope, 417 AGT Awe My stay, my guide and lantern to my feet: And go in peace, Humphrey, no less beloved Than when thou wert protector to thy king. Queen. I see no reason why a king of years Should be to be protected like a child. God and King Henry govern England’s realm. Give up your staff, sir, and the king his realm. Glou. My staff? here, noble Henry, is my staff: As willingly do I the same resign As e’er thy father Henry made it mine; And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it As others would ambitiously receive it. Farewell, good king: when I am dead and gone, May honourable peace attend thy throne! [ Exit. Queen. Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret queen ; And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce himself, That bears so shrewd a maim; two pulls at once; His lady banish’d, and a limb lopp’d off. This staff of honour raught, there let it stand Where it best fits to be, in Henry’s hand. [sSprays; Suf. Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his Thus Eleanor’s pride dies in her youngest days. York. Lords, let him go. Please it your majesty, This is the day appointed for the combat ; And ready are the appellant and defendant, The armourer and his man, to enter the lists, So please your highness to behold the fight. ueen. Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried. [fit : King. O’ God’s name, see the lists and all things Here let them end it; and God defend the right! York. I never saw a fellow worse bested, Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant, The servant of this armourer, my lords. Enter at one door, Horner, the Armourer, and his Neigh- bours, drinking to him so much that he is drunk ; and he enters with a drum before him and his staff with a sand-bag fastened to it; and at the other door Peter, his man, with a drum and sand-bag, and ’Prentices drinking to him. First Neigh. Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you inacup of sack: and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough. [charneco. Sec. Neigh. And here, neighbour, here ’s a cup of Third Neigh. And here’s a pot of good double beer, neighbour: drink, and fear not your man. Hor. Let it come, i’ faith, and I’ll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter! [not afraid. First ’Pren. Here, Peter, I drink to thee: and be Sec. ’Pren. Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master: fight for credit of the ’prentices. Peter. I thank you all: drink, and pray for me, I pray you; for I think I have taken my last draught in this world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee my apron: and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer : and here, Tom, take all the money that I have. O Lord bless me! I pray God! for I am never able to deal with my master, he hath learnt so much fence already. Sal. Come, leave your drinking, and fall to blows. Sirrah, what ’s thy name ? Peter. Peter, forsooth. Sal. Peter! what more ? Peter. Thump. [well. Sal. Thump! then see thou thump thy master Hor. Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man’s instigation, to prove him a knave and myself an honest man: and touching the Duke of York, I will take my death, I never meant him any | ill, nor the king, nor the queen: and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a downright blow! [double. York. Dispatch: this knave’s tongue begins to Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants! [Alarum. They fight, and Peter strikes him down. Hor. Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason. 418 SHCOND PART OF KING HENRY Va. [ Dies. | SCENE IV. York. Take away his weapon. Fellow, thank God, and the good wine in thy master’s way. Peter. O God, have I overcome mine ehemy in this presence? O Peter, thou hast prevailed in right! King. Go, take hence that traitor from our sight ; For by his death we do perceive his guilt: And God in justice hath reveal’d to us The truth and innocence of this poor fellow, Which he had thought to have murder’d wrongfully. Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward. [Sound a flourish. Exeunt. SCENE IV.— A street. Enter Gloucester and his Servingmen, in mourn- ing cloaks. Glou. Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a And after summer evermore succeeds [cloud ; Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. Sirs, what ’s o’clock ? Serv. Ten, my lord. Glou. Ten is the hour that was appointed me To watch the coming of my punish’d duchess: Uneath may she endure the flinty streets, To tread them with her tender-feeling feet. Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook The abject people gazing on thy face, With envious looks, laughing at thy shame, That erst did follow thy proud chariot-wheels When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets. But, soft! I think she comes; and I ’ll prepare My tear-stain’d eyes to see her miseries. Enter the Duchess of Gloucester in a white sheet, and a taper burning in her hand; with Sir John Stanley, the Sheriff, and Officers. Serv. So please your grace, we’ll take her from the sheriff. Glou. No, stir not, for your lives; let her pass by. Duch. Come you, my lord, to see my open shame ? Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze! See how the giddy multitude do point, And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee! Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks, And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame, And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine! — Glou. Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief. Duch. Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself! For whilst I think I am thy married wife And thou a prince, protector of this land, Methinks I should not thus be led along, Mail’d up in shame, with papers on my back, And follow’d with a rabble that rejoice To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans. The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet, And when I start, the envious people laugh And bid me be advised how I tread. Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke ? Trow’st thou that e’er I ll look upon the world, Or count them happy that enjoy the sun? No; dark shall be my light and night my day; To think upon my pomp shall be my hell. Sometime I ll say, I am Duke Humphrey’s wife, And he a prince and ruler of the land: Yet so he ruled and such a prince he was As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess, Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock To every idle rascal follower. But be thou mild and blush not at my shame, Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will; For Suffolk, he that can do all in all With her that hateth thee and hates us all, And York and impious Beaufort, that false priest, Have all limed bushes to betray thy wings, And, fly thou how thou canst, they ’ll tangle thee: AGTIIT. But fear not thou, until thy foot be snared, Nor never seek prevention of thy foes. . Glou. Ah, Nell, forbear! thou aimest all awry; I must offend before I be attainted ; And had I twenty times so many foes, And each of them had twenty times their power, All these could not procure me any scathe, So long as I am loyal, true and crimeless. Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach ? Why, yet thy scandal were not wiped away, But I in danger for the breach of law. Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell: I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience; These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn. Enter a Herald. Her. [summon your grace to his majesty’s parlia- ment, Holden at Bury the first of this next month. Glou. And my consent ne’er ask’d herein before! This is close dealing. Well, I will be there. [Hxit Herald. My Nell, I take my leave: and, master sheriff, Let not her penance exceed the king’s commission. Sher. An’t please your grace, here my commission And Sir John Stanley is appointed now [stays, To take her with him to the Isle of Man. Glou. Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here ? Stan. So am I given in charge, may ’t please your grace. Glou. Entreat her not the worse in that I pray SHGON DT Pah OF KING: HENRY VL SCENE I. You use her well: the world may laugh again; And I may live to do you kindness if You do it her: and so, Sir John, farewell! [well' Duch. What, gone, my lord, and bid me not fare. Glou. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak. [| Hxeunt Gloucester and Servingmen. Duch. Art thou gone too? all comfort go with thee! For none abides with me: my joy is death; Death, at whose name I oft have been afear’d, Because I wish’d this world’s eternity. Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence; I care not whither, for I beg no favour, Only convey me where thou art commanded. Stan. Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man; There to be used according to your state. Duch. That’s bad enough, for Iam but reproach: And shall I then be used reproachfully ? Stan. Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey’s ady ; According to that state you shall be used. Duch. Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare, Although thou hast been conduct of my shame. Snrer. It is my office; and, madam, pardon me. Duch. Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharged. Come, Stanley, shall we go? Stan. Madam, your penance done, throw off this And go we to attire you for our journey. [sheet, Duch. My shame will not be shifted with my sheet: No, it will hang upon my richest robes And show itself, attire me how I can. Go, lead the way; I long to see my prison. [Hxeunt. mG TTT. SCENE I.— The Abbey at Bury St. Edmund’s. Sound a sennet. Enter the King, the Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, Salisbury and Warwick, to the Parliament. King. Imuse my Lord of Gloucester is not come: *T is not his wont to be the hindmost man, Whate’er occasion keeps him from us now. Queen. Can you not see? or will ye not observe The strangeness of his alter’d countenance ? With what a majesty he bears himself, How insolent of late he is become, How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself ? We know the time since he was mild and affable, And if we did but glance a far-off look, Immediately he was upon his knee, That all the court admired him for submission: But meet him now, and, be it in the morn, When every one will give the time of day, He knits his brow and shows an angry eye And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, Disdaining duty that to us belongs. Small curs are not regarded when they grin; But great men tremble when the lion roars; And Humphrey is no little man in England. First note that he is near you in descent, And should you fall, he as the next will mount. Me seemeth then it is no policy, Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears And his advantage following your decease, That he should come about your royal person Or be admitted to your highness’ council. By flattery hath he won the commons’ hearts, And when he please to make commotion, *T is to be fear’d they all will follow him. Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted ; Suffer them now, and they ’ll o’ergrow the garden And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. The reverent care I bear unto my lord Made me collect these dangers in the duke. If it be fond, call it a woman’s fear; Which fear if better reasons can supplant, I will subscribe and say I wrong’d the duke. My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York, Reprove my allegation, if you can; Or else conclude my words effectual. Suf. Well hath your highness seen into this duke ; And, had I first been put to speak my mind, I think I should have told your grace’s tale. The duchess by his subornation, Upon my life, began her devilish practices: Or, if he were not privy to those faults, Yet, by reputing of his high descent, As next the king he was successive heir, And such high vaunts of his nobility, Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick duchess By wicked means to frame our sovereign’s fall. Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep; And in his simple show he harbours treason. The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb. No, no, my sovereign; Gloucester is a man Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit. Car. Did he not, contrary to form of law, Devise strange deaths for small offences done ? York. And did he not, in his protectorship, Levy great sums of money through the realm For soldiers’ pay in France, and never sent it ? By means whereof the towns each day revolted. Buck. Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown, Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey. King. My lords, at once: the care you have of us, To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot, Is worthy praise: but, shall I speak my conscience, Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent From meaning treason to our royal person As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove: The duke is virtuous, mild and too well given i To dream on evil or to work my downfall. Aq) ACD. iis. Queen. Ah, what’s more dangerous than this fond affiance! Seems he a dove? his feathers are but borrow’d, For he’s disposed as the hateful raven : Is he a lamb ? his skin is surely lent him, For he’s inclined as is the ravenous wolf. Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit ? Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man. Enter Somerset. Som. All health unto my gracious sovereign ! King. Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France ? Som. That all your interest in those territories Is utterly bereft you; all is lost. King. Cold news, Lord Somerset: but God’s will be done! [of France York. [Aside] Cold news for me; for I had hope As firmly as I hope for fertile England. Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud And caterpillars eat my leaves away; But I will remedy this gear ere long, Or sell my title for a glorious grave. Enter Gloucester. Glow. All happiness unto my lord the king! Pardon, my liege, that I have stay’d so long. [Soon, Suf. Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art: I do arrest thee of high treason here. Glou. Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush Nor change my countenance for this arrest : A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. The purest spring is not so free from mud As I am clear from treason to my sovereign: Who can accuse me ? wherein am I guilty? York. ’Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France, And, being protector, stayed the soldiers’ pay ; By means whereof his highness hath lost France. Glou. Is it but thought so? What are they that I never robb’d the soldiers of their pay, [think it ? Nor ever had one penny bribe from France. So help me God, as I have watch’d the night, Ay, night by night, in studying good for England, That doit that e’er I wrested from the king, Or any groat I hoarded to my use, Be brought against me at my trial-day! No; many a pound of mine own proper store, Because I would not tax the needy commons, Have I dispursed to the garrisons, And never ask’d for restitution. Car. It serves you well, my lord, to say so much. Glou. I say no more than truth, so help me God! York. In your protectorship you did devise Strange tortures for offenders never heard of, That England was defamed by tyranny. [tector, Glou. Why, ’t is well known that, whiles I was pro- Pity was all the fault that was in me; For I should melt at an offender’s tears, And lowly words were ransom for their fault. Unless it were a bloody murderer, - Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers, I never gave them condign punishment: Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured Above the felon or what trespass else. [swered : Suf. My lord, these faults are easy, quickly an- But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge, Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself. I do arrest you in his highness’ name; And here commit you to my lord cardinal To keep, until your further time of trial. King. My lord of Gloucester, ’t is my special hope That you will clear yourself from all suspect: My conscience tells me you are innocent. Glou. Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous: 420 SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. SCENE lI. — Virtue is choked with foul ambition And charity chased hence by rancour’s hand; Foul subornation is predominant And equity exiled your highness’ land. I know their complot is to have my life, And if my death might make this island happy And prove the period of their tyranny, I would expend it with all willingness: But mine is made the prologue to their play: For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril, Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice, And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate; Sharp Buckingham unburthens with his tongue The envious load that lies upon his heart; And dogged York, that reaches at the moon, Whose overweening arm I have pluck’d back, By false accuse doth level at my life: And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest, Causeless have laid disgraces on my head And with your best endeavour have stirr’d up My liefest liege to be mine enemy: Ay, all of you have laid your heads together — Myself had notice of your conventicles— And all to make away my guiltless life. I shall not want false witness to condemn me, Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt ; The ancient proverb will be well effected : ‘A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.’ Car. My liege, his railing is intolerable: If those that care to keep your royal person From treason’s secret knife and traitors’ rage Be thus upbraided, chid and rated at, And the offender granted scope of speech, *T will make them cool in zeal unto your grace. Suf. Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here With ignominious words, though clerkly couch’d, As if she had suborned some to swear False allegations to o’erthrow his state ? ueen. But I can give the loser leave to chide. lou. Far truer spoke than meant: I lose, indeed ; Beshrew the winners, for they play’d me false! And well such losers may have leave to speak. Buck. He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here all day: Lord cardinal, he is your prisoner. [sure. Car. Sirs, take away the duke, and guard him Glou. Ah! thus King Henry throws away his Before his legs be firm to bear his body. {erutch Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first. Ah, that my fear were false! ah, that it were! For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear. [ Exit, guarded. King. My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best, Do or undo, as if ourself were here. [ment ? ueen. What, will your highness leave the parlia- cing. Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown’d with erief Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes, My body round engirt with misery, For what ’s more miserable than discontent ? Ah, uncle Humphrey! in thy face I see The map of honour, truth and loyalty: And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come That e’er I proved thee false or fear’d thy faith. What louring star now envies thy estate, That these great lords and Margaret our queen Do seek subversion of thy harmless life ? Thou never didst them wrong nor no man wrong ; And as the butcher takes away the calf And binds the wretch and beats it when it strays, Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house, Even so remorseless have they borne him hence ; And as the dam runs lowing up and down, Looking the way her harmless young one went, ated IIT. And can do nought but wail her darling’s loss, Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm’d eyes Look after him and cannot do him good, So mighty are his vowed enemies. His fortunes I will weep and ’twixt each groan Say ‘Who’s a traitor? Gloucester he is none.’ [Hxeunt all but Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, eh Baan and York; Somerset remains apart. Queen. Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s Henry my lord is cold in great affairs, [hot beams. Too full of foolish pity, and Gloucester’s show Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile With sorrow snares relenting passengers, Or as the snake roll’d in a flowering bank, With shining checker’d slough, doth sting a child That for the beauty thinks it excellent. Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I — And yet herein I judge mine own wit good— This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world, To rid us from the fear we have of him. Car. That he should die is worthy policy ; But yet we want a colour for his death: *T is meet he be condemn’d by course of law. Suf. But, in my mind, that were no policy: The king will labour still to save his life, The commons haply rise, to save his life; And yet we have but trivial argument, More than mistrust, that shows hin, worthy death. York. Sothat, by this, you would not have him die. Suf. Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I! Ch ae York that hath more reason for his eath. But, my lord cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk, Say as you think, and speak it from your souls, Were ’t not all one, an empty eagle were set To guard the chicken from a hungry kite, As place Duke Humphrey for the king’s protector ? Queen. So the poor chicken should be sure of death. Suf. Madam, ’tis true; and were ’t not madness, To make the fox surveyor of the fold ? [then, Who being accused a crafty murderer, His guilt should be but idly posted over, Because his purpose is not executed. No; let him die, in that he is a fox, By nature proved an enemy to the flock, Before his chaps be stain’d with crimson blood, As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege, And do not stand on quillets how to slay him: Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety, Sleeping or waking, ’tis no matter how, So he be dead; for that is good deceit Which mates him first that first intends deceit. ee Thrice-noble Suffolk, ’t is resolutely spoke. uf. Not resolute, except so much were done; For things are often spoke and seldom meant: But that my heart accordeth with my tongue, Seeing the deed is meritorious, And to preserve my sovereign from his foe, Say but the word, and I will be his priest. Car. But I would have him dead, my Lord of Ere you can take due orders for a priest: [Suffolk, Say you consent and censure well the deed, And Ill provide his executioner, I tender so the safety of my liege. ? Suf. Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing. Queen. And so say I. York. And I: and now we three have spoke it, It skills not greatly who impugns our doom. Enter a Post. Post. Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain, To signify that rebels there are up And put the Englishmen unto the sword: Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime, Before the wound do grow uncurable ; For, being green, there is great hope of help. SeCONDAPARD OF “KING (HENRY VI. SCENE I. Car. A breach that craves a quick expedient stop! What counsel give you in this weighty cause ? York. That Boreas be sent as regent thither: *T is meet that lucky ruler be employ’d; Witness the fortune he hath had in France. Som. If York, with all his far-fet policy, Had been the regent there instead of me, He never would have stay’d in France so long. York. No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done: I rather would have lost my life betimes Than bring a burthen of dishonour home By staying there so long till all were lost. Show me one scar character’d on thy skin: Men’s flesh preserved so whole do seldom win. Queen. Nay, then, this spark will prove a raging If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with: [fire, No more, good York; sweet Somerset, be still: Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there, Might happily have proved far worse than his. York. What, worse than nought? nay, then, a shame take all! Som. And, inthe number, thee that wishest shame! Car. My Lord of York, try what your fortune is. The uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms And temper clay with blood of Englishmen: To Ireland will you lead a band of men, Collected choicely, from each county some, And try your hap against the Irishmen ? York. I will, my lord, so please his majesty. Suf. Why, our authority is his consent, And what we do establish he confirms: Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand. York. Iam content: provide me soldiers, lords, Whiles I take order for mine own affairs. Suf. A charge, Lord York, that I will see per- form’d. But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey. Car. No more of him: for I will deal with him That henceforth he shall trouble us no more. And so break off; the day is almost spent: Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event. York. My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days At Bristol I expect my. soldiers; For there Ill ship them all for Ireland. Suf. Ill see it truly done, my Lord of York. [ Exeunt all but York. York. Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful And change misdoubt to resolution : [thoughts, Be that thou hopest to be, or what thou art Resign to death; it is not worth the enjoying: Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man, And find no harbour in a royal heart. [thought, Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on And not a thought but thinks on dignity. My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. Well, nobles, well, ’t is politicly done, To send me packing with an host of men: I fear me you but warm the starved snake, Who, cherish’d in your breasts, will sting your hearts. °T was men I lack’d and you will give them me: I take it kindly; yet be well assured You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands. Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, I will stir up in England some black storm Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell ; And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage Until the golden circuit on my head, Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams, Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw. And, for a minister of my intent, | I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman, John Cade of Ashford, To make commotion, as full well he can, Under the title of John Mortimer. In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade Oppose himself against a troop of kerns, AQ] SECOND PART OF And fought so long, till that his thighs with darts Were almost like a sharp-quill’d porpentine; And, in the end being rescued, I have seen Him caper upright like a wild Morisco, Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells. Full often, like a shag-hair’d crafty kern, Hath he conversed with the enemy, And undiscover’d come to me again And given me notice of their villanies. This devil here shall be my substitute ; For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble: By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind, How they affect the house and claim of York. Say he be taken, rack’d and tortured, I know no pain they can inflict upon him Will make him say I moved him to those arms. Say that he thrive, as ’t is great like he will, Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength And reap the harvest which that rascal sow’d; For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be, And Henry put apart, the next for me. [ Bait. SCENE II.—Bury St. Hdmund’s. A room of state. Enter certain Murderers, hastily. First Mur. Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know We have dispatch’d the duke, as he commanded. Sec. Mur. O that it were to do! What have we Didst ever hear a man so penitent ? [done ? Enter Suffolk. First Mur. Here comes my lord. Suf. Now, sirs, have you dispatch’d this thing ? First Mur. Ay, my good lord, he’s dead. Suf. Why, that’s well said. Go, get you to my house ; I will reward you for this venturous deed. The king and all the peers are here at hand. Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well, According as I gave directions ? First Mur. ’T is, my good lord. Suf. Away! be gone. [Hxeunt Murderers. Sound trumpets. Enter the King, the Queen, Car- dinal Beaufort, Somerset, with Attendants. King. Go, call our uncle to our presence straight ; Say we intend to try his grace to-day, If he be guilty, as ’t is published. Suf. 1 7ll call him presently, my noble lord. [Ezvit. Kang. Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all, Proceed no straiter ’gainst our uncle Gloucester Than from true evidence of good esteem He be approved in practice culpable. Queen. God forbid any malice should prevail, That faultless may condemn a nobleman! Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion! [much. King. I thank thee, Meg; these words content me Re-enter Suffolk. How neee why look’st thou pale? why tremblest 10U f . Where is our uncle? what ’s the matter, Suffolk ? Suf. Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead. Queen. Marry, God forfend! Car. God’s secret judgment: I did dream to-night The duke was dumb and could not speak a word. [The King swoons. Help, lords! the AC Teal 1, Queen. How fares my lord? king is dead. Som. Rear up his body; wring him by the nose. Queen. Run, go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes ! Suf. He doth revive again: madam, be patient. King. O heavenly God! Queen. How fares my gracious lord ? 422 KING HENRY VI. SscENeE tt. Suf. Comfort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, comfort! King. What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me? Came he right now to sing a raven’s note, Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers; And thinks he that the chirping of a wren, By crying comfort from a hollow breast, Can chase away the first-conceived sound ? Hide not thy poison with such sugar’d words; Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say; Their touch affrights me as a serpent’s sting. Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight! Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world. Look not upon, me, for thine eyes are wounding: Yet do not go away: come, basilisk, And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight; For in the shade of death I shall find joy; In life but double death, now Gloucester ’s dead. Queen. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus ? ' Although the duke was enemy to him, Yet he most Christian-like laments his death: And for myself, foe as he was to me, Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans _ Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life, I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans, Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs, And all to have the noble duke alive. What know I how the world may deem of me? For it is known we were but hollow friends: It may be judged I made the duke away; So shall my name with slander’s tongue be wounded, And princes’ courts be fill’d with my reproach. This get I by his death: ay me, unhappy! To be a queen, and crown’d with infamy! [man! King. Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched Queen. Be woe for me, more wretched than he is. What, dost thou turn away and hide thy face ? I am no loathsome leper: look on me. What! art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf ? Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen. Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester’s tomb ? Why, then, dame Margaret was ne’er thy joy. Erect his statua and worship it, And make my image but an alehouse sign. Was I for this nigh wreck’d upon the sea And twice by awkward wind from England’s bank Drove back again unto my native clime? What boded this, but well forewarning wind Did seem to say ‘ Seek not a scorpion’s nest, Nor set no footing on this unkind shore’ ? What did I then, but cursed the gentle gusts And he that loosed them forth their brazen caves; And bid them blow towards England’s blessed Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock? _ [shore, Yet olus would not be a murderer, But left that hateful office unto thee: The pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me, Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown’d on shore, With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness: The splitting rocks cower’d in the sinking sands And would not dash me with their ragged sides, Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they, Might in thy palace perish Margaret. As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs, When from thy shore the tempest beat us back, I stood upon the hatches in the storm, And when the dusky sky began to rob My earnest-gaping sight of thy land’s view, I took a costly jewel from my neck, A heart it was, bound in with diamonds, And threw it towards thy land: the sea received it, And so I wish’d thy body might my heart: And even with this I lost fair England’s view And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart And call’d them blind and dusky spectacles, ACT IIl. For losing ken of Albion’s wished coast. How often have I tempted Suffolk’s tongue, The agent of thy foul inconstancy, To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did When he to madding Dido would unfold His father’s acts commenced in burning Troy ! Am I not witch’d like her? or thou not false like ' Ay me, I can no more! die, Margaret! {him ? For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long. Enter Warwick, Salisbury, and many Commons. War. It is reported, mighty sovereign, That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murder’d By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means. The commons, like an angry hive of bees That want their leader, scatter up and down And eare not who they sting in his revenge. Myself have calm’d their spleenful mutiny, Until they hear the order of his death. [true ; King. That he is dead, good Warwick, ’t is too But how he died God knows, not Henry: Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse, And comment then upon his sudden death. War. That shall Ido, my liege. Stay, Salisbury, With the rude multitude till I return. [ Hit. King. O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts, My thoughts, that labour to persuade my soul Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey’s life! If my suspect be false, forgive me, God, For judgment only doth belong to thee. Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips With twenty thousand kisses and to drain Upon his face an ocean of salt tears, To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling : But all in vain are these mean obsequies ; And to survey his dead and earthy image, What were it but to make my sorrow greater ? Noise within. Re-enter Warwick and others, bearing .Glou- cester’s body on a bed. Uae cone hither, gracious sovereign, view this ody. King. That is to see how deep my grave is made; For with his soul fled all my worldly solace, For seeing him I see my life in death. War. As surely as my soul intends to live With that dread King that took our state upon him To free us from his father’s wrathful curse, I do believe that violent hands were laid Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke. Suf. A dreadful oath, sworn with asolemn tongue! What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow ? War. See how the blood is settled in his face. Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale and bloodless, Being all descended to the labouring heart ; Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, Attracts the same for aidance ’gainst the enemy ; Which with the heart there cools and ne’er returneth To blush and beautify the cheek again. But see, his face is black and full of blood, His eye-balls further out than when he lived Staring full ghastly like a strangled man; _ [gling; His hair uprear’d, his nostrils stretched with strug- His hands abroad display’d, as one that grasp’d And tugg’d for life and was by strength subdued : Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is sticking ; His well-proportion’d beard made rough and rugged, Like to the summer’s corn by tempest lodged. It cannot be but he was murder’d here ; The least of all these signs were probable. [death ? Suf. Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to Myself and Beaufort had him in protection ; And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. SCENETTI, War. But both of you were vow’d Duke Humph- rey’s foes, And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep: ’T is like you would not feast him like a friend; And ’tis well seen he found an enemy. Queen. Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death. War. Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh And sees fast by a butcher with an axe, - But will suspect ’t was he that made the slaughter ? Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest, But may imagine how the bird was dead, Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak ? Even so suspicious is this tragedy. [your knife ? Queen. Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where’s Is Beaufort term’d a kite? Where are his talons ? Suf. I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men; But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease, That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge. Say, if thou darest, proud Lord of Warwickshire, That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death. [Exeunt Cardinal, Somerset, and others. War. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him ? Queen. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit Nor cease to be an arrogant controller, Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times. War. Madam, be still; with reverence may I say; For every word you speak in his behalf Is slander to your royal dignity. Suf. Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour! If ever lady wrong’d her lord so much, Thy mother took into her blameful bed Some stern untutor’d churl, and noble stock Was graft with crab-tree slip; whose fruit thou art And never of the Nevils’ noble race. War. But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee And I should rob the deathsman of his fee, Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, And that my sovereign’s presence makes me mild, I would, false murderous coward, on thy knee Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech And say it was thy mother that thou meant’st, That thou thyself wast born in bastardy ; And after all this fearful homage done, Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell, Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men! Suf. Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood, If from this presence thou darest go with me. War. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence: Unworthy though thou art, Ill cope with thee And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s ghost. [Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick. King. What stronger breastplate than a heart un- tainted! Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. [A noise within. Queen. What noise is this ? Re-enter Suffolk and Warwick, with their weapons drawn. King. Why. how now, lords! your wrathful weapons drawn Here in our presence! dare you be so bold ? Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here ? Suf. The traitorous Warwick with the men of Set all upon me, mighty sovereign. [Bury Sal. [To the Commons, entering] Sirs, stand apart ; the king shall know your mind. Dread lord, the commons send you word by me, Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death, Or banished fair England’s territories, They will by violence tear him from your palace And torture him with grievous lingering death. 423 ACT III. They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died; They say, in him they fear your highness’ death; And mere instinct of love and loyalty, Free from a stubborn opposite intent, As being thought to contradict your liking, Makes them thus forward in his banishment. They say, in care of your most royal person, That if your highness should intend to sleep And charge that no man should disturb your rest In pain of your dislike or pain of death, Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict, Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue, That slily glided towards your majesty, It were but necessary you were waked, Lest, being suffer’d in that harmful slumber, The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal; And therefore do they cry, though you forbid, That they will guard you, whether you will or no, From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is, With whose envenomed and fatal sting, Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth, They say, is shamefully bereft of life. Commons. [ Within] An answer from the king, my Lord of Salisbury! Suf.’T is like the commons, rude unpolish’d hinds, Could send such message to their sovereign: But you, my lord, were glad to be employ’d, To show how quaint an orator you are: But all the honour Salisbury hath won Is, that he was the lord ambassador Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king. Commons. [ Within] An answer from the king, or we will all break in! King. Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me, I thank them for their tender loving care; And had I not been cited so by them, Yet did I purpose as they do entreat ; For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy Mischance unto my state by Suffolk’s means: And therefore, by His majesty I swear, Whose far unworthy deputy I am, He shall not breathe infection in this air But three days longer, on the pain of death. [Exit Salisbury. Rea O Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk ! ing. Ungentle queen, to call him gentle Suffolk! No more, I say: if thou dost plead for him, Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath. Had I but said, I would have kept my word, But when I swear, it is irrevocable. If, after three days’ space, thou here be’st found On any ground that I am ruler of, The world shall not be ransom for thy life. Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me; I have great matters to impart to thee. [Hxeunt all but Queen and Suffolk. Queen. Mischance and sorrow go along with you! Heart’s discontent and sour affliction Be playfellows to keep you company ! There ’s two of you; the devil make a third! And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps! Suf. Cease, gentle queen, these execrations And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave. [wretch! Queen. Fie, coward woman and _ soft-hearted Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy ? Suf. A plague upon them! wherefore should I curse them ? Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s groan, I would invent as bitter-searching terms, As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear, Deliver’d strongly through my fixed teeth, With full as many signs of deadly hate, As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave: My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words; Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint ; Mine hair be fix’d on end, as one distract; Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban: 424 SECOND PART OF KING HENRY Vi een e te And even now my burthen’d heart would break, Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink! Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste! Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees! Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks! Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ stings! Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss, And boding screech-owls make the concert full! All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell — Queen. Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st thyself ; And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass, Or like an overcharged gun, recoil, And turn the force of them upon thyself. Suf. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave ? Now, by the ground that I am banish’d from, Well could I curse away a winter’s night, Though standing naked on a mountain top, Where biting cold would never let grass grow, And think it but a minute spent in sport. Queen. O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy That I may dew it with my mournful tears; [hand, Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place, . To wash away my woful monuments. O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand, That thou mightst think upon these by the seal, Through nen a thousand sighs are breathed for thee! So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief; *T is but surmised whiles thou art standing by, As one that surfeits thinking on a want. I will repeal thee, or, be well assured, Adventure to be banished myself: And banished I am, if but from thee. Go; speak not to me; even now be gone. O, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemn’d Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves, Loather a hundred times to part than die. Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee! Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished ; Once.by the king, and three times thrice by thee. *T is not the land I care for, wert thou thence; A wilderness is populous enough, So Suffolk had thy heavenly company: For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation. I can no more: live thou to joy thy life; Myself no joy in nought but that thou livest. Enter Vaux. Sot Whither goes Vaux so fast ? what news, I aux. To signify unto his majesty [prithee ? That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death; For suddenly a grievous sickness took him, That makes him gasp and stare and catch the air, Blaspheming God and cursing men on earth. Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey’s ghost Were by his side; sometime he calls the king And whispers to his pillow as to him The secrets of his overcharged soul: And I am sent to tell his majesty That even now he cries aloud for him. Queen. Go tell this heavy message to the king. [ Hxit Vaue. Ay me! what is this world! what news are these! But wherefore grieve I at an hour’s poor loss, Omitting Suffolk’s exile, my soul’s treasure ? Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee, And with the southern clouds contend in tears, Theirs for the earth’s increase, mine for my sorrows ? Now get thee hence: the king, thou know’st, is coming ; If thou be found by me, thou art but dead. Suf. If I depart from thee, I cannot live; And in thy sight to die, what were it else But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap ? ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE I. Here could I breathe my soul into the air, As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe Dying with mother’s dug between its lips: Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad And ery out for thee to close up mine eyes, To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth; So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul, Or I should breathe it so into thy body, And then it lived in sweet Elysium. To die by thee were but to die in jest; From thee to die were torture more than death: O, let me stay, befall what may befall! Queen. Away! though parting be a fretful corro- sive, It is applied to a deathful wound. To France, sweet Suffolk: let me hear from thee; For wheresoe’er thou art in this world’s globe, Il] have an Iris that shall find thee out. Suf. I go. ween. And take my heart with thee. Suf. A jewel, lock’d into the wofull’st cask That ever did contain a thing of worth. Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we: This way fall I to death. Queen. This way for me. [ Hxeunt severally. SCENE III.—A bedchamber. Enter the King, Salisbury, Warwick, to the Cardinal in bed. King. How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign. Car. If thou be’st death, Ill give thee England’s Enough to purchase such another island, [treasure, So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. King. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Where death’s approach is seen so terrible ! War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will. Died he not in his bed? where should he die ? Can I make men live, whether they will or no? O, torture me no more! I will confess. Alive again ? then show me where he is: Ill give a thousand pound to look upon him. He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. Comb down his hair; look, look! it stands upright, Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul. Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. King. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens, Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch! O, beat away the busy meddling fiend That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul And from his bosom purge this black despair! War. hint how the pangs of death do make him erin! Sal. Disturb him not; let him pass peaceably. King. Peace to his soul, if God’s good pleasure be! Lord cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him! War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. King. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close; And let us all to meditation. [ Exeunt. Va OG BA Ba Ve SCENE I.— The coast of Kent. Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a Cap- tain, a Master, a Master’s Mate, Walter Whitmore, and others ; with them Suffolk, and others, prisoners. Cap. The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea; And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades That drag the tragic melancholy night ; Who, with their drowsy, slow and flagging wings, Clip dead men’s graves and from their misty jaws Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air. Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize; For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs, Here shall they make their ransom on the sand, Or with their blood stain this discolour’d shore. Master, this prisoner freely give I thee; And thou that art his mate, make boot of this; The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share. [know. First Gent. What is my ransom, master? let me Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head. [yours. Mate. And so much shall you give, or off goes Cap. What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns, And bear the name and port of gentlemen ? Cut both the villains’ throats; for die you shall: The lives of those which we have lost in fight Be counterpoised with such a petty sum! First Gent. I’ll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life. [straight. Sec. Gent. And so will I and write home for it Whit. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore to revenge it, shalt thoudie; [To Suf. And so should these, if I might have my will. Cap. Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live. Suf. Look on my George; I am a gentleman: Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid. Whit. AndsoamI; my nameis Walter Whitmore. How now! why start’st thou? what, doth death affright ? [death. Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is A cunning man did calculate my birth And told me that by water I should die: Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded ; Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded. Whit. Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not: Never yet did base dishonour blur our name, But with our sword we wiped away the blot; Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge, Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced, And I proclaim’d a coward through the world! Suf. Stay, Whitmore, for thy prisoner is a prince, The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole. Whit. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags! Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke: Jove sometime went disguised, and why not I? Cap. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be. Suf. Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry’s blood, The honourable blood of Lancaster, Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. Hast thou not kiss’d thy hand and held my stirrup ? Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule And thought thee happy when I shook my head ? How often hast thou waited at my cup, Fed from my trencher, kneel’d down at the board, When I have feasted with Queen Margaret ? Remember it and let it make thee crest-fall’n, Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride; How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood And duly waited for my coming forth ? This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue. | Whit. Speak captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain? Cap. First let my words stab him, as he hath me. Suf. Base slave,thy words are blunt and soart thew 425 ACT IV. Cap. Convey him hence and on our long-boat’s side Strike off his head. 5 Yes, Pole. Ou]. Cop. Pool! Sir Pool! lord! Ay, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt Troubles the silver spring where England drinks. Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth For swallowing the treasure of the realm: Thy lips that kiss’d the queen shall sweep the ground; [death And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey’s Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain, Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again: And wedded be thou to the hags of hell, For daring to affy a mighty lord Unto the daughter of a worthless king, Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. By devilish policy art thou grown great And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged With gobbets of thy mother’s bleeding heart. By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France, The false revolting Normans thorough thee Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all, Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, As hating thee, are rising up in arms: And now the house of York, thrust from the crown By shameful murder of a guiltless king And lofty proud encroaching tyranny, Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours Advance our half-faced sun, striving to shine, Under the which is writ ‘ Invitis nubibus.’ The commons here in Kent are up in arms: And, to conclude, reproach and beggary Is crept into the palace of our king, And all by thee. Away! convey him hence. Suf. O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges! Small things make base men proud: this villain Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more _ [here, Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate. Drones suck not eagles’ blood but rob bee-hives: It is impossible that I should die By such a lowly vassal as thyself. Thy words move rage and not remorse in me: I go of message from the queen to France; I charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel. Cap. Walter,— [death. Whit. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy Suf. Gelidus timor occupat artus; it isthee I fear. hit. Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee. What, are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop ? First Gent. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair. Suf. Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough, Used to command, untaught to plead for favour. Far be it we should honour such as these With humble suit: no, rather let my head Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any Save to the God of heaven and to my king; And sooner dance upon a bloody pole Than stand uncover’d to the vulgar groom. True nobility is exempt from fear: More can I bear than you dare execute. Cap. Hale him away, and let him talk no more. ae . Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can, That this my death may never be forgot ! Great men oft die by vile bezonians: A Roman sworder and banditto slave Murder’d sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand Stabb’d Julius Cesar; savage islanders Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates. [Exeunt Whitmore and others with Suffolk. 426. Thou darest not, for thy own. Pole! SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene 11. Cap. And as for these whose ransom we have set, It is our pleasure one of them depart: Therefore come you with us and let him go. [Exeunt all but the First Gentleman. fe-enter Whitmore with Suffolk’s body. Whit. There let his head and lifeless body lie, Until the queen his mistress bury it. [ Exit, First Gent. O barbarous and bloody spectacle! His body will I bear unto the king: If he revenge it not, yet will his friends ; So will the queen, that living held him dear. [ Exit with the body. SCENE II.— Blackheath. Enter George Bevis and John Holland. Bevis. Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a lath: they have been up these two days. Holl. They have the more need to sleep now, then. Bevis. I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it. Holl. So he had need, for ’tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up. Bevis. O miserable age! virtue is not regarded in handicrafts-men. [aprons. Holl. The nobility think scorn to go in leather Bevis. Nay, more, the king’s council are no good workmen. Holl. True; and yet it is said, labour in thy vo- cation; which is as much to say as, let the magis- trates be labouring men; and therefore should we be magistrates. Bevis. Thou hast hit it; for there’s no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand. Holl. I see them! I see them! There’s Best’s son, the tanner of Wingham,— Bevis. He shall have the skin of our enemies, to make dog’s-leather of. Holl. And Dick the Butcher,— Bevis. Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity’s throat cut like a calf. Holl. And Smith the weaver,— Bevis. Argo, their thread of life is spun. Holl. Come, come, let ’s fall in with them. Drum. Enter Cade, Dick Butcher, Smith the Weaver, and a Sawyer, with infinite numbers, Cade. We John Cade, so termed of our supposed father,— [herrings. Dick. [Aside] Or rather, of stealing a cade of Cade. For our enemies shall fall before us, in- spired with the spirit of putting down kings and princes,— Command silence. Dick. Silence! Cade. My father was a Mortimer,— Dick. [Aside] He was an honest man, and a good Cade. My mother a Plantagenet,— [bricklayer. Dick. [Aside] I knew her well; she was a midwife. Cade. My wife descended of the Lacies,— Dick. [Aside] She was, indeed, a pedler’s daughter, and sold many laces. Smith. [Aside] But now of late, not able to travel with her furred pack, she washes bucks here at home. Cade. Therefore am I of an honourable house. Dick. [Aside] Ay, by my faith, the field is hon- ourable; and there was he born, under a hedge, for his father had never a house but the cage. Cade. Valiant I am. [valiant. Smith. [Aside] A’ must needs; for beggary is Cade. I am able to endure much. Dick. [Aside] No question of that; for I have seen him whipped three market-days together. Cade. I fear neither sword nor fire. Smith. [Aside] He need not fear the sword; for his coat is of proof. ie ACT IV. Dick. [Aside] But methinks he should stand in Awe of fire, being burnt i’ the hand for stealing of sheep. Cade. Be brave, then; for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny: the three- hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small beer: all the realm shall be in common; and in Cheapside shall my palfry go to grass: and when I am king, as king I will be,— All. God save your majesty ! Cade. I thank you, good people: there shall be no money; allshall eat and drink on my score; and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers and worship me their lord. Dick. The first thing we do, lets kill all the law- yers. Cade. Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a la- mentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment ? that parchment, being scribbled o’er, should undo aman? Some say the bee stings: but I say, ’tis the bee’s wax; for I did but seal once to a us and I was never mine own man since. How now! who’s there? Enter some, bringing forward the Clerk of Chatham. Smith. The clerk of Chatham: he can write and read and cast accompt. Cade. O monstrous! Smith. We took him setting of boys’ copies. Cade. Here’s a villain! Smith. Has a book in his pocket with red letters Cade. Nay, then, he is a conjurer. [in ’t. Dick. Nay, he can make obligations, and write court-hand. Cade. I am sorry for ’t: the man is a proper man, of mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die. Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee: what is thy name? Clerk. Emmanuel. Dick. They use to write it on the top of letters: *t will go hard with you. Cade. Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy name? or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an hon- est plain-dealing man? | Clerk. Sir, 1 thank God, I have been so well brought up that I can write my name. All. He hath confessed: away with him! he’sa villain and a traitor. Cade. Away with him, I say! hang him with his pen and ink-horn about his neck. [ Hxit one with the Clerk. Enter Michael. Mich. Where’s our general ? Cade. Here I am, thou particular fellow. Mich. Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the king’s forces. Cade. Stand, villain, stand, or Ill fell thee down. He shall be encountered with a man as good as himself: he is but a knight, is a’ ? Mich. No. Cade. To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently. [/tneels] Rise up Sir John Mortimer. [ Rises] Now have at him! Enter Sir Humphrey Stafford and his Brother, with drum and soldiers. Staf. Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent, Mark’d for the gallows, lay your weapons down; Home to your cottages, forsake this groom: The king is merciful, if you revolt. Bro. But angry, wrathful, and inclined to blood, If you go forward; therefore yield, or die. Cade. As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not : It is to you, good people, that I speak, Over whom, in time to come, I hope to reign ; For I am rightful heir unto the crown. Dit Gv Ap OR oh LING oie Nay: Vd. Staf. Villain, thy father was a plasterer ; And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not ? Cade. And Adam was a gardener. Bro. And what of that ? {March, Cade. Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did he Staf. Ay, sir. [not ? Cade. By her he had two children at one birth. Bro. That’s false. Cade. Ay, there’s the question; but I say, ’tis The elder of them, being put to nurse, [true: Was by a beggar-woman stolen away ; And, ignorant of his birth and parentage, Became a bricklayer when he came to age: His son am I; deny it, if you can. Dick. Nay, ’tis too true; therefore he shall be king. Smith. Sir, he made a chimney in my father’s house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it; therefore deny it not. Staf. And will youcredit this base drudge’s words, That speaks he knows not what ? All. Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone. Bro. Manse} the Duke of York hath taught you this. Cade. [Aside] He lies, for I invented it myself. Go to, sirrah, tell the king from me, that, for his father’s sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys went to span-counter for French crowns, I am con- tent he shall reign; but Ill be protector over him. Dick. And furthermore, we’ll have the Lord Say’s head for selling the dukedom of Maine. Cade. And good reason; for thereby is England mained, and fain to go with a staff, but that my puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Say hath gelded the commonwealth, and made it an eunuch: and more than that, he can speak French; and therefore he is a traitor, Staf. O gross and miserable ignorance! Cade. Nay, answer, if you can: the Frenchmen are our enemies; go to, then, [ask but this: can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good counsellor, or no ? All. No, no; and therefore we ’ll have his head. Bro. Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail, Assail them with the army of the king. Sah Herald, away; and throughout every town Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade; That those which fly before the battle ends May, even in their wives’ and children’s sight, Be hang’d up for example at their doors: And you that be the king’s friends, follow me. [Hxeunt the two Staffords, and soldiers. Cade. And you that love the commons, follow me. Now show yourselves men; ’t is for liberty. We will not leave one lord, one gentleman: Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon ; For they are thrifty honest men and such As would, but that they dare not, take our parts. Dick. They are all in order and march toward us. Cade. But then are we in order when we are most out of order. Come, march forward. [ Hxeunt. SCENE III. SCENE III. -— Another part of Blackheath. Alarums to the fight, wherein both the Staffords are slain. Enter Cade and the rest. Cade. Where ’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford ? Dick. Here, sir. Cade. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house: therefore thus will I reward thee, the Lent shall be as long again as it is; and thou shalt have a license to kill for a hundred Dick. I desire no more. [lacking one. Cade. And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This monument of the victory will I bear [putting on Sir Humphrey’s brigandine]; and the bodies shall be dragged at my horse heels till I do come to Lon- < 427 ACT IV. SECOND PART OF don, where we will have the mayor’s sword borne before us. Dick. If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners. Cade. Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let’s march towards London. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— London. The palace. Enter the King with a supplication, and the Queen with Suffolk’s head, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Say. Queen. Oft have [heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate ; Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep. But who can cease to weep and look on this ? Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast: But where ’s the body that I should embrace ? Buck. What answer makes your grace to the rebels’ supplication ? King. 1711 send some holy bishop to entreat; For God forbid so many simple souls Should perish by the sword! And I myself, Rather than bloody war shall cut them short, Will parley with Jack Cade their general: But stay, Ill read it over once again. ueen. Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely Ruled, like a wandering planet, over me, [face And could it not enforce them to relent, That were unworthy to behold the same? King. Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head. Say. Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his. King. How now, madam! Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk’s death ? I fear me, love, if that I had been dead, Thou wouldest not have mourn’d so much for me. Queen. No, my love, I should not mourn, but die for thee. Enter a Messenger. King. How now! what news? why comest thou in such haste ? Mess. The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord! Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, Descended from the Duke of Clarence’ house, And calls your grace usurper openly And vows to crown himself in Westminster. His army is a ragged multitude Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless: Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother’s death Hath given them heart and courage to proceed: All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen, They call false caterpillars and intend their death. King. O graceless men! they know not what they do. Buck. My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth, Until a power be raised to put them down. Queen. Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive, These Kentish rebels would be soon appeased ! King. Lord Say, the traitors hate thee; Therefore away with us to Killingworth. Say. So might your grace’s person be in danger. The sight of me is odious in their eyes; And therefore in this city will I stay And live alone as secret as I may.’ Enter another Messenger. Mess. Jack Cade hath gotten London bridge: The citizens fly and forsake their houses: The rascal people, thirsting after prey, Join with the traitor, and they jointly swear To spoil the city and your royal court. Buck. Then linger not, my lord; away, take horse. [cour us. King. Come, Margaret; God, our hope, will suc- pte My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceased. arse he my lord: trust not the Kentish rebels. 428 KING HENRY Vi. scene vit. Buck. Trust nobody, for fear you be betray’d. Say. The trust I have is in mine innocence, And therefore am I bold and resolute. [Exeunt. SCENE V.— London. The Tower. Enter Lord Scales upon the Tower, walking. Then enter two or three Citizens below. Scales. How now! is Jack Cade slain ? First Cit. No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have won the bridge, killing all those that with- stand them: the lord mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower to defend the city from ~ the rebels. Scales. Such aid as I can spare you shall command ; But I am troubled here with them myself; The rebels have assay’d to win the Tower. But get you to Smithfield and gather head, And thither I will send you Matthew Goffe; Fight for your king, your country and your lives; And so, farewell, for I must hence again. [Haeunt. SCENE VI.— London. Cannon Sireet. Enter Jack Cade and the rest, and strikes his staff on London-stone. Cade. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London-stone, I charge and com- mand that, of the city’s cost, the pissing-conduit run nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now henceforward it shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer. Enter a Soldier, running. Sold. Jack Cade! Jack Cade! Cade. Knock him down there. [They kill him. Smith. If this fellow be wise, he’ll] never call ye Jack Cade more: I think he hath a very fair warning. Dick. My lord, there’s an army gathered together in Smithfield. Cade. Come, then, let’s go fight with them: but first, go and set London bridge on fire; and, if you can, burn down the Tower too. Come, let’s away. [| Hxeunt. SCENE VII.— London. Smithfield. Alarums. Matthew Goffe is slain, and all the rest. Then enter Jack Cade, with his company. Cade. So, sirs: now go some and pull down the Savoy ; others to the inns of court ; down with them Dick. I have a suit unto your lordship. jall. Cade. Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word. Dick. Only that the laws of England may come out of your mouth. Holl. [Aside] Mass, ’t will be sore law, then; for he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and ’t is not whole yet. Smith. [Aside] Nay, John, it will be stinking law; for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese. Cade. I have thought upon it, it shall be so. Away, burn all the records of the realm: my mouth shall be the parliament of England. Holl. [Aside] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out. [common. Cade. And henceforward all things shall be in Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, a prize, a prize! here’s the Lord Say, which sold the towns in France; he that made us pay one and twenty fifteens, and one shilling to the pound, the last subsidy. Enter George Bevis, with the Lord Say. Cade. Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord! now art thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction \| IK ys | i ; 3 : SZ 4 : 4 1) ! | Ps ACT IV. regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty for giving up of Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu, the dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee by these presence, even the presence of Lord Morti- mer, that I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school: and whereas, before, - our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to the king, his crown and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison ; and because they could not read, thou hast hanged them; when, indeed, only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou not ? Say. What of that ? Cade. Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse wear a cloak, when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets. Dick. And work in their shirt too; as myself, for example, that am a butcher. Say. You men of Kent,— Dick. .What say you of Kent? [gens.’ Say. Nothing but this; ’tis ‘bona terra, mala Cade. Away with him, away with him! he speaks Latin. [will. Say. Hear me but speak, and bear me where you Kent, in the Commentaries Cesar writ, Is term’d the civil’st place of all this isle: Sweet is the country, because full of riches; The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy ; Which makes me hope you are not void of pity. I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy, Yet, to recover them, would lose my life. Justice with favour have I always done; Prayers and tears have moved me, gifts could never. When have I aught exacted at your hands, But to maintain the king, the realm and you? Large gifts have I bestow’d on learned clerks, Because my book preferr’d me to the king, And seeing ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven, Unless you be possess’d with devilish spirits, You cannot but forbear to murder me: This tongue hath parley’d unto foreign kings For your behoof,— [field ? Cade. Tut, when struck’st thou one blow in the Say. Great men have reaching hands: oft have I struck Those that I never saw and struck them dead. Geo. O monstrous coward! what, to come behind folks ? [good. Say. These cheeks are pale for watching for your Cade. Give him a box o’ the ear and that will make ’em red again. Say. Long sitting to determine poor men’s causes Hath made me full of sickness and diseases. Cade. Ye shall have a hempen caudle then and the help of hatchet. Dick. Why dost thou quiver, man ? Say. The palsy, and not fear, provokes me. Cade. Nay, he nods at us, as who should say, I “ll be even with you: I'll see if his head will stand steadier on a pole, or no. Take him away, and be- head him. Say. Tell me wherein have I offended most ? Have I affected wealth or honour? speak. Are my chests fill’d up with extorted gold ? Is my apparel sumptuous to behold ? Whom have I injured, that ye seek my death ? These hands are free from guiltless blood-shedding, Se eA OO LN GH vis kor VL, SCENE VIII. This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts. O, let me live! Cade. [Aside] I feel remorse in myself with his words; but Ill bridle it: he shall die, an it be but for pleading so well for his life. Away with him! he has a familiar under his tongue; he speaks not 0’ God’s name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike off his head presently; and then break into his son-in-law’s house, Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring them both upon two poles hither. All. It shall be done. [prayers, Say. Ah, countrymen! if when you make your God should be so obdurate as yourselves, How would it fare with your departed souls ? And therefore yet relent, and save my life. Cade. Away with him! and do as I command ye. [Hxeunt some with Lord Say. The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute; there shall not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me her maidenhead ere they have it: men shall hold of mein capite; and we charge and com- mand that their wives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell. Dick. My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside and take up commodities upon our bills ? Cade. Marry, presently. All. O, brave! Re-enter one with the heads. Cade. But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another, for they loved well when they were alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night: for with these borne before us, instead of maces, will we ride through the streets and at every corner have them kiss. Away! [ Hxeunt. SCENE VIII.— Southwark. Enter Cade and all his rab- blement. Cade. Up Fish Street! down Saint Magnus’ Cor- ner! killand knock down! throw them into Thames! [Sound a parley.| What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley, when I command them kill! Enter Buckingham and old Clifford, attended. Buck. Ay, here they be that dare and will dis- turb thee: Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king Unto the commons whom thou hast misled; And here pronounce free pardon to them all That will forsake thee and go home in peace. Clif. What say ye, countrymen ? will ye relent, And yield to mercy whilst ’tis offer’d you; Or let a rebel lead you to your deaths ? Who loves the king and will embrace his pardon, Fling up his cap, and say ‘ God save his majesty! ’ Who hateth him and honours not his father, Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake, Shake he his weapon at us and pass by. All. God save the king! God save the king! Cade. What, Buckingham and Clifford, are ye so brave? And you, base peasants, do ye believe him ? will you needs be hanged with your pardons about your necks? Hath my sword therefore broke through London gates, that you should leave me at the White Hart in Southwark? I thought ye would never have given out these arms till you had recovered your ancient freedom: but you are all recreants and dastards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let them break your backs with burthens, take your houses over your heads, ravish your wives and daughters before your faces: 429 Alarum and retreat. AGT, LVi for me, I will make shift for one; and so, God’s curse light upon you all! All. Well follow Cade, we ’ll follow Cade! Clif. Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth, That thus you do exclaim you ’l] go with him ? Will he conduct you through the heart of France, And make the meanest of you earls and dukes ? Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to; Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil, Unless by robbing of your friends and us. Were ’t not a shame, that whilst you live at jar, The fearful French, whom you late vanquished, Should make a start o’er seas and vanquish you ? Methinks already in this civil broil I see them sording it in London streets, Crying ‘ Villiago!’ unto all they meet. Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman’s mercy. To France, to France,and get what you have lost; Spare England, for it is your native coast: Henry hath money, you are strong and manly; God on our side, doubt not of victory. All. A Clifford! a Clifford! we ’ll follow the king and Clifford. Cade. Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude ? Thename of Henry the Fifth hales them to an hundred mischiefs and makes them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads to- gether to surprise me. My sword make way for me, for here is no staying. In despite of the devils and hell, have through the very middest of you! and heav- ens and honour be witness that no want of resolution in me, but only my followers’ base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my heels. [Hvit. Buck. What, is he fled ? Go some, and follow him; And he that brings his head unto the king Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward. [Hxeunt some of them. Follow me, soldiers: we’ll devise a mean To reconcile you all unto the king. SCENE IX.— Kenilworth Castle. Sound trumpets. Enter King, Queen, and Som- erset, on the terrace. King. Was ever king that joy’d an earthly throne, And could command no more content than I ? No sooner was I crept out of my cradle But I was made a king, at nine months old. Was never subject long’d to be a king As I do long and wish to be a subject. Enter Buckingham and old Clifford. Buck. Health and glad tidings to your majesty! King. Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade sur- Or is he but retired to make him strong? [prised ? [ Hxeunt. Enter, below, multitudes, with halters about their necks. Clif. hee is fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield ; And humbly thus, with halters on their necks, Expect your highness’ doom, of life or death. King. Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates, To entertain my vows of thanks and praise! Soldiers, this day have you redeem’d your lives And show’d how well you love your prince and country : Continue still in this so good a mind, And Henry, though he be infortunate, Assure yourselves, will never be unkind: And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, I do dismiss you to your several countries. All, God save the king! God save the king! Enter a Messenger, Mess. Please it your grace to be advertised The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland, And with a puissant and a mighty power 430 SECOND PART OF KING HENEY VI. SCENE X. Of gallowglasses and stout kerns Is marching hitherward in proud array, And still proclaimeth, as he comes along, His arms are only to remove from thee The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor. King. Thus stands my state, ’twixt Cade and York distress’d ; Like to a ship that, having ’scaped a tempest, Is straightway calm’d and boarded with a pirate: But now is Cade driven back, his men dispersed ; And now is York in arms to second him. I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him, And ask him what’s the reason of these arms. Tell him I’ll send Duke Edmund to the Tower; And, Somerset, we will commit thee hither, Until his army be dismiss’d from him. Som. My lord, Ill yield myself to prison willingly, Or unto death, to do my country good. King. In any case, be not too rough in terms; For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language. Buck. I will, my lord; and doubt not so to deal As all things shall redound unto your good. King. Come, wife, let ’s in, and learn to govern better ; For yet may England curse my wretched reign. [Flourish. Haxeunt. SCENE X.— Kent. Iden’s garden. Enter Cade. Cade. Fie on ambition! fie on myself, that have a sword, and yet am ready to famish! These five days have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laidfor me; but now am I so hungry that if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a man’s stomach this hot weather. And I think this word ‘sallet? was born to do me good: for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a brown bill: and many a time, when I have been dry and bravely marching, it hath served me instead of a quart pot to drink in; and now the word ‘ sallet ’ must serve me to feed on. Enter Iden. Iden. Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court, And may enjoy such quiet walks as these ? This small inheritance my father left me Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy. I seek not to wax great by others’ waning, Or gather wealth, I care not, with what envy: Sufliceth that I have maintains my state And sends the poor well pleased from my gate. Cade. Here ’s the lord of the soil come to seize me for astray, for entering his fee-simple without leave. Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the king by carrying my head to him: but Ill make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part. iden. Why, rude companion, whatsoe’er thou be, I know thee not; why, then, should I betray thee? Is ’t not enough to break into my garden, And, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds, - Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner, But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms ? Cade. Brave thee! ay, by the best blood that ever was broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well: I have eat no meat these five days; yet, come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God I may never eat grass more. [stands, Iden. Nay. it shall ne’er be said, while England That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent, Took odds to combat a poor famish’d man. ACHE V:. Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine, See if thou canst outface me with thy looks: Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser ; Thy hand is but a finger to my fist, Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon ; My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast; And if mine arm be heaved in the air, Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth. As for words, whose greatness answers words, Let this my sword report what speech forbears. Cade. By my valour, the most complete cham- pion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I be- seech God on my knees thou mayst be turned to hobnails. [Here they fight. Cade falls. O, I am slain! famine and no other hath slain me: let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I’ld defy them all. Wither, garden; and be henceforth a burying-place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. SCENE I. Iden. Is’t Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor ? Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed, And hang thee o’er my tomb when I am dead: Ne’er shall this blood be wiped from thy point; But thou shalt wear it as a herald’s coat, To emblaze the honour that thy master got. Cade. Iden, farewell, and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour. [ Dies. iden. How much thou wrong’st me, heaven be my judge. Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee; And as I thrust thy body in with my sword, So wish 1, I might thrust thy soul to hell. Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels Unto a dunghill which shall be thy grave, And there cut off thy most ungracious head ; Which I will bear in triumph to the king, Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon. [Hzit. Gan!) VV. SCENE I.— Melds between Dartford and Black- heath. Hinter York, and his army of Irish, with drum and colours. York. From Ireland thus comes York to claim . his right, And pluck the crown from feeble Henry’s head : Ring, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear and bright, To entertain great England’s lawful king. Ah! sancta majestas, who would not buy thee dear? Let them obey that know not how to rule; This hand was made to handle nought but gold. I cannot give due action to my words, Except a sword or sceptre balance it: A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul, On which 171] toss the flower-de-luce of France. Enter Buckingham. Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me ? The king hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble. Buck. York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well. [greeting. York. Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure ? Buck. A messenger from Henry, our dread liege, To know the reason of these arms in peace ; Or why thou, being a subject as I am, Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn, Should raise so great a power without his leave, Or dare to bring thy force so near the court. York. [Aside] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so O, I could hew up rocks and fight with flint, [great: Iam so angry at these abject terms; And now, like Ajax Telamonius, On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury. I am far better born than is the king, More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts: But I must make fair weather yet awhile, Till Henry be more weak and I more strong.— Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me, That I have given no answer all this while; My mind was troubled with deep melancholy. The cause why I have brought this army hither Is to remove proud Somerset from the king, Seditious to his grace and to the state. Buck. That is too much presumption on thy part: But if thy arms be to no other end, The king hath yielded unto thy demand: The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower. York. Upon thine honour, is he prisoner ? Buck. Upon mine honour, he is prisoner. York. Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers. Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves; Meet me to-morrow in Saint George’s field, You shall have pay and every thing you wish. And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry, Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons, As pledges ot my fealty and love; I'll send them all as willing as I live: Lands, goods, horse, armour, any thing I have, Is his to use, so Somerset may die. Buck. York, I commend this kind submission: We twain will go into his highness’ tent. Enter King and Attendants. King. Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to That thus he marcheth with thee armin arm? [us, York. In all submission and humility York doth present himself unto your highness. King. Then what intends these forces thou dost bring ? York. To heave the traitor Somerset from hence. And fight against that monstrous rebel Cade, Who since I heard to be discomfited. Enter Iden, with Cade’s head. Iden. If one so rude and of so mean condition May pass into the presence of a king, Lo, I present your grace a traitor’s head, The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew. King. The head of Cade! Great God, how just O, let me view his visage, being dead, [art Thou! That living wrought me such exceeding trouble. Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him ? Iden. I was, an’t like your majesty. King. How art thou call’d? and what is thy de- Iden. Alexander Iden, that’s my name; [gree? A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his king. Buck. So please it you, my lord, ’t were not amiss He were created knight for his good service. King. Iden, kneel down. [He kneels.] Rise up a We give thee for reward a thousand marks, [knight. And will that thou henceforth attend on us. Iden. May Iden live to merit such a bounty, And never live but true unto his liege! [ [tises. Enter Queen and Somerset. King. See, Buckingham, Somerset comes with the Go, bid her hide him quickly from the duke. [queen: 431 ACT V. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. SCENE II. Queen. For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his But boldly stand and front him to his face. [head, York. How now! is Somerset at liberty ? Then, York, unloose thy long-imprison’d thoughts, And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart. Shall I endure the sight of Somerset ? False king! why hast thou broken faith with me, Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse ? King did I call thee? no, thou art not king, Not fit to govern and rule multitudes, Which darest not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor. That head of thine doth not become a crown; Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer’s staff, And not to grace an awful princely sceptre. That gold must round engirt these brows of mine, Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear, Is able with the change to kill and cure. Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up And with the same to act controlling laws. Give place: by heaven, thou shalt rule no more O’er him whom heaven created for thy ruler. Som. O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, York, Of capital treason ’gainst the king and crown: Obey, audacious traitor; kneel for grace. York. Wouldst have me kneel? first let me ask If they can brook I bow a knee to man. [of these, Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail: [ Hxit Attendant. I know, ere they will have me go to ward, They 71] pawn their swords for my enfranchisement. Queen. Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain, To say if that the bastard boys of York Shall be the surety for their traitor father. [Hxit Buckingham. York. O blood-besotted Neapolitan, Outcast of Naples, England’s bloody scourge! The sons of York, thy betters in their birth, Shall be their father’s bail; and bane to those That for my surety will refuse the boys! Enter Edward and Richard. See where they come: Ill warrant they ’ll make it good. Enter old Clifford and his Son. ueen. And here comes Clifford to deny their bail. lif. Health and all happiness to my lord the king! [ Kneels. York. I thank thee, Clifford: say, what news with Nay, do not fright us with an angry look: [thee? We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again ; For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. Clif. This is my king, York, I do not mistake; But thou mistakest me much to think I do: To Bedlam with him! is the man grown mad ? King. Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour Makes him oppose himself against his king. Clif. He is a traitor; let him to the Tower, And chop away that factious pate of his. Queen. He is arrested, but will not obey ; His sons, he says, shall give their words for him. York. Will you not, sons ? Edw. Ay, noble father, if our words will serve. Aad ad if words will not, then our weapons shall. Clif. Why, what a brood of traitors have we here! York. Look in a glass, and call thy image so: I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor. Call hither to the stake my two brave bears, That with the very shaking of their chains They may astonish these fell-lurking curs: Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me. Enter the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury. Clif. Are these thy bears? well bait thy bears to death, 432 And manacle the bear-ward in their chains, If thou darest bring them to the baiting place. Rich. Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening cur Run back and bite, because he was withheld, Who, being suffer’d with the bear’s fell paw, Hath clapp’d his tail between his legs and cried: And such a piece of service will you do, If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick. Clif. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump, As crooked in thy manners as thy shape! York. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon. Clif. Take heed, lest by your heat you burn your- selves. [bow ? King. Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair, Thou mad misleader of thy brain-sick son! What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian, And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles ? O, where is faith ? O, where is loyalty ? If it be banish’d from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbour in the earth ? Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war, And shame thine honourable age with blood ? Why art thou old, and want’st experience ? Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it ? For shame! in duty bend thy knee to me That bows unto the grave with mickle age. Sal. My lord, I have consider’d with myself The title of this most renowned duke; And in my conscience do repute his grace The rightful heir to England’s royal seat. King. Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me ? Sal. I have. [an oath ? King. Canst thou dispense with heaven for such Sal. It is great sin to swear unto a sin, But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. Who can be bound by any solemn vow To do a murderous deed, to rob a man, To force a spotless virgin’s chastity, To reave the orphan of his patrimony, To wring the widow from her custom’d right, And have no other reason for this wrong But that he was bound by a solemn oath ? Queen. A subtle traitor needs no sophister. King. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. York. Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou I am resolved for death or dignity. {hast, Clif. The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true. War. You were best to go to bed and dream again, To keep thee from the tempest of the field. Olif. Iam resolved to bear a greater storm Than any thou canst conjure up to-day; And that Ill write upon thy burgonet, Might I but know thee by thy household badge. ar. Now, by my father’s badge, old Nevil’s crest, The rampant bear chain’d to the ragged staff, This day I ll wear aloft my burgonet, AS on a mountain top the cedar shows That Keeps his leaves in spite of any storm, Even to affright thee with the view thereof. Clif. And from thy burgonet Ill rend thy bear And tread it under foot. with all contempt, Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear. Y. Clif. And so to arms, victorious father, To quell the rebels and their complices. Rich. Fie! charity, for shame! speak not in spite, For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night. Y. Clif. Foul stigmatic, that’s more than thou canst tell. . Rich. If not in heaven, you ’ll surely sup in hell. [Exeunt severally. SCENE II. — Saint Alban’s. Alarums to the battle. Enter Warwick. War. Clifford of Cumberland, ’t is Warwick calls: And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear, ACT V. Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air, Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me: Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms. Enter York. How now, my noble lord! what, all afoot ? York. The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed, But match to match I have encounter’d him And made a prey for carrion kites and crows Even of the bonny beast he loved so well. Enter old Clifford. War. Of one or both of us the time is come. Whe Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase, For I myself must hunt this deer to death. War. Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st. As I intend, Clifford, to. thrive to-day, It aes my soul to leave thee unassail’d. [Hvitt. Jlif. What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause ? York. With thy brave bearing should I be in love, But that thou art so fast mine enemy. Clif. Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem, But that ’tis shown ignobly and in treason. York. So let it help me now against thy sword As I in justice and true right express it. Clif. My soul and body on the action both! York. A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly. [They fight, and Clifford falls. Clif. La fin couronne les ceuvres. Dies. York. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still. Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will! [Hvit. Enter young Clifford. Y. Clif. Shame and confusion! all is on the rout; Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds Where it should guard. O war, thou son of hell, Whom angry heavens do make their minister, Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly. He that is truly dedicate to war Hath no self-love, nor he that loves himself Hath not essentially but by circumstance The name of valour. [Seeing his dead father. O, let the vile world end, And the premised flames of the last day Knit earth and heaven together! Now let the general trumpet blow his blast, Particularities and petty sounds To cease! Wast thou ordain’d, dear father, To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve The silver livery of advised age, And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight My heart is turn’d to stone: and while ’tis mine, It shall be stony. York not our old men spares; No more will I their babes: tears virginal Shall be to me even as the dew to fire, And beauty that the tyrant oft reclaims Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. Henceforth I will not have to do with pity: Meet I an infant of the house of York, Into as many gobbets will I cut it As wild Medea young Absyrtus did: In cruelty will I seek out my fame. Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house: As did Aineas old Anchises bear, So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders; But then Aineas bare a living load, Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. [Exit, bearing off his father. 28 SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VL: scens ttt. Enter Richard and Somerset to fight. Somerset is killed. Rich. So, lie thou there; For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign, The Castle in Saint Alban’s, Somerset Hath made the wizard famous in his death. Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still: Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill. [ Exit. Fight: excursions. Enter King, Queen, and others. Queen. Away, my lord! you are slow; for shame, away | King. Can we outrun the heavens? good Mar- garet, stay. Queen. What are you made of? you’ll nor fight Now is it manhood, wisdom and defence, [nor fly: To give the enemy way, and to secure us By what we can, which can no more but fly. [Alarum afar off. If you be ta’en, we then should see the bottom Of all our fortunes: but if we haply scape, As well we may, if not through your neglect, We shall to London get, where you are loved And where this breach now in our fortunes made May readily be stopp’d. Re-enter young Clifford. Y. Clif. But that my heart’s on future mischief I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly: [set, But fly you must; uncurable discomfit Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts. Away, for your relief! and we will live To see their day and them our fortune give: Away, my lord, away! [ Hxeunt. SCENE III.— Fields near St. Alban’s. Alarum. Retreat. Enter York, Richard, War- wick, and Soldiers, with drum and colours. York. Of Salisbury, who can report of him, That winter lion, who in rage forgets Aged contusions and all brush of time, And, like a gallant in the brow of youth, Repairs him with occasion? This happy day Is not itself, nor have we won one foot, If Salisbury be lost. Rich. My noble father, Three times to-day I holp him to his horse, Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off, Persuaded him from any further act: But still, where danger was, still there I met him; And like rich hangings in a homely house, So was his will in his old feeble body. But, noble as he is, look where he comes. Enter Salisbury. Sal. Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day ; By the ae so did we all. I thank you, Richard: God knows how long it is I have to live; And it hath pleased him that three times to-day You have defended me from imminent death. Well, lords, we have not got that which we have: ’T is not enough our foes are this time fled, Being opposites of such repairing nature. York. I know our safety is to follow them ; For, as I hear, the king is fled to London, To call a present court of parliament. Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth. What says Lord Warwick ? shall we after them? War. After them! nay, before them, if we can. Now, by my faith, lords, ’t was a glorious day: Saint Alban’s battle won by famous York Shall be eternized in all age to come. Sound drums and trumpets, and to London all: And more such days as these to us befall! [Hveunt. 433 WEN SOs Sy THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH. DRAMATIS PERSON. King Henry the Sixth. Edward, Prince of Wales, his son. Lewis XI. King of France. Duke of Somerset. Duke of Exeter. Earl of Oxford. Earl of Northumberland. Earl of Westmoreland. Lord Clifford. Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York. Edward, Earl of March, afterwards | King Edward IV., Edmund, Earl of Rutland, George, afterwards Duke of Clarence, Richard, afterwards Duke of Glou- cester, Duke of Norfolk. Marquess of Montague. Earl of Warwick. Earl of Pembroke. + his sons. Lord Hastings. Lord Stafford. an bomen ec od \ uncles to the Duke of York. Henry, Earl of Richmond, a youth. Lord Rivers, brother to Lady Grey. Sir William Stanley. Sir John Montgomery. Sir John Somerville. Tutor to Rutland. Mayor of York. Lieutenant of the Tower. A Nobleman. Two Keepers. A Huntsman. A Son that has killed his father. A Father that has killed his son. Queen Margaret. Lady Grey, afterwards Queen to Edward IV. Bona, sister to the French Queen. Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, &c. SCENE — England and France. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LVII.] Dans O40 Cyan Os SCENE I.— London. The Parliament-house. Alarum. Enter the Duke of York, Edward, Richard, Norfolk, Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers. War. I wonder how the king escaped our hands. York. While we pursued the horsemen of the He slily stole away and left his men: [north, Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat, Cheer’d up the drooping army; and himself, Lord Clifford and Lord Stafford, all abreast, Charged our main battle’s front, and breaking in Were by the swords of common soldiers slain. Edw. Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Bucking- Is either slain or wounded dangerously ; {[ham, I cleft his beaver with a downright blow: That this is true, father, behold his blood. [blood, Mont. And, brother, here ’s the Earl of Wiltshire’s Whom I encounter’d as the battles join’d. Rich. Speak thou for me and tell them what I did. [Throwing down the Duke of Somerset’s head. York. Richard hath best deserved of all my sons. But is your grace dead, my Lord of Somerset ? Ni ar . Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt! Ttich. Thus do [hope to shake King Henry’s head. War. And so do I. Victorious Prince of York, Before I see thee seated in that throne Which now the house of Lancaster usurps, 1 vow by heaven these eyes shall never close. This is the palace of the fearful king, And this the regal seat: possess it, York; For this is thine and not King Henry’s heirs’. York. Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and I will; For hither we have broken in by force. 434 Norf. We'll all assist you; he that flies shall die. York. Thanks, gentle Norfolk: stay by me, my lords ; And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night. They go up. War. And when the king comes, offer him no violence, Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce. [ment, York. The queen this day here holds her parlia- But little thinks we shall be of her council: By words or blows here let us win our right. Rich. Arm’das we are, let ’s stay within this house. War. The bloody parliament shall this be call’d, Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king, And bashful Henry deposed, whose cowardice Hath made us by-words to our enemies. York. Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute; I mean to take possession of my right. War. Neither the king, nor he that loves him best, The proudest he that holds up Lancaster, Dares stir a wing, if Warwick shake his bells. I’ plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares: Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clifford, Northumber- land, Westmoreland, Exeter, and the rest. K. Hen. My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits, Even in the chair of state: belike he means, Back’d by the power of Warwick, that false peer, To aspire unto the crown and reign as king. Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father, : And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both haye yvow’d revenge : On him, his sons, his favourites and his friends. ACT I. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE I. North. If I be not, heavens be revenged on me! Clif. The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel. [down: West. What, shall we suffer this ? let ’s pluck him My heart for anger burns; I cannot brook it. K. Hen. Be patient, gentle Earlof Westmoreland. Clif. Patience is for poltroons, such as he: He durst not sit there, had your father lived. My gracious lord, here in the parliament Let us assail the family of York. North. Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so. KK. Hen. Ab, know you not the city favours them, And they have troops of soldiers at their beck ? Exe. But when the duke is slain, they 711 quickly fly. [heart, KK. Hen. Far be the thought of this from Henry’s To make a shambles of the parliament-house! Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words and threats Shall be the war that Henry means to use. Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne, And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet ; Iam thy sovereign. York. I am thine. fof York. Exe. For shame, come down: he made thee Duke York. ’T was my inheritance, as the earldom was. Exe. Thy father was a traitor to the crown. War. Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown In following this usurping Henry. Clif. Whom should he follow but his natural king ? War. True, Clifford; and that’s Richard Duke of York. [throne ? KK. Hen. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my York. It must and shall be so: content thyself. War. Be Duke of Lancaster; let him be king. West. He is. both king and Duke of Lancaster; And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain. War. And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget That we are those which chased you from the field And slew your fathers, and with colours spread March’d through the city to the palace gates. North. Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief ; And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it. West. Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons, Thy kinsmen and thy friends, I ’1l have more lives Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins. Clif. Urge it no more; lest that, instead of words, I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger As shall revenge his death before I stir. [threats ! War. Poor Clifford! how I scorn his worthless York. Will you we show our title to the crown ? if not, our swords shall plead it in the field. K. Hen. What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown? Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York; Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March: I am the son of Henry the Fifth, Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop And seized upon their towns and provinces. War. Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all. KK. Hen. The lord protector lost it, and not I: When I was crown’d I was but nine months old. Stich. You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose. Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head. Edw. Sweet father, do so; set it on your head. Mont. Good brother, as thou lovest and honour- est arms, Lets fight it out and not stand cavilling thus. ich. Sound drums and trumpets, and the king York. Sons, peace! [will fly. K. Hen. Peace, thou! and give King Henry leave to speak. [lords ; War. Plantagenet shall speak first: hear him, And be you silent and attentive too, For he that interrupts him shall not live. [throne, Kk. Hen. Think’st thou that I will leave my kingly Wherein my grandsire and my father sat ? No: first shall war unpeople this my realm; Ay, and their colours, often borne in France, ‘And now in England to our heart’s great sorrow, Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords > My title’s good, and better far than his. War. Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king. 4. Hen. Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown. York. ’T was by rebellion against his king. kx. Hen. [Aside] I know not what to say; my title ’s weak.— Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir ? York. What then ? ds. Hen. An if he may, then am I lawful king; For Richard, in the view of many lords, Resign’d the crown to Henry the Fourth, Whose heir my father was, and I am his. York. He rose against him, being his sovereign, And made him to resign his crown perforce. War. Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain’d, Think you ’t were prejudicial to his crown ? Hxe. No; for he could not so resign his crown But that the next heir should succeed and reign. KK. Hen. Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter ? He. His is the right, and therefore pardon me. York. ms) whisper you, my lords, and answer no Exe. My conscience tells me he is lawful king. aiG Te All will revolt from me, and turn ~ o him. North. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay’st, Think not that Henry shall be so deposed. War. Deposed he shall be, in despite of all. North. Thou art deceived: ’tis not thy southern power, Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud, Can set the duke up in despite of me. Clif. King Henry, be thy title right or wrong, Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence: May that ground gape and swallow me alive, Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father! K. Hen. O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart ! York. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown. What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords ? War. Do right unto this princely Duke of York, Or I will fill the house with armed men, And over the chair of state, where now he sits, Write up his title with usurping blood. [He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers show themselves. KK. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, hear me but one Let me for this my life-time reign as king. [word: York. Confirm the crown to me and to mine heirs, And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou livest. King. Iam content: Richard Plantagenet, Enjoy the kingdom after my decease. St What wrong is this unto the prince yourson! ar. What good is this to England and himself! West. Base, fearful and despairing Henry! oe How hast thou injured both thyself and us! est. I cannot stay to hear these articles. North. Nor I. Clif. Come, cousin, let us tell the queen these news. [king, West. Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides. North. Be thou a prey unto the house of York, And die in bands for this unmanly deed! Clif. In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome, Or live in peace abandon’d and despised ! [Exeunt North., Cliff., and West. War. Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not. Hue. They seek revenge and therefore will not K. Hen. Ah, Exeter! [yield. War. Why should you sigh, my lord ? 435 ACT I. THIRD PART OF HAING Vii he owe SCENE II. K. Hen. Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit. [son, But be it as it may: I here entail The crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever; Conditionally, that here thou take an oath To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live, To honour me as thy king and sovereign, And neither by treason nor hostility To seek to put me down and reign thyself. York. This oath I willingly take and will perform. War. Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, em- brace him. [ward sons! K. Hen. And long live thou and these thy for- York. Now York and Lancaster are reconciled. Exe. Accursed be he that seeks to make them foes! [Sennet. Here they come down. York. Farewell, my gracious lord; I’ll to my castle. War. And I’ll keep London with my soldiers. Norf, And I to Norfolk with my followers. Mont. And I unto the sea from whence I came. [Exeunt York and his Sons, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, their Soldiers, and Attendants. K. Hen. And I, with grief and sorrow, tothe court. Enter Queen Margaret and the Prince of Wales. Exe. Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray Ill steal away. [her anger: AK. Hen. Exeter, so will I. Q. Mar. Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee. kK. Hen. Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay. Q. Mar. Who can be patient in such extremes ? Ah, wretched man! would I had died a maid, And never seen thee, never borne thee son, Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father! Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus ? Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I, Or felt that pain which I did for him once, Or nourish’d him as I did with my blood, _ [there, Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir And disinherited thine only son. Prince. Father, you cannot disinherit me: If you be king, why should not I succeed? _ [son: A. Hen. Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet The Earl of Warwick and the duke enforced me. Q. Mar. Enforced thee! art thou king, and wilt be forced ? I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch! Thou hast undone thyself, thy son and me; And given unto the house of York such head As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. To entail him and his heirs unto the crown, What is it, but to make thy sepulchre And creep into it far before thy time ? Warwick is chancellor and the lord of Calais; Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas; The duke is made protector of the realm; And yet shalt thou be safe? such safety finds The trembling lamb environed with wolves. Had I been there, which am a silly woman, The soldiers should have toss’d me on their pikes Before I would have granted to that act. But thou preferr’st thy life before thine honour: And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, Until that act of parliament be repeal’d Whereby my son is disinherited. The northern lords that have forsworn thy colours Will follow mine, if once they see them spread ; And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace And utter ruin of the house of York. Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let ’s away ; Our army is ready; come, we ’ll after them. K. Hen. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already: get thee gone. 436 KK Silas Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me f . Mar. Ay, to be murder’d by his enemies. rince. When I return with victory from the field Ill see your grace: till then I 71) follow her. Mar. Come, son, away; we may not linger thus. [Hxeunt Queen Margaret and the Prince. K. Hen. Poor queen! how love to me and to her son, Hath made her break out into terms of rage! Revenged may she be on that hateful duke, Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle Tire on the flesh of me and of my son! The loss of those three lords torments my heart: I’ll write unto them and entreat them fair. Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger. Exe. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. [Exeunt.. SCENE II. — Sandal Castle. Enter Richard, Edward, and Montague. Rich. Brother,though I be youngest, give me leave. Edw. No, I can better play the orator. Mont. But I have reasons strong and forcible. Enter the Duke of York. York. Why, how now, sons and brother! at a What is your quarrel? how began it first? [strife? Edw. No quarrel, but a slight contention. York. About what ? [us ; Rich. About that which concerns your grace and The crown of England, father, which is yours. York. Mine, boy? not till King Henry be dead. Rich. Your right depends not on his life or death. Edw. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now: By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe, It will outrun you, father, in the end. York. I took an oath that he should quietly reign. Edw. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken: I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year. Rich. No; God forbid your grace should be for- York. I shall be, if I claim by open war. [sworn. Rich. 1711 prove the contrary, if you ’ll hear me speak. York, Thou canst not, son; it is impossible. Rich. An oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful magistrate, That hath authority over him that swears: Henry had none, but did usurp the place; Then, seeing ’t was he that made you to depose, Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown; Within whose circuit is Elysium And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest Until the white rose that I wear be dyed Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry’s heart. York. Richard, enough; I will be king, or die. Brother, thou shalt to London presently, And whet on Warwick to this enterprise. Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk, And tell him privily of our intent. You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise: In them I trust; for they are soldiers, Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. While you are thus employ’d, what resteth more, But that I seek occasion how to rise, And yet the king not privy to my drift, Nor any of the house of Lancaster ? Enter a Messenger. But, stay: what news? Why comest thou in such post ? [lords. Gabr. The queen with all the northern earls and. Intend here to besiege you in your castle: Sis: PEP PR AL OF Att 1. KING HENEY, VI. SCENE IV. She is hard by with twenty thousand men; And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. York. Ay, with my sword. What! think’st thou that we fear them ? Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me; My brother Montague shall post to London: Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, Whom we have left protectors of the king, With powerful policy strengthen themselves, And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths. Mont. Brother, I go; I’l] win them, fear it not: And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [vit. Enter Sir John Mortimerand Sir Hugh Mortimer. York. Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour; The army of the queen mean to besiege us. _ [field. Sir John. She shall not need; we’l] meet her in the York. What, with five thousand men ? Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need: A woman’s general; what should we fear? [A march afar off. Edw. I hear their drums: let’s set our men in order, And issue forth and bid them battle straight. York. Five men to twenty! though the odds be I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. [great, Many a battle have I won in France, When as the enemy hath been ten to one: Why should I not now have the like success ? [Alarum. Hxeunt. SCENE III.— Field of battle betwixt Sandal Castle and Wakefield. Alarums. Enter Rutland and his Tutor. Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands ? Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes! Enter Clifford and Soldiers. Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy As for the brat of this accursed duke, [life. Whose father slew my father, he shall die. Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company. Clif. Soldiers, away with him! Tut. Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man! [Exit, dragged off by Soldiers. Clif. How now! is he dead already ? or is it fear That makes him close his eyes? Ill open them. Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws; And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey, And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder. Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threatening look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die. J am too mean a subject for thy wrath: Be thou revenged on men, and let me live. [blood Clif. In vain thou speak’st, poor boy ; my father’s Hath stopp’d the passage where thy words should enter. ‘ Fut. Then let my father’s blood open it again: He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. [thine Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and Were not revenge sufficient for me; No, if I digg’d up thy forefathers’ graves And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. The sight of any of the house of York Is as a fury to torment my soul; And till I root out their accursed line And leave not one alive, I live in hell. Therefore— | [Lifting his hand. Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death! To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me! Clif. Such pity as my rapier’s point affords. dtd never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me? Clif. Thy father hath. Rut. But *t was ere I was born. Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me, ’ Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, He be as miserably slain as I. Ah, let me live in prison all my days; And when I give occasion of offence, Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. Clif. No cause! Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. [Stabs him. Rut. Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuse! [Dies. Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet ! And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congeal’d with this, do make me wipe off both. [ Exit SCENE IV.— Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of York. York. The army of the queen hath got the field: My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; And all my followers to the eager foe Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves. My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them: But this I know, they have demean’d themselves Like men born to renown by life or death. Three times did Richard make a lane to me, And thrice cried ‘ Courage, father! fight it out!’ And full as oft came Edward to my side, With purple falchion, painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encounter’d him: And when the hardiest warriors did retire, Richard cried ‘ Charge! and give no foot of ground!’ And cried ‘A crown, or else a glorious tomb! A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre! ’ With this, we charged again: but, out, alas! We bodged again; as I have seen a swan With bootless labour swim against the tide And spend her strength with over-matching waves. [A short alarum within. Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue ; And I am faint and cannot fly their fury: And were I strong, I would not shun their fury: The sands are number’d that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumber- land, the young Prince, and Soldiers. Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: I am your butt, and I abide your shot. North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. Clif. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm, With downright payment, show’d unto my father. Now Phaéthon hath tumbled from his car, And made an evening at the noontide prick. York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth A bird that will revenge upon you all: And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with. Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear ? Clif. So cowards fight when they can fly no fur- ther ; So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons ; So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers. York. O Clifford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o’er-run my former time; And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face, And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cow- ardice Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this! 437 ACT I. TALE D* PAR POTS TINGE Nan SCENE IV. Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life. Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumber- and. North. Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart: What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away ? It is war’s prize to take all vantages ; And ten to one is no impeach of valour. [They lay hands on York, who struggles. Clif. Ay, ay,so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the cony struggle in the net. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d booty ; So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatch’d. North. What would your grace have done unto him now ? Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northum- berland, Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. What! was it you that would be England’s king ? Was ’t you that revell’d in our parliament, And made a preachment of your high descent ? Where are your mess of sons to back you now ? The wanton Edward, and the lusty George ? And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy, Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies ? Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland ? Look, York: I stain’d this napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford, with his rapier’s point, Made issue from the bosom of the boy ; And if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York. What, hath thy fiery heart so parch’d thine entrails That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death ? Why art thou patient, man ? thou shouldst be mad; And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. Thou wouldst be fee’d, I see, to make me sport: York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown. A crown for York! and, lords, bow low to him: Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. [Putting a paper crown on his head. Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! Ay, this is he that took King Henry’s chair, And this is he was his adopted heir. But how is it that great Plantagenet Is crown’d so soon, and broke his solemn oath ? As I bethink me, you should not be king Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory, And rob his temples of the diadem, Now in his life, against your holy oath ? O, tis a fault too too unpardonable! Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head; And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. Olif. That is my office, for my father’s sake. Q@. Mar. Nay, stay; let’s hear the orisons he makes. York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph, like an Amazonian trull, Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! 438 But that thy face is, visard-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds, I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived, Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult ? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen Unless the adage must be verified, . That beggars mounted run their horse to death. °T is beauty that doth oft make women proud; But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small: °T is virtue that doth make them most admired; The contrary doth make thee wonder’d at: °T is government that makes them seem divine ; The want thereof makes thee abominable: Thou art as opposite to every good As the Antipodes are unto us, Or as the south to the septentrion. O tiger’s heart wrapt in a woman’s hide! How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a woman’s face ? Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Bid’st thou me rage ? why, now thou hast thy wish: hi Adena ae oe me weep? why, now thou hast thy will: For raging wind blows up incessant showers, And when the rage allays, the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies : And every drop cries vengeance for his death, ’Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false French- woman. North. Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. York. That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touch’d, would not have stain’d with blood: But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears: This cloth thou dip’dst in blood of my sweet boy, And I with tears do wash the blood away. Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this: And if thou tell’st the heavy story right, Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; Yea even my foes will shed fast-falling tears, And say ‘ Alas, it was a piteous deed!’ There, take the crown, and, with the crown, my curse ; And in thy need such comfort come to thee As now I reap at thy too cruel hand! Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world: My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads! North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, I should not for my life but weep with him, To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. @. Mar. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northum- berland ? Think but upon the wrong he did us all, And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. _ Clif. Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death. [Stabbing him. @. Mar. And here’s to right our gentle-hearted king [Stabbing him. York. Open Thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to see Thee. 1€s. Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York. [Flourish. Hxeunt. a ACT II. PHT PAR Of LOIN Gill Ef INO IL: SCENE I, 2s Nie WO) SCENE I.—A plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire. Amarch, Enter Bdward, Richard, and their power. Edw. I wonder how our princely father ’scaped, Or whether he be ’scaped away or no From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit: Had he been ta’en, we should have heard the news ; Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; Or had he ’scaped, methinks we should have heard The happy tidings of his good escape. How fares my brother ? why is he so sad ? Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolved Where our right valiant father is become. I saw him in the battle range about ; And watch’d him how he singled Clifford forth. Methought he bore him in the thickest troop As doth a lion in a herd of neat; Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs, Who having pinch’d a few and made them cry, The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. So fared our father with his enemies ; So fled his enemies my warlike father: Methinks, ’t is prize enough to be his son. See how the morning opes her golden gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious sun! How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm/’d like a younker prancing to his love! Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns ? Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun ; Not separated with the racking clouds, But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky. See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vow’d some league inviolable: Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. In this the heaven figures some event. _[heard of. Edw. Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never I think it cites us, brother, to the field, That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, Each one already blazing by our meeds, Should notwithstanding join our lights together And over-shine the earth as this the world. Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair-shining suns. Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it, You love the breeder better than the male. Enter a Messenger. But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue ? Mess. Ah, one that was a woful looker-on When as the noble Duke of York was slain, Your princely father and my loving lord! Edw. O, speak no more, for I have heard too much. Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. Mess. Environed he was with many foes, And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak. By many hands your father was subdued ; But only slaughter’d by the ireful arm Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen, Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite, Laugh’d in his face; and when with grief he wept, The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks A napkin steeped in the harmless blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain: And after many scorns, many foul taunts, They took his head, and on the gates of York They set the same; and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that e’er I view’d. Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay. O Clifford, boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain The flower of Europe for his chivalry ; And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him, For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d thee. Now my soul’s palace is become a prison: Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest! For never henceforth shall I joy again, Never, O never, shall I see more joy! Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body’s moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart : Norcan my tongue unload my heart’s great burthen ; For selfsame wind that I should speak withal Is kindling coals that fires all my breast, [quench. And burns me up with flames that tears would To weep is to make less the depth of grief: Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me! Richard, I bear thy name; I ’ll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it. [thee: Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with His dukedom and his chair with me is left. Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird, Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun: For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say; Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter Warwick, Marquess of Mon- tague, and their army. War. How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad ? [count Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should re- Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliverance Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told, The words wouldadd more anguish than the wounds. O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain! Edw. O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet, Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption, Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. War. Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears; And now, to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befall’n. After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp, Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run, Were brought me of your loss and his depart. I, then in London, keeper of the king, ; Muster’d my soldiers, gather’d flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, [queen, March’d toward Saint Alban’s to intercept the Bearing the king in my behalf along; For by my scouts I was advertised That she was coming with a full intent To dash our late decree in parliament Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession. Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban’s met, Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought + But whether ’t was the coldness of the king, Who look’d full gently on his warlike queen, That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen ; Or whether ’t was report of her success ; Or more than common fear of Clifford’s rigour, Who thunders to his captives blood and death, I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth, Their weapons like to lightning came and went ; Our soldiers’, like the night-owl’s lazy flight, Or like an idle thresher witha flail, Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause, With promise of high pay and great rewards: But all in vain; they had no heart to fight, And we in them no hope to win the day ; So that we fled; the king unto the queen ; 439 LATED PAL TVR Lord George your brother, Norfolk and myself, In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you; For in the marches here we heard you were, Making another head to fight again. [wick ? Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle War- And when came George from Burgundy to England? ets: Some six miles off the duke is with the sol- iers ; : And for your brother, he was lately sent From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy, With aid of soldiers to this needful war. [fied : Rich. ’T was odds, belike, when valiant Warwick Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, But ne’er till now his scandal of retire. [hear ; War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head, And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, Were he as famous and as bold in war As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer. ftich. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me T is love I bear thy glories makes me speak. [not: But in this troublous time what ’s to be done ? Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads ? Or shall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms ? If for the last, say ay, and to it, lords. [out ; War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you And therefore comes my brother Montague. Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen, With Clifford and the haught Northumberland, And of their feather many moe proud birds, Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. He swore consent to your succession, His oath enrolled in the parliament ; And now to London all the crew are gone, To frustrate both his oath and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster. Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong: Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself, With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March, Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, Why, Via! to London will we march amain, And once. again bestride our foaming steeds, And once again cry ‘Charge upon our foes! ’ But never once again turn back and fly. [speak : Rich. Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day, That cries ‘ Retire,’ if Warwick bid him stay. Hidw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And when thou fail’st —as God forbid the hour! — Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend! War. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: The next degree is England’s royal throne; For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d In every borough as we pass along; And he that throws not up his cap for joy Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague, Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets, and about our task. ftich. 'Then, Clifford, were thy heart as. hard as As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, _[steel, I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. Hdw. Then strike up drums: God and Saint George for us! AMR LE Enter a Messenger. War. How now! what news? Mess. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, The queen is coming with a puissant host; And craves your company for speedy counsel. War. Why then it sorts, brave warriors, let’s away. Exeunt. 440) KING SEE NE EW: SCENE II.— Before York. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford, and Northumberland, with drum and trumpets. . Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town Yonder ’s the head of that arch-enemy [of York. That sought to be encompass’d with your crown: Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord ? K. Hen. Ay,as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck: To see this sight, it irks my very soul. Withhold revenge, dear God! ’tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have [ infringed my vow. Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside. To whom do lions cast their gentle looks ? Not to the beast that would usurp their den. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick ? Not his that spoils her young before her face. Who ’scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting? Not he that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. Ambitious York did level at thy crown, Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows: He, but a duke, would have his son a king, And raise his issue, like a loving sire; Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit him, Which argued thee a most unloving father. Unreasonable creatures feed their young; And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes, Yet, in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seen them, even with those wings Which sometime they have used with fearful flight, Make war with him that climb’d unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their young’s defence ? For shame, my liege, make them your precedent ! Were it not pity that this goodly boy Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault, And long hereafter say unto his child, ‘What my great-grandfather and grandsire got My careless father fondly gave away’? Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy; And let his manly face, which promiseth Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart To hold thine own and leave thine own with him. K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play’d the orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force. But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear That things ill-got had ever bad success ? And happy always was it for that son Whose father for his hoarding went to hell ? Ill leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; And would my father had left me no more! For all the rest is held at such a rate As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know How it doth grieve me that thy head is here! Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promised knighthood to our forward son: Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently. . Edward, kneel down. K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right. Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown, And in that quarrel use it to the death. ; Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince, Enter a Messenger. Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness: For with a band of thirty thousand men SCENE II. ACT II. RaLe A an LOL KIN OG MEENA RL. SCENE III. Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York; And in the towns, as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him: Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. Clif. | would your highness would depart the field : The queen hath best success when you are absent. Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune. [I ll stay. K. Hen. Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore North. Be it with resolution then to fight. Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords And hearten those that fight in your defence: Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry ‘ Saint George!’ March. Enter Kdward, George, Richard, War- wick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. Edw. Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for And set thy diadem upon my head; [grace, Or bide the mortal fortune of the field ? @. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms [boy! Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king ? dw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee; I was adopted heir by his consent: Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, You, that are king, though he do wear the crown, Have caused him, by new act of parliament, To blot out me, and put his own son in. Clif. And reason too: Who should succeed the father but the son ? Rich. Are you there, butcher? O,Icannot speak! Clif. Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee, Or any he the proudest of thy sort. [it not ? Rich. ’T was you that kill’d young Rutland, was Olif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Rich. For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight. War. What say’st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown? | Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick ! dare you speak ? When you and I met at Saint Alban’s last, Your legs did better service than your hands. War. Then ’t was my turn to fly,and now ’tisthine. Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled. War. ’T was not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence. [you stay. North. No, nor your manhood that durst make Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently. Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big-swoln heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer. Clif. I slew thy father, call’st thou him a child ? tich. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; But ere sunset Il] make thee curse the deed. K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak. [lips. % Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close thy . Hen. I prithee, give no limits to my tongue: Iam aking, and privileged to speak. [here Clif. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still. Rich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword: By him that made us all, I am resolved That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue. Hidw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no? A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day, ‘That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown. War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head ; For York in justice puts his armour on. fright, Prince. If that be right which Warwick says is There is no wrong, but everything is right. Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands; For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue. @. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire nor But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic, Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided, As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings. Rich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt, Whose father bears the title of a king,— As if a channel should be eall’d the sea,— Shamest thou not, knowing whence thou art ex- traught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart ? Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns, To make this shameless callet know herself. Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, Although thy husband may be Menelaus; And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d By that false woman, as this king by thee. His father revell’d in the heart of France, And tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop; And had he match’d according to his state, He might have kept that glory to this day; But when he took a beggar to his bed, And graced thy poor sire with his bridal-day, Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for him, That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of France, And heap’d sedition on his crown at home. For what hath broach’d this tumult but thy pride? Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept; And we, in pity of the gentle king, Had slipp’d our claim until another age. _[spring, Geo. But when we saw our sunshine made thy And that thy summer bred us no increase, We set the axe to thy usurping root; And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, Yet, know thou, since we have begun to strike, Well never leave till we have hewn thee down, Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods. Edw. And, in this resolution, I defy thee; Not willing any longer conference, Since thou deniest the gentle king to speak. Sound trumpets! let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave. Q. Mar. Stay, Edward. Edw. No, wrangling woman, we’l] no longer stay : These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. [ Hxeunt. SCENH III. — A field of battie between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire. Alarum. Heacursions. Enter Warwick. War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe; For strokes received, and many blows repaid, Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their strength, And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile. Enter Edward, running. Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death ! For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded. War. How now, my lord! what hap? what hope ? a eee Enter George. Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair ; Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us: What counsel give you? whither shall we fly ? Edw. Bootiless is flight, they follow us with wings; And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.. Enter Richard. Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself ? Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broach’d with the steely point of Clifford’s lance ; And in the very pangs of death he cried, Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, ‘Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!’ [dam; | So, underneath the belly of their steeds, 441 ACT II. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE V. That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking blood, The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. [blood: War. Then let the earth be drunken with our I ll kill my horse, because I will not fly. Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage; And look upon, as if the tragedy Were play’d in jest by counterfeiting actors ? Here on my knee I vow to God above, 1’ll never pause again, never stand still, Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine Or fortune given me measure of revenge. Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine; And in this vow do chain my soul to thine! And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter up and plucker down of kings, Beseeching thee, 1f with thy will it stands That to my foes this body must be prey, Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul! Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth. [Warwick, Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Let me embrace thee in my weary arms: I, that did never weep, now melt with woe That winter should cut off our spring-time so. War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell. Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay ; And call them pillars that will stand to us; And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards As victors wear at the Olympian games: This may plant courage in their quailing breasts; For yet is hope of life and victory. Forslow no longer, make we hence amain. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.—Another part of the field. Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environ’d with a brazen wall. Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone: This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York; And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland ; And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother To execute the like upon thyself ; And so, have at thee! . [They fight. Warwick comes; Clifford flies. Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt. SCENE V.—Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter King Henry alone. King. This battle fares like to the morning’s war, When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forced by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea Forced to retire by fury of the wind: Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; Now one the better, then another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered : So is the equal poise of this fell war. Here on this molehill will I sit me down. To whom God will, there be the victory! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me from the battle; swearing both They prosper best of all when I am thence. 442 Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so; For what is in this world but grief and woe ? O God! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run, How many make the hour full complete; How many hours bring about the day ; How many days will finish up the year; How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times: So many hours must I tend my flock ; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass’d over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade To shepherds looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery ? O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince’s delicates, His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him. Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his father, dragging in the dead body. Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of crowns ; And I, that haply take them from him now, May yet ere night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. Who’s this? O God! it is my father’s face, Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill’d. O heavy times, begetting such events! From London by the king was I press’d forth ; My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man, Came on the part of York, press’d by his master; And I, who at his hands received my life, Have by my hands of life bereaved him. Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did! And pardon, father, for I knew not thee! My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; And no more words till they have flow’d their fill. K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whiles lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. Weep, wretched man, I ’ll aid thee tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, [grief. Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharged with Enter a Father that has killed his son, bringing in the body. Fath. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; For I have bought it with an hundred blows. But let me see: is this our foeman’s face ? Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son! Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eye! see, see what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart! O, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous and unnatural, ANP East This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! [grief ! K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than common O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! O, pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity! The red rose and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses: The one his purple blood right well resembles ; The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth: Wither one rose, and let the other flourish ; If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. Son. How will my mother for a father’s death Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied ! Fath. How will my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied! [chances kK. Hen. How will the country for these woful Misthink the king and not be satisfied ! Son. Was ever son so rued a father’s death ? Fath. Was ever father so bemoan’d his son ? Kt. Hen. Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe? Much is your sorrow; mine ten times so much. Son. I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. | Hxit with the body. Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding- My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, [sheet; For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go; My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; And so obsequious will thy father be, Even for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. Ill bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill. [ Hxit with the body. K. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with Here sits a king more woful than you are. ___[care, Alarums: excursions. Hnter Queen Margaret, the Prince, and Exeter. Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull: Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit. Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain: Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds Having the fearful flying hare in sight, With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath, And bloody steel grasp’d in their ireful hands, Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain. Exe. Away! for vengeance comes along with them: Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed ; Or else come after: I ’ll away before. [ter : K. Hen. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exe- Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the queen intends. Forward; away! [ Hxeunt. SCENE VI.— Another part of the field. A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded. Olif. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow More than my body’s parting with my soul! My love and fear glued many friends to thee; And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts. Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York, The common people swarm like summer flies ; And whither tiy the gnats but to the sun ? And who shines now but Henry’s enemies ? O Phebus, hadst thou never given consent That Phaéthon should check thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorch’d the earth ! And, Henry, hadst thou sway’d as kings should do, Or as thy father and his father did, Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies ; PEALE DRE POR TING VENEROL. SCENE VI. I and ten thousand in this luckless realm Had left no mourning widows for our death ; And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air ? And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity ? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight : The foe is merciless, and will not pity ; For at their hands I have deserved no pity. The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest; I stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast. (He faints. Alarumand retreat. Enter Edward, George, Rich- ard, Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers. Edw. Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us pause, And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen, That led calm Henry, though he were a king, As doth a sail, fill’?d with a fretting gust, Command an argosy to stem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them ? War. No, ’tis impossible he should escape ; For, though before his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard mark’d him for the grave: And wheresoe’er he is, he’s surely dead. [Clifford groans, and dies. Edw. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave ? fing. Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death’s depart- Edw. See who it is: and, now the battle ’s ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used. [ford ; Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clif- Who not contented that he lopp’d the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our princely father, Duke of York. [head, War. From off the gates of York fetch down the Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there; Instead whereof let this supply the room: Measure for measure must be answered. [house, Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our That nothing sung but death to us and ours: Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak. War. I think his understanding is bereft. ; speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees nor hears us what we say. Rich. O, would he did! and so perhaps he doth: *T is but his policy to counterfeit, Because he would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our father. Geo. If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words. Rich. Clifford, ask mercy and obtain no grace. Edw. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. War. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults. Geo. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. Rich. Thoudidst love York, and Iam son to York. Edw. Thou pitied’st Rutland; I will pity thee. Geo. Where’s Captain Margaret, to fence you now ? [wast wont. War. They mock thee, Clifford: swear as thou Rich. What, not an oath? nay, then the world goes hard | . . . When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul, If this right hand would buy two hours’ life, That I in all despite might rail at him, {blood This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy. [head, War. Ay, but he’s dead: off with the traitor’s 443 THIRD PART OF And rear it in the place your father’s stands, And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England’s royal king: From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen: So shalt thou sinew both these lands together ; And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread The scatter’d foe that hopes to rise again ; For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears. First will I see the coronation ; And then to Brittany Ill cross the sea, To effect this marriage, so it please my lord. ACT IIT. RING “HENRY Vi @eeen ee Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be; For in thy shoulder do I build my seat, And never will I undertake the thing Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester, And George, of Clarence: Warwick, as ourself, Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best. Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester ; For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous. War. Tut, that’s a foolish observation : Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, To see these honours in possession. [ Hxeunt. ven i Read Ba byl fe SCENE I.— A forest inthe north of England. Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands. First Keep. Under this thick-grown brake we ’ll shroud ourselves ; For through this laund anon the deer will come; And in this covert will we make our stand, Culling the principal of all the deer. Sec. KKeep. 1’ll stay above the hill, so both may shoot. [cross-bow First Keep. That cannot be; the noise of thy Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. Here stand we both, and aim we at the best: And, for the time shall not seem tedious, I’ tell thee what befel me on a day In this self-place where now we mean to stand. Sec. Keep. Here comes a man; let’s stay till he be past. Enter King Henry, disguised, with a prayer-book. KK. ee From Scotland am I stol’n, even of pure ove, To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. No, Harry, Harry, ’t is no land of thine; Thy place is fill’d, thy sceptre wrung from thee, Thy balm wash’d off wherewith thou wast anointed: No bending knee will call thee Czesar now, No humble suitors press to speak for right, No, not a man comes for redress of thee; For how can I help them, and not myself ? Hirst Keep. Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a keeper’s fee: This is the quondam king; let ’s seize upon him. K. Hen. Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, For wise men say it is the wisest course. [him. Sec. Keep. Why linger we? let us lay hands upon First Keep. Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little more. [for aid; KK. Hen. My queen and son are gone to France And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick Is thither gone, to crave the French king’s sister To wife for Edward: if this news be true, Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost; For Warwick is a subtle orator, And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words. By this account then Margaret may win him; Jor she’s a woman to be pitied much: Her sighs will make a battery in his breast; Her tears will pierce into a marble heart ; The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn; And Nero will be tainted with remorse, To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. Ay, but she’s come to beg, Warwick, to give; She, on his left side, craving aid for Henry, He, on his right, asking a wife for Edward. She weeps, and says her Henry is deposed; He smiles, and says his Edward is install’d; That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more; 444 Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, Inferreth arguments of mighty strength, And in conclusion wins the king from her, With promise of his sister, and what else, To strengthen and support King Edward’s place. O Margaret, thus ’t will be; and thou, poor soul, Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn ! Sec. Keep. Say, what art thou that talk’st of kings and queens ? [born to: Ik. Hen. More than I seem, and less than I was A man at least, for less I should not be; » And men may talk of kings, and why not I? Siigen ie Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert a ing. K. Hen. Why,soIam, in mind; and that ’s enough. Sec. Keep. But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown ? kK. Hen. My crown is in my heart, not on my head; Not deck’d with diamonds and Indian stones, Nor to be seen: my crown is called content: A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. [content, Sec. Keep. Well, if you be a king crown’d with Your crown content and you must be contented To go along with us; for, as we think, You are the king King Edward hath deposed ; And we his subjects sworn in all allegiance Will apprehend you as his enemy. ik. Hen. But did you never swear, and break an oath ? [now. Sec. Keep. No, never such an oath; nor will not K. Hen. Where did you dwell when I was King of England ? [remain. Sec. Keep. Here in this country, where we now kK. Hen. I was anointed king at nine months old; My father and my grandfather were kings, And you were sworn true subjects unto me: And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths? First Keep. No; For we were subjects but while you were king. K. Hen. Why,am I dead ? do I not breathe a man? Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear! Look, as I blow this feather from my face, And as the air blows it to me again, Obeying with my wind when I do blow, And yielding to another when it blows, Commanded always by the greater gust; Such is the lightness of you common men. But do not break your oaths; for of that sin My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty. Go where you will, the king shall be commanded; And be you kings, command, and 1 ’ll obey. First Keep. We are true subjects to the king, King Edward. K. Hen. So would you be again to Henry, If he were seated as King Edward is. [the king’s, First Keep. We charge you, in God’s name, and To go with us unto the officers. [be obey’d: KK. Hen. Ip God’s name, lead; your king’s name ACT III. And what God will, that let your king perform ; And what he will, | humbly yield unto. ([Hveunt. SCENE II. — London. Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Clarence, and Lady Grey. K, i Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Alban’s e This lady’s husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain, His lands then seized on by the conqueror : Her suit is now to repossess those lands; Which we in justice cannot well deny, Because in quarrel of the house of York The worthy gentleman did lose his life. ‘ Glou. Your highness shall do well to grant her It were dishonour to deny it her. [suit ; KK. Edw. It were no less; but yet I’ll make a Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Yea, is it so? [pause. I see the lady hath a thing to grant, Before the king will grant her humble suit. Clar. [Aside to Glou.] He knows the game: how true he keeps the wind! Glow. [Aside to Clar.] Silence! KK. Edw. Widow, we will consider of your suit; And come some other time to know our mind. L. Grey. Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay: May it please your highness to resolve me now; And what your pleasure is, shall satisfy me. Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Ay, widow? then I’ll war- rant you all your lands, An if what pleases him shall pleasure you. Fight closer, or, good faith, you ’ll catch a blow. ar. [Aside to Glou.] I fear her not, unless she chance to fall. Glou. [Aside to Clar.] God forbid that! for hell take vantages. KK. Edw. How many children hast thou, widow ? tell me. Clar. [Aside to Glou.] I think he means to beg a child of her. Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Nay, whip me then: he’ll rather give her two. LL. Grey. Three, my most gracious lord. Glou. [Aside to Clar.] You shall have four, if you ‘Il be ruled by him. kx. Hdw. ’T were pity they should lose their fa- ther’s lands. L. Grey. Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then. kK. Edw. Lords, give us leave: I'll try this wid- ow’s wit. Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Ay, good leave have you; for you will have leave, Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch. [Glou. and Clar. retire. KK. Edw. Now tell me, madame, do you love your children ? L. Grey. Ay, full as dearly as I love myself. KK. Edw. And would you not do much to do them ood ? [harm. LL. Grey. To do them good, I would sustain some K. Edw. Then get your husband’s lands, to do them good. L. Grey. Therefore I came unto your majesty. K. Hdw. I’ll tell you how these lands are to be ot. [service. L. Grey. So shall you bind me to your highness’ kK. Edw. What service wilt thou do me, if I give them ? [to do. L. Grey. What you command, that rests in me K. Edw. But you will take exceptions to my boon. L. Grey. No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it. K. Edw. Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask. [commands. L. Grey. Why, then I will do what your grace Glou. [Aside to Clar.] He plies her hard; and much rain wears the marble. The palace. PHL An POR KING HENRY V1. SCENE ITI, Clar. [Aside to Glou.] As red as fire! nay, then her wax must melt. {my task ? L. Grey. Why stops my lord? shall I not hear kK. Edw. An easy task; *tis but to love a king. L. Grey. That’s soon perform’d, because I am a subject. Lgive thee. Kk. Edw. Why, then, thy husband’s lands I freely L. Grey. I take my leave with many thousand thanks. Glou. [Aside to Clar.] The match is made; she seals it with a curtsy. [mean. K. Edw. But stay thee, ’tis the fruits of love I L. Grey. The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege. KK. Edw. Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense. What love, think’st thou, I sue so much to get ? L. Grey. My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers ; That love which virtue begs and virtue grants. KK. Edw. No, by my troth, I did not mean such love. [you did. L. Grey. Why, then you mean not as I thought KK. Edw. But now you partly may perceive my mind. . [ceive L. Grey. My mind will never grant what I per- Your highness aims at, if I aim aright. Ik. Edw. To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee. L. Grey. To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison. taal lands. K. Edw. Why, then thou shalt not have thy hus- L. Grey. Why, then mine honesty shall be my For by that loss I will not purchase them. [dower; KX. Edw. Therein thou wrong’st thy children mightily. [and me. L. Grey. Herein your highness wrongs both them But, mighty lord, this merry inclination Accords not with the sadness of my suit: Please you dismiss me, either with ‘ay’ or ‘ no.’ Kk. Hdw. Ay, if thou wilt say ‘ay’ to my request; No, if thou dost say ‘no’ to my demand. L. Grey. Then,no, my lord. Mysuitisat an end. Glou. | Aside to Clar.] The widow likes him not, she knits her brows. OClar. [Aside to Glou.] He is the bluntest wooer in. Christendom. - [with modesty ; K. Edw. [Aside] Her looks do argue her replete Her words do show her wit incomparable; All her perfections challenge sovereignty : One way or other, she is for a king; And she shall be my love, or else my queen.— Say that King Edward take thee for his queen ? LL. Grey. "Tis better said than done, my gracious I am a subject fit to jest withal, [lord: But far unfit to be a sovereign. [thee ik. Hdw. Sweet widow, by my state I swear to I speak no more than what my soul intends; And that is, to enjoy thee for my love. _ LD. Grey. And that is more than I will yield unto: I know I am too mean to be your queen, And yet too good to be your concubine. [queen. K. Edw. You cavil, widow: I did mean, my L. Grey. T will grieve your grace my sons should call you father. [thee mother. Kk. Edw. No more than when my daughters call Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children; And, by God’s mother, I, being but a bachelor, Have other some: why, ’tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons. Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen. Glou. [Aside to Clar.] The ghostly father now hath done his shrift. Clar. [Aside to Glou.] When he was made a shriver, ’t was for shift. K. Edw. Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had. [sad. Glou. The widow likes it not, for she looks very K. Edw. Youll think it strange if I should Clar. To whom, my lord ? [marry her. 445 KING HENRY Vi. scenes Itt, ACTCIEL THIRD “PARLOR K. Edw. Why, Clarence, to myself. Glou. That would be ten days’ wonder at the least. Clar. That ’s a day longer than a wonder lasts. Glow. By so much is the wonder in extremes. K. Edw. Well, jest on, brothers: I can tell you Her suit is granted for her husband’s lands. [both Enter a Nobleman. Nob. My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken, And brought your prisoner to your palace gate. K. Edw. See that he be convey’d unto the Tower: And go we, brothers, to the man that took him, To question of his apprehension. Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably. [Hxeunt all but Gloucester. Glou. Ay, Edward will use women honourably. Would he were wasted, marrow, bones and all, That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring, To cross me from the golden time I look for! And yet, between my soul’s desire and me— The lustful Edward’s title buried — Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward, And all the unlook’d for issue of their bodies, To take their rooms, ere I can place myself: A cold premeditation for my purpose! Why, then, I do but dream on sovereignty ; Like one that stands upon a promontory, And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, Saying, he ’ll lade it dry to have his way: So do I wish the crown, being so far off; And so I chide the means that keeps me from it; And so I say, I ’ll cut the causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities. My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much, Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard ; What other pleasure can the world afford ? Ill make my heaven in a lady’s lap, And deck my body in gay ornaments, And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. O miserable thought! and more unlikely Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns! Why, love forswore me in my mother’s womb: And, for I should not deal in her soft laws, She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe, To shrink mine arm up like a wither’d shrub; To make an envious mountain on my back, Where sits deformity to mock my body; To shape my legs of an unequal size ; To disproportion me in every part, Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp That carries no impression like the dam. And am I then a man to be beloved ? O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought! Then, since this earth affords no joy to me, But to command, to check, to o’erbear such As are of better person than myself, Il] make my heaven to dream upon the crown, And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell, Until my mis-shaped trunk that bears this head Be round impaled with a glorious crown. And yet I know not how to get the crown, For many lives stand between me and home: And I,— like one lost in a thorny wood, That rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns, Seeking a way and straying from the way; Not knowing how to find the open air, But toiling desperately to find it out,— Torment myself to catch the English crown: And from that torment I will free myself, Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile And ery ‘ Content’ to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, 446 ~ And frame my face to all occasions. T’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; Ill slay more gazers than the basilisk ; Ill play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. I can add colours to the chameleon, Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, And set the murderous Machiavel to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown ? Tut, were it farther off, I ll pluck it down. SCENE III.— France. Flourish. Enter Lewis the French King, his sister Bona, his Admiral, called Bourbon: Prince Edward, Queen Margaret, and the Earl of Oxford. Lewis sits, and riseth up again. K. Lew. Fair queen of England, worthy Margaret, Sit down with us: it ill befits thy state And birth, that thou shouldst stand while Lewis doth sit. [garet Q. Mar. No, mighty King of France: now Mar- Must strike her sail and learn awhile to serve Where kings command. I was, I must confess, Great Albion’s queen in former golden days: But now mischance hath trod my title down, And with dishonour laid me on the ground; Where I must take like seat unto my fortune, And to my humble seat conform myself. K. Lew. Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair ? @.Mar. From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears [cares. And stops my tongue, while heart is drown’d in K. Lew. Whate’er it be, be thou still like thyself, And sit thee by our side: [Seats her by him] yield not thy neck To fortune’s yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance. Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief; It shall be eased, if France can yield relief. [thoughts @. Mar. Those gracious words revive my drooping And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak. Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis, That Henry, sole possessor of my love, Is of a king become a banish’d man, And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn; While proud ambitious Edward Duke of York Usurps the regal title and the seat Of England’s true-anointed lawful king. This is the cause that I, poor Margaret, With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry’s heir, Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid; And if thou fail us, all our hope is done: Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help; Our people and our peers are both misled, Our treasure seized, our soldiers put to flight, And,as thou seest,ourselves in heavy plight. [storm, Kk. Lew. Renowned queen, with patience, calm the While we bethink a means to break it off. [foe. . Mar. The more we stay, the stronger grows out . Lew. Themore I stay, the more I’1] succour thee. Q. Mar. O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow, And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow! Enter Warwick. K. Lew. What’s he approacheth boldly to om presence ? [friend. . Mar. Our Earl of Warwick, Edward’s greatest x, Lew. Welcome, brave Warwick! What brings thee to France? [He descends. She ariseth. Q. Mar. Ay, now begins a second storm to rise; For this is he that moves both wind and tide. War. From worthy Edward, King of Albion, My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend, I come, in kindness and unfeigned love, [ Exit. The King’s palace. WET hl a ede First, to do greetings to thy royal person ; And then to crave a league of amity ; And lastly, to confirm that amity With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister, To England’s king in lawful marriage. Q. Mar. [Aside] If that go forward, Henry’s hope is done. [king’s behalf, War. [To Bona] And, gracious madam, in our I am commanded, with your leave and favour, Humbly to kiss your hand and with my tongue To tell the passion of my sovereign’s heart ; Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears, Hath placed thy beauty’s image and thy virtue. . Mar. King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me Before you answer Warwick. Hisdemand [speak, Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love, But from deceit bred by necessity ; For how can tyrants safely govern home, Unless abroad they purchase great alliance ? To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice, That Henry liveth still; but were he dead, Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry’s son. Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and mar- Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour; [riage For though usurpers sway the rule awhile, Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs. War. Injurious Margaret ! Prince. And why not queen ? War. Because thy father Henry did usurp; And thou no more art prince than she is queen. Oxf. Then Warwick disannuls great Johnof Gaunt, Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain ; And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth, Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest ; And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth, Who by his prowess conquered all France: From these our Henry lineally descends. [course, War. Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth dis- You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten ? Methinks these peers of France should smile at that. But for the rest, you tell a pedigree Of threescore and two years; a silly time To make prescription for a kingdom’s worth. [liege, Oxf. Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy Whom thou obeyed’st thirty and six years, And not bewray thy treason with a blush ? War. Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right, Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree ? For shame! leave Henry, and call Edward king. Oxf. Call him my king by whose injurious doom My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere, Was done to death ? and more than so, my father, Even in the downfall of his mellow’d years, When nature brought him to the door of death ? No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm, This arm upholds the house of Lancaster. War. And I the house of York. (Oxford, Kk. Lew. Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Vouchsafe, at our request, to stand aside, While I use further conference with Warwick. [They stand aloof. @. Mar. Heavens grant that Warwick’s words bewitch him not! [conscience, K. Lew. Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy Is Edward your true king? for I were loath To link with him that were not lawful chosen. War. Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour. kK. Lew. But is he gracious in the people’s eye ? War. The more that Henry was unfortunate. kK. Lew. Then further, all dissembling set aside, Tell me for truth the measure of his love Unto our sister Bona. War. Such it seems As may beseem a monarch like himself. Myself have often heard him say and swear AGTHiIt. FOLN GALEN EY OV L SCENE III. That this his love was an eternal plant, Whereof the root was fix’d in virtue’s ground, The leaves and fruit maintain’d with beauty’s sun, Exempt from envy, but not from disdain, Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. Kk. Lew. Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve. Bona. Your grant, or your denial, shall be mine: [To War.] Yet I confess that often ere this day, When [ have heard your king’s desert recounted, Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire. K. Lew. Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shali be Edward’s ; And now forthwith shall articles be drawn Touching the jointure that your king must make, Which with her dowry shall be counterpoised. Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness That Bona shall be wife to the English king. Prince. To Edward, but not to the English king. Q. Mar. Deceitful Warwick! it was thy device By this alliance to make void my suit: Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend. i, Lew. And stillis friend to him and Margaret: But if your title to the crown be weak, AS may appear by Edward’s good success, Then ’tis but reason that I be released From giving aid which late I promised. Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand That your estate requires and mine can yield. War. Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease, Where having nothing, nothing can he lose. And as for you yourself, our quondam queen, You have a father able to maintain you; And better ’t were you troubled him than France. Q. Mar. Peace, impudent and shameless War- wick, peace, Proud setter up and puller down of kings! I will not hence, till, with my talk and tears, Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold Thy sly conveyance and thy lord’s false love; For both of you are birds of selfsame feather. [Post blows a horn within. K. Lew. Warwick, this is some post to us or thee. Enter a Post. Post. [To War.] My lord ambassador, these let- ters are for you, Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague: [To Lewis] These from our king unto your majesty : [To Margaret] And, madam, these for you; from whom I know not. [They all read their letters. Oxf. I like it well that our fair queen and mistress Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his. Prince. Nay, mark how Lewis stamps, as he were I hope all’s for the best. [nettled : K. Lew. Warwick, what are thy news ? and yours, fair queen ? } oys. . Mar. Mine, such as fill my heart with unhoped ar. Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s discontent. K. Lew. What! has your king married the Lady And now, to soothe your forgery and his, [Grey +r Sends me a paper to persuade me patience ? Is this the alliance that he seeks with France ? Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner ? . Mar. I told your majesty as much before: This proveth Edward’s love and Warwick’s honesty. War. King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, [heaven. That 1 am clear from this misdeed of Edward’s, No more my king, for he dishonours me, But most himself, if he could see his shame. Did I forget that by the house of York My father came untimely to his death? _ Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece ? Did I impale him with the regal crown ? Did I put Henry from his native right ? And am I guerdon’d at the last with shame ? 447 VHT RD RA ee Shame on himself! for my desert is honour: And to repair my honour lost for him, I here renounce him and return to Henry. My noble queen, let former grudges pass, And henceforth I am thy true servitor: I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona And replant Henry in his former state. Q. Mar. Warwick, these words have turn’d my hate to love: And I forgive and quite forget old faults, And joy that thou becomest King Henry’s friend. War. So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend, That, if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us With some few bands of chosen soldiers, I ll undertake to land them on our coast And force the tyrant from his seat by war. °T is not his new-made bride shall succour him: And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me, He’s very likely now to fall from him, For matching more for wanton lust than honour, Or than for strength and safety of our country. Bona. Dear brother, how shall Bona be revenged But by thy help to this distressed queen ? [live, Q. Mar. Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry Unless thou rescue him from foul despair ? Bona. My quarreland this English queen’s are one. War. And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours. A. Lew. And mine with hers, and thine, and Mar- Therefore at last I firmly am resolved [garet’s. You shall have aid. ). Mar. Let me give humble thanks for all at once. . Lew. Then, England’s messenger, return in And tell false Edward, thy supposed king, __[post, That Lewis of France is sending over masquers To revel it with him and his new bride: Thou seest what ’s past, go fear thy king withal. Bona. Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower I?ll wear the willow garland for hissake. [shortly, Q. Mar. Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid And I am ready to put armour on. AGT st Vs. KING AEN EY OV [aside, | But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery. SCENE I. —— War. Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong, And therefore I ll uncrown him ere ’t be long. There ’s thy reward: be gone. [Hxit Post. A. Lew. But, Warwick, Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men, Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle ; And, as occasion serves, this noble queen And prince shall follow with a fresh supply. Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt, What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty ? War. This shall assure my constant loyalty, That if our queen and this young prince agree, Ill join mine eldest daughter and my joy To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands. Q. Mar. Yes, I agree, and thank you for your Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous, [motion. Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick; And, with thy hand, thy faith irrevocable, That only Warwick’s daughter shall be thine. [it; Prince. Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand. He gives his hand to Warwick. kk. Lew. Why stay wenow? ‘These soldiers shall be levied, And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral, Shalt waft them over with our royal fleet. I long till Edward fall by war’s mischance, For mocking marriage with a dame of France. [ Hxeunt all but Warwick. War. I came from Edward as ambassador, But I return his sworn and mortal foe: Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me, But dreadful war shall answer his demand. Had he none else to make a stale but me? Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow. I was the chief that raised him to the crown, And [I?ll be chief to bring him down again: Not that I pity Henry’s misery, [ Exit. AO Tan Vie SCENE I.—London. The palace. Enter Gloucester, Clarence, Somerset, and Montague. Glou. Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey? [you Hath not our brother made a worthy choice? Clar. Alas, you know, ’tis far from hence to France; How could he stay till Warwick made return ? Som. My lords, forbear this talk; here comes the Glou. And his well-chosen bride. [king. Clar. I mind to tell him plainly what I think. Flourish. Enter King Edward, attended ; Lady Grey, as Queen; Pembroke, Stafford, Hastings, and others. K. Hdw. Now, brother of Clarence, how like you our choice, That you stand pensive, as half malcontent ? Clar. As well as Lewis of France, or the Earl of Warwick, Which are so weak of courage and in judgment That they ’ll take no offence at our abuse. [cause, K. Edw. Suppose they take offence without a They are but Lewis and Warwick: I am Edward, Your king and Warwick’s, and must have my will. Glou. And shall have your will, because our king : Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well. kK. Edw. Yea, brother Richard, are you offended Glou. Not I: [too ? No, God forbid that I should wish them sever’d 448 Whom God hath joined together; ay, and *t were To sunder them that yoke so well together. _[pity Kk. Edw. Setting your scorns and your mislike Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey [aside, Should not become my wife and England’s queen. And you too, Somerset and Montague, Speak freely what you think. Clar. Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis Becomes your enemy, for mocking him About the marriage of the Lady Bona. Glou. And Warwick, doing what you gave in Is now dishonoured by this new marriage. [charge, Kk. Edw. What if both Lewis and Warwick be By such invention as I can devise ? [appeased Mont. Yet, to have join’d with France in such alliance Would more have strengthen’d this our common- wealth [riage. *Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred mar- Hast. Why, knows not Montague that of itself England is safe, if true within itself ? Mont. But the safer when ’t is backed with France. Hast. "Tis better using France than trusting France: Let us be back’d with God and with the seas Which He hath given for fence impregnable, And with their helps only defend ourselves; In them and in ourselves our safety lies. Clar. For this one speech Lord Hastings well de- serves To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. ACT IV. K. ‘ea: what of that? it was my will and grant ; And for this once my will shall stand for law. Glou. And yet methinks your grace hath not done To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales [well, Unto the brother of your loving bride; She better would have fitted me or Clarence: But in your bride you bury brotherhood. [heir Olar. Or else you would not have bestow’d the Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son, And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere. kK. Edw. Alas, poor Clarence! is it for a wife That thou art malcontent ? I will provide thee. Clar. In choosing for yourself, you show’d your judgment, Which being shallow, you shall give me leave To play the broker in mine own behalf; And to that end I shortly mind to leave you. K. Edw. Leave me, or tarry, Edward will be king, And not be tied unto his brother’s will. Q. Eliza. My lords, before it pleased his majesty To raise my state to title of a queen, Do me but right, and you must all confess That I was not ignoble of descent ; And meaner than myself have had like fortune. But as this title honours me and mine, So your dislike, to whom I would be pleasing, Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow. ik. Edw. My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns: What danger or what sorrow can befall thee, So long as Edward is thy constant friend, And their true sovereign, whom they must obey ? Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too, Unless they seek for hatred at my hands; Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe, And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath. Glou. I hear, yet say not much, but think the more. [ Aside. Enter a Post. K. Edw. Now, messenger, what letters or what From France ? [news Post. My sovereign liege, no letters; and few words, But such as I, without your special pardon, Dare not relate. kK. Edw. Goto, we pardon thee: therefore, in brief, Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them. What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters ? Post. At my depart, these were his very words: ‘Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king, That Lewis of France is sending over masquers To revel it with him and his new bride.’ [Henry. kK. Edw. Is Lewis so brave? belike he thinks me But what said Lady Bona to my marriage ? Post. These were her words, utter’d with mild disdain : ‘Tell him, in hope he’l] prove a widower shortly, I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.’ kK. Edw. I blame not her, she could say little less; She had the wrong. But what said Henry’s queen ? For I have heard that she was there in place. Post. ‘Tell him,’ quoth she, ‘my mourning weeds And I am ready to put armour on.’ [are done, K. Edw. Belike she minds to play the Amazon. But what said Warwick to these injuries ? Post. He, more incensed against your majesty Than all the rest, discharged me with these words: ‘Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong, And therefore I 711 uncrown him ere’t be long.’ kx. Edw. Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words ? Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn’d : They shall have wars and pay for their presumption. But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret ? Post. Ay, gracious sovereign ; they are so link’d in friendship, [daughter. That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s 29 Peat pa ron ITING LANEY Vd. SCENE II. Clar. Belike the elder; Clarence will have the younger. Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast, For I will hence to Warwick’s other daughter ; That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage I may not prove inferior to yourself. , You that love me and Warwick, follow me. [Exit Clarence, and Somerset follows. Glou. [Aside.| Not I: My thoughts aim at a further matter; I a not for the love of Edward, but the crown. . Edw. Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick! Yet am I arm’d against the worst can happen ; And haste is needful in this desperate case. Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf Go levy men, and make prepare for war; They are already, or quickly will be landed: Myself in person will straight follow you. [Hxeunt Pembroke and Stafford. But, ere I go, Hastings. and Montague, Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest, Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance: Tell me if you love Warwick more than me? If it be so, then both depart to him; I rather wish you foes than hollow friends: But if you mind to hold your true obedience, Give me assurance with some friendly vow, That I may never have you in suspect. Mont. So God help Montague as he proves true! Hast. And Hastings as he favours Edward’s cause! i. Hdw. Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us? [you. Glow. Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand kK. Edw. Why, so! then am I sure of victory. Now therefore let us hence; and lose no hour, Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— A plain in Warwickshire. Enter Warwick and Oxford, with French soldiers, War. Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well; The common people by numbers swarm to us. Enter Clarence and Somerset. But see where Somerset and Clarence comes! Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends ? Clar. Fear not that, my lord. War. Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto War- wick; And welcome, Somerset: I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawn’d an open hand in sign of love; Else might I think that Clarence, Edward’s brother, Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings: But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine. And now what rests but, in night’s coverture, Thy brother being carelessly encamp’d, His soldiers lurking in the towns about, And but attended by a simple guard, We may surprise and take him at our pleasure ? Our scouts have found the adventure very easy: That as Ulysses and stout Diomede With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus’ tents, And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds, So we, well cover’d with the night’s black mantle, At unawares may beat down Edward’s guard And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him, For I intend but only to surprise him. You that will follow me to this attempt, Applaud the name of Henry with your leader. They all cry, ‘Henry!’ Why, then, let ’s on our way in silent sort: ; For Warwick and his friends, God and_Saint George! [| Hxeunt. 449 THIRD” PART TOL SCENE III.— Edward’s camp, near Warwick. Enter three Watchmen, to guard the King’s tent. First Watch. Come on, my masters, each man take his stand: The king by this is set him down to sleep. Second Watch. What, will he not to peat ? [vow “irst Watch. Why,no; for he hath made a solemn Never to lie and take his natural rest Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress’d. [day, Second Watch. To-morrow then belike shall be the If Warwick be so near as men report. [is that Third Watch. But say, I pray, what nobleman That with the king here resteth in his tent ? First Watch. Tis the Lord Hastings, the king’s chiefest friend. [king Third Watch. O,isitso? But why commands the That his chief followers lodge in towns about him, While he himself keeps in the cold field ? Second Watch. "Tis the more honour, because more dangerous. [quietness ; Third Watch. Ay, but give me worship and I like it better than a dangerous honour. If Warwick knew in what estate he stands, ’T is to be doubted he would waken him. [passage. First Watch. Unless our halberds did shut up his Second Watch. Ay, wherefore else guard we his royal tent, But to defend his person from night-foes ? ACT IV. Enter Warwick, Clarence, Oxford, Somerset, and French Soldiers, silent all. War. This is his tent; and see where stand his guard. Courage, my masters! honour now or never! But follow me, and Edward shall be ours. First Watch. Who goes there ? Second Watch. Stay, or thou diest! [Warwick and the rest cry all, ‘Warwick! Warwick!’ and set upon the Guard, who fly, crying, ‘Arm! arm!’ Warwick and. the ‘A est following them. The drum playing and trumpet sounding, re-enter War- wick, Somerset, and the rest, bringing the King out in his gown, sitting ina chair. Richard and Hastings jly over the stage. Som. What are they that fly there ? War. Richard and Hastings: let them go; here is The duke. [parted, kK, Edw. The duke! Why, Warwick, when we Thou call’dst me king. War. Ay, but the case is alter’d: When you disgraced me in my embassade. Then I degraded you from being king. And come now to create you Duke of York. Alas! how should you govern any kingdom, That know not how to use ambassadors, Nor how to be contented with one wife, Nor how to use your brothers brotherly, Nor how to study for the people’s welfare, Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies? [too? K. Edw. Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down. _ Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance, Of thee thyself and all thy complices, Edward will always bear himself as king: Though fortune’s malice overthrow my state, My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel. War. Then, for his mind,be Edward England’s king: | Takes off his crown. But Henry now shall wear the English crown, And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow. My Lord of Somerset, at my request, See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey’d Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows, 450 | It boots not to resist both wind and tide. KIN G VLE NG OVS, Ill follow you, and tell what answer Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him. Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York. [They lead him out forcibly. K, Edw. What fates impose, that men must needs [abide ; [ Hxit, guarded. Oxf. What now remains, my lords, for us to do But march to London with our soldiers ? [do ; War. Ay, that’s the first thing that we have to To free King Henry from imprisonment And see him seated in the regal throne. SCENE IV.—London. The palace. Enter Queen Elizabeth and Rivers. Riv. neoee what makes you in this sudden chan Q. Eliz. Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn What late misfortune is befall’n King Edward ? Riv. What! loss of some pitch’d ‘battle against — Warwick ? @. Eliz. No, but the loss of his own royal person. Riv. Then is my sovereign slain ? Q. Hliz. Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner, Either betray’d by falsehood of his guard Or by his foe surprised at unawares: And, as I further have to understand, Is new committed to the Bishop of York, Fell Warwick’s brother and by that our foe. Riv. These news I must confess are full of grief; Yet, gracious madame, bear it as you may: Warwick may lose, that now hath won the day. Q. Hliz. Till then fair hope must hinder life’s And J the rather wean me from despair [decay. For love of Edward’s offspring in my womb: — This is it that makes me bridle passion And bear with mildness my misfortune’s cross; Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs, Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown — King Edward’s fruit, true heir to the English crown. Riv. But, madame, where is Warwick then be- come ? [London, Q. Hliz. I am inform’d that he comes towards To set the crown once more on Henry’s head: Guess thou the rest; King Edward’s friends must But, to prevent the tyrant’s violence,— [down, For trust not him that hath once broken faith,— Ill hence forthwith unto the sanctuary, To save at least the heir of Edward’s right: There shall I rest secure from force and fraud. Come, therefore, let us fly while we may fiy: If Warwick take us we are sure to die. [ Hxeunt. SCENE V.—A park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire. SCENE V. [ Hxeunt. Enter Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and Sir | William Stanley. Glou. Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Leave off to wonder why I drew youhither, [Stanley, Into this chiefest thicket of the park. | brother, Thus stands the case: you know our king, my Is prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands He hath good usage and great liberty, And, often but attended with weak guard, Comes hunting this way to disport himself. I have advertised him by secret means That if about this hour he make this way Under the colour of his usual game, He shall here find his friends with horse and men To set him free from his captivity. Enter King Edward and a Huntsman with him. Hunt. This way, my lord; for this way lies the game. eh. reer aay my SS is" en atlas 2 eer ee ee Ee ee eee ee ae is . . ACT IV. Ix. Edw. Nay, this way, man: see where the hunts- men stand. [rest, Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop’s deer ? Glou. Brother, the time and case requireth haste: Your horse stands ready at the park-corner. K. Edw. But whither shall we then ? Hast. To Lynn, my lord, And ship from thence to Flanders. [meaning. Glou. Well guess’d, believe me; for that was my K. Edw. Stanley, 1 will requite thy forwardness. Glou. But wherefore stay we? ’tis no time to talk. [go along ? kK. Edw. Huntsman; what say’st thou ? wilt thou Hunt. Better do so than tarry and be hang’d. Glow. Come then, away; let ’s ha’ no more ado. kK. Edw. Bishop, farewell; shield thee from War- wick’s frown ; And pray that I may repossess the crown. [Exeunt. SCENE VI.—London. The Tower. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clarence, Warwick, Somerset, young Richmond, Oxford, Montague, and Lieutenant of the Tower. i. Hen. Master Lieutenant, now that God and Have shaken Edward from the regalseat, [friends And turn’d my captive state to liberty, My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys, At our enlargement what are thy due fees ? Lieu. Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns ; ; But if an humble prayer may prevail, I then crave pardon of your majesty. kK. Hen. For what, lieutenant? for well using me? Nay, be thou sure Ill well requite thy kindness, For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure; Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds Conceive when after many moody thoughts At last by notes of household harmony They quite forget their loss of liberty. But, Warwick, after God, thou set’st me free, And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee; He was the author, thou the instrument. Therefore, that I may conquer fortune’s spite By living low, where fortune cannot hurt me, And that the people of this blessed land May not be punish’d with my thwarting stars, Warwick, although my head still wear the crown, I here resign my government to thee, For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. War. Your grace hath still been famed for vir- And now may seem as wise as virtuous, [tuous; By spying and avoiding fortune’s malice, For few men rightly temper with the stars: Yet in this one thing let me blame your grace, For choosing me when Clarence is in place. Clar. No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, To whom the heavens in thy nativity Adjudged an olive branch and laurel crown, As likely to be blest in peace and war; And therefore I yield thee my free consent. War. And I choose Clarence only for protector. ik. Hen. Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands: [hearts, Now join your hands, and with your hands your That no dissension hinder government: I make you both protectors of this land, While I myself will lead a private life And in devotion spend my latter days, To sin’s rebuke and my Creator’s praise. War. What answers Clarence to his sovereign’s - will? [sent ; Clar. That he consents, if Warwick yield con- For on thy fortune I repose myself. [content : War. Why, then, though loath, yet must I be We’ll yoke together, like a double shadow Ee ar am OO ON Ge ALE IN A in V1. SCENE VII. To Henry’s body, and supply his place; I mean, in bearing weight of government, While he enjoys the honour and his ease. And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor, - And all his lands and goods be confiscate. Clar. What else? and that succession be de- termined. [part. War. Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his Ik. Hen. But, with the first of all your chief affairs, Let me entreat, for I command no more, That Margaret your queen and my son Edward Be sent for, to return from France with speed; For, till I see them here, by doubtful fear My joy of liberty is half eclipsed. [speed. Olar. It shall be done, my sovereign, with all Kk. Hen. My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that, Of whom you seem to have so tender care ? Som. My liege, it is young Henry, earl of Rich- mond. KK. Hen. Come hither, England’s hope. [Lays his hand on his head.| If secret powers Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts, This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss. His looks are full of peaceful majesty, His head by nature framed to wear a crown, His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself Likely in time to bless a regal throne. Make much of him, my lords, for this is he Must help you more than you are hurt by me. Enter a Post. War. What news, my friend ? Post. That Edward is escaped from your brother, And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy. War. Unsavoury news! but how made he escape ? Post. He was convey’d by Richard Duke of Glou- And the Lord Hastings, who attended him _ [cester In secret ambush on the forest side And from the bishop’s huntsmen rescued him; For hunting was his daily exercise. War. My brother was too careless of his charge. But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide A salve for any sore that may betide. [Exeunt all but Somerset, Richmond, and Oxford. Som. My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward’s ; For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help, And we shall have more wars before ’t be long. As Henry’s late presaging prophecy [mond, Did glad my heart with hope of this young Rich- So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts What may befall him, to his harm and ours: Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst, Forthwith we 71] send him hence to Brittany, Till storms be past of civil enmity. Oxf. Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown, ’T is like that Richmond with the rest shall down. Som. It shall be so; he shall to Brittany. Come, therefore, let ’s about it speedily. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. — Before York. Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Hastings, and Soldiers. K. Edw. Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, ; and the rest, Yet thus far fortune maketh us amends, And says that once more I shall interchange My waned state for Henry’s regal crown. Well have we pass’d and now repass’d the seas And brought desired help from Burgundy : What then remains, we being thus arrived From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York, But that we enter, as into ourdukedom? __ [this; Glow. The gates made fast! Brother, I like not For many men that stumble at the threshold Are well foretold that danger lurks within. 451 Flourish. ACT IV. K. Edw. Tush, man, abodements must not now affright us: By fair or foul means we must enter in, For hither will our friends repair to us. [them. Hast. My liege, I’ll knock once more to summon Enter, on the walls, the Mayor of York, and his Brethren. May. My lords, we were forewarned of your coming, And shut the gates for safety of ourselves; For now we owe allegiance unto Henry. [king, kK. Edw. But, master mayor, if Henry be your Yet Edward at the least is Duke of York. May. True, my good lord; I know you for no less. K. Edw. Why, and I challenge nothing but my As being well content with that alone. [dukedom, Glou. [Aside] But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He ’ll soon find means to make the body follow. Hast. Why, master mayor, why stand you in a doubt ? Open the gates; we are King Henry’s friends. May. Ay, say you so? the gates shall then be open’d. [They descend. Glou. A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded ! Hast. ae good old man would fain that all were well, So ’t were not ’long of him; but being enter’d, I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade Both him and all his brothers unto reason. Enter the Mayor and two Aldermen, below. Kk. Edw. So, master mayor: these gates must not But in the night or in the time of war. [be shut What! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys; [Takes his keys. For Edward will defend the town and thee, And all those friends that deign to follow me. March. Enter Montgomery, with drum and soldiers. Glou. Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery, Our trusty friend, unless I be deceived. [in arms? K. Edw. Welcome, Sir John! But why come you Mont. To help King Edward in his time of storm, As every loyal subject ought to do. [forget kK, Edw. Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now Our title to the crown and only claim Our dukedom till God please to send the rest. Mont. Then fare you well, for I will hence again: I came to serve a king and not a duke. Drummer, strike up, and let us march away. [The drum begins to march. K, Edw. Nay, stay, Sir John, awhile, and we’ll debate By what safe means the crown may be recover’d. Mont. What talk you of debating ? in few words, If you ’ll not here proclaim yourself our king, I'll leave you to your fortune and be gone. To keep them back that come to succour you: Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title ? Glou. Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points ? [our claim: K. Edw. When we grow stronger; then we ’l] make Till then, *tis wisdom to conceal our meaning. Hast. ere with scrupulous wit! now arms must rule. Glou. And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns. Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand; The bruit thereof will bring you many friends. K. Edw. Then be it as yeu will; for ’t is my right, And Henry but usurps the diadem. [self ; Mont. Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like him- And now will I be Edward’s champion. [claim’d: Hast. Sound trumpet; Edward shall be here pro- Come, fellow-soldier, make thou proclamation. [ Flourish. 452 THIRD: PART OF “KINGY ALN iA SCENE VIII. Sold. Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, king of England and France, and lord of Ireland, &e, Mont. And whosoe’er gainsays King Edward’s By this I challenge him to single fight. [right, [Throws down his gauntlet. All. Long live Edward the Fourth! K. Edw. Thanks, brave Montgomery; and thanks: unto you all: If fortune serve me, I ’ll requite this kindness. Now, for this night, let ’s harbour here in York; And when the morning sun shall raise his car Above the border of this horizon, We’ll forward towards Warwick and his mates 3 For well I wot that Henry is no soldier. Ah, froward Clarence! how eyil it beseems thee, To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother ! Yet, as we may, we 71] meet both thee and Warwick. Come on, brave soldiers: doubt not of the day, And, that once gotten, doubt not of large i : weunt. SCENE VIII. — London. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Warwick, Mon- tague, Clarence, Exeter, and Oxford. The palace, War. What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia, ~ With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders, Hath pass’d in safety through the narrow seas, And with his troops doth march amain to London; And many giddy people flock to him. Kk. Hen. Let’s levy men, and beat him back again, OClar. A little fire is quickly trodden out; Which, being suffer’d, rivers cannot quench. War. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war; Those will I muster up: and thou, son Clarence, Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk and in Kent, The knights and gentlemen to come with thee: Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham, Northampton and in Leicestershire, shalt find Men well inclined to hear what thou command’st: And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved, In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. My sovereign, with the loving citizens, Like to his island girt in with the ocean, Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs, Shall rest in London till we come to him. Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply. Farewell, my sovereign, St aie Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy’s true ope. Clar. In sign of truth, I kiss your highness’ hand. Ky Hen, Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortu< nate! Mont. Comfort, my lord; and so I take my leave. Oxf. And thus I seal my truth, and bid adieu. Kk. Hen. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, And all at once, once more a happy farewell. War. Farewell, sweet lords: let ’s meet at Coven- try. [Hzeunt all but King Henry and Eeeter. K. Hen. Here at the palace will I rest awhile. Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship ? Methinks the power that Edward hath in field Should not be able to encounter mine. Exe. The doubt is that he will seduce the rest. K. Hen. That’s not my fear; my meed hath got me fame: I have not stopp’d mine ears to their demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allay’d their swelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears; I have not been desirous of their wealth, Nor much oppress’d them with great subsidies, Nor forward of revenge, though they much err’d: Then why should they love Edward more than me ? No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace: ee De ee eg ACT VV. And when the lion fawns upon the lamb, The lamb will never cease to follow him. [Shout within, ‘A Lancaster! A Lancaster! ’ Exe. Hark, hark, my lord! what shouts are these ! Enter King Edward, Gloucester, and Soldiers. KK, Hdw. Seize on the shame-faced Henry, bear him hence; And once again proclaim us king of England. You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow: Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry, Drei? pie Ll Ol KIN GOR ENR VL SCENE f. And swell so much the higher by their ebb. Hence with him to the Tower; let him not speak. | Exeunt some with King Henry. And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course, Where peremptory Warwick now remains: The sun shines hot; and, if we use delay, » Cold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay. Glou. Away betimes, before his forces join, And take the great-grown traitor unawares: Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry. [ Hxeunt. vse nd Dili Vas SCENE I.— Coventry. Enter Warwick, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers, and others upon the walls. War. Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford ? How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow ? First Mess. By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward. War. How far off is our brother Montague ? Where is the post that came from Montague ? i Mess. By this at Daintry, with a puissant roop. Enter Sir John Somerville. War. Say, Somerville, what says my loving son? And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now ? Som. At Southam I did leave him with his forces, And do expect him here some two hours hence. [Drum heard. ' War. Then Clarence is at hand; I hear his drum. Som. It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies: The drum your honor hears marcheth from War- wick. [friends. War. Who should that be? belike, unlook’d-for Som. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know. | March: flourish. Enter King Edward, Glou- cester, and Soldiers. nS, po. Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle. Glou. See how the surly Warwick mans the wall! War. O unbid spite! is sportful Edward come ? Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduced, That we could hear no news of his repair? [gates, K. Edw. Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city Speak gentle words and humbly bend thy knee, Call Edward king and at his hands beg mercy ? And he shall pardon thee these outrages. War. Nay,rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, Confess who set thee up and pluck’d thee down, Call Warwick patron and be penitent ? And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York. Glou. I thought, at least, he would have said the Or did he make the jest against his will? __[king; War. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift? Glou. Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give: I'll do thee service for so good a gift. War. ’T was I that gave the kingdom to thy brother. [wick’s gift. K, Edw. Why then ’tis mine, if but by War- War. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight: And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again; And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject. K. Edw. But Warwick’s king is Edward’s pris- And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this: [oner: What is the body when the head is off ? Glou. Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast, But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten, The king was slily finger’d from the deck! You left poor Henry at the Bishop’s palace, And, ten to one, you 711 meet him in the Tower. K. Edw. ’Tisevenso; yet youare Warwick still. Glou. Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down: Nay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools. War. I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, And with the other fling it at thy face, Than bear so low a sail, to strike to thee. K. Edw. Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend, This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair, Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off, Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood, ‘Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.’ Enter Oxford, with drum and colours. War. Ocheerful colours! see where Oxford comes! Oxf. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster ! [He and his forces enter the city. Glou. The gates are open, let us enter too. kk. Edw. So other foes may set upon our backs. Stand we in good array; for they no doubt Will issue out again and bid us battle: If not, the city being but of small defence, We ’ll quickly rouse the traitors in the same. War. O, welcome; Oxford! for we want thy help. Enter Montague, with drum and colours. Mont. Montague, Montague, for Lancaster! He and his yee enter the city. Glou. Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear. K. Edw. The harder match’d, the greater victory : My mind presageth happy gain and conquest. Enter Somerset, with drum and colours. Som. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster! [He and his forces enter the city. Glou. Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset, Have sold their lives unto the house of York; And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold. Enter Clarence, with drum and colours. War. And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps Of force enough to bid his brother battle; [along, With whom an upright zeal to right prevails More than the nature of a brother’s love! Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt, if Warwick call. Clar. Father of Warwick, know you what this means ? [Taking his red rose out of his hat Look here, I throw my infamy at thee: I will not ruinate my father’s house, Who gave his blood to lime the stones together, Andset up Lancaster. Why, trow’st thou, Warwick. That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural, To bend the fatal instruments of war Against his brother and his lawful king ? 453 ACT V. THIRD PARTSEOT Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath: To keep that oath were more impiety Than Jephthah’s, when he sacrificed his daughter. I am so sorry for my trespass made That, to deserve well at my brother’s hands, I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe, With resolution, wheresoe’er I meet thee — As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad — To plague thee for thy foul misleading me. And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee, And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks. Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends: And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults, For I will henceforth be no more unconstant. Kk, Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times more beloved, Than if thou never hadst deserved our hate. Glo. Welcome, good Clarence; this is brother-like. War. O passing traitor, perjured and unjust ! K. Edw. What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town and fight ? Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears ? War. Alas, I am not coop’d here for defence! I will away towards Barnet presently, And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou darest. kK. Hdw. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way. Lords, to the field; Saint George and victory! [Hxeunt King Edward and his company. March. Woirusse and his company follow. SCENH II.— A field of battle near Barnet. Alarum and excursions. Enter King Edward, bringing forth Warwick wounded. kK. Edw. So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our For Warwick was a bug that fear’d us all. [fear; Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee, That Warwick’s bones may keep thine me 4Ahm War. Ah, whoisnigh ? come to me, friend or foe, And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick ? Why ask I that ? my mangled body shows, My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, That I must yield my body to the earth And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, Whose top-branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading tree And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind. These tht that now are dimm’d with death’s black veil, Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun, To search the secret treasons of the world: The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with blood, Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres ; For who lived king, but I could dig his grave ? And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow ? Lo, now my glory smear’d in dust and blood! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Even now forsake me, and of all my lands Is nothing left me but my body’s length. Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust ? And, live we how we can, yet die we must. Enter Oxford and Somerset. Som. Ah, Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we We might recover all our loss again: [are, The queen from France hath brought a puissant power: Even now we heard the news: ah, couldst thou fly! War. Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague, If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand, And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile! Thou lovest me not; for, brother, if thou didst, Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood 454 KING HENRY VI. scene ty. That glues my lips and will not let me speak. Come quickly, Montague, or | am dead. [his last: Som. Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breathed And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick And said ‘Commend me to my valiant brother.’ And more he would have said, and more he spoke, Which sounded like a clamour in a vault, That mought not be distinguish’d; but at last I well might hear, deliver’d with a groan, ‘O, farewell, Warwick! ’ [yourselves ; War. Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven. [ Dies. Oxf. Away, away, to meet the queen’s great power! [Here they bear away his body. [ Hxeunt. SCENH III.—Another part of the field. Flourish. Enter King Edward in triumph; with Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest. Kk. Edw. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, And we are graced with wreaths of victory. But, in the midst of this bright-shining day, I spy a black, suspicious, threatening cloud, That will encounter with our glorious sun, Ere he attain his easeful western bed: I mean, my lords, those powers that the queen Hath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. Clar. A little gale will soon disperse that cloud And blow it to the source from whence it came: The very beams will dry those vapours up, For every cloud engenders not a storm. Glo. The queen is valued thirty thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her: If she have time to breathe, be well assured ~ Her faction will be full as strong as ours. K. Edw. We are advertised by our loving friends That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury : We, having now the best at Barnet field, Will thither straight, for willingness rids way; And, as we march, our strength will be augmented In every county as we go along. Strike up the drum; cry ‘ Courage!’ and away. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— Plains near Tewksbury. March. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, Somerset, Oxford, and Soldiers. Q. Mar. Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss, But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. What though the mast be now blown overboard, The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, And half our sailors swallow’d in the flood ? Yet lives our pilot still. Is ’t meet that he Should leave the helm and like a fearful lad With tearful eyes add water to the sea [much, And give more strength to that which hath too Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock, Which industry and courage might have saved ? Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this! Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that ? And Montague our topmast; what of him ? Our slaughter’d friends the tackles ; what of these ? Why, is not Oxford here another anchor ? And Somerset another goodly mast ? The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings ? And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I For once allow’d the skilful pilot’s charge ? We will not from the helm to sit and weep, But keep our course, though the rough wind say no, From ide ti and rocks that threaten us with wreck. ACT V. PHA PARI ORV IOIDNG (HENRY VE SCENE V. As good to chide the waves as speak them fair. And what is Edward but a ruthless sea ? What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit ? And Richard but a ragged fatal rock ? All these the enemies to our poor bark. Say you can swim; alas, ’tis but a while! Tread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink: Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off, Or else you famish; that’s a threefold death. This speak I, lords, to let you understand, If case some one of you would fly from us, That there ’s no hoped-for mercy with the brothers More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks. Why, courage then! what cannot be avoided *T were childish weakness to lament or fear. Prince. Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit Should, if a coward heard her speak these words, Infuse his breast with magnanimity And make him, naked, foil a man at arms. I speak not this as doubting any here; For did I but suspect a fearful man, He should have leave to go away betimes, Lest in our need he might infect another And make him of like spirit to himself. If any such be here —as God forbid! — Let him depart before we need his help. Oxf. Women and children of so high a courage, And warriors faint! why, ’t were perpetual shame. O brave young prince! thy famous grandfather Doth live again in thee: long mayst thou live To bear his image and renew his glories! Som. And he that will not fight for such a hope, Go home to bed, and like the owl by day, If he arise, be mock’d and wonder’d at. Q. Mar. Thanks, gentle Somerset ; sweet Oxford, thanks. [else. Prince. And take his thanks that yet hath nothing Enter a Messenger. Mess. Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand, Ready to fight; therefore be resolute. Oxf. I thought no less: it is his policy To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided. Som. But he’s deceived; we are in readiness. @. Mar. This cheers my heart, to see your for- wardness. [budge. Oxf. Here pitch our battle; hence we will not Flourish and march. Enter King Edward, Glou- cester, Clarence, and Soldiers. K. Edw. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood, Which, by the heavens’ assistanceand your strength, Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night. I need not add more fuel to your fire, For well I wot ye blaze to burn them out: Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords! Q. Mar. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say My tears gainsay ; for every word I speak, Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes. Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign, Is prisoner to the foe; his state usurp’d, His realm a slaughter-house, his.subjects slain, His statutes cancell’d and his treasure spent ; And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. You fight in justice: then, in God’s name, lords, Be valiant and give signal to the fight. [Alarum: Retreat: Hacursions. Hxeunt. SCENE V.—Another part of the field. Flourish. Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Clarence, and Soldiers; with Queen Margaret, Oxford, and Somerset, prisoners. K. Edw. Now here a period of tumultuous broils. Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight : Lp ee) For Somerset, off with his guilty head. Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak. Oxf. For my part, I ll not trouble thee with words. Som. Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune. [Exeunt Oxford and Somerset, guarded. @. Mar. So part we sadly in this troublous world, To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. ‘(Edward ik. EKdw. Is proclamation made, that who finds Shall have a high reward, and he his life ? Glow. Itis: and lo, where youthful Edward comes! Enter Soldiers, with Prince Edward. KK. Edw. Bring forth the gallant, let us hear him What! canso young athorn begin to prick? [speak. Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects, And all the trouble thou hast turn’d me to ? Prince. Speak like a subject, proud ambitious York! Suppose that I am now my father’s mouth; Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou, Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee, Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to. g. Mar. Ah, that thy father had been so resolved! lou. That you might still have worn the petticoat, And ne’er have stol’n the breech from Lancaster. Prince. Let Aisop fable in a winter’s night; His currish riddles sort not with this place. Glou. By heaven, brat, 171] plague ye for that word. [men. a. Mar. Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to lou. For God’s sake, take away this captivescold. Prince. Nay, take away this scolding crookback rather. [tongue. K. Edw. Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your Clar. Untutor’d lad, thou art too malapert. Prince. I know my duty; you are all undutiful- Lascivious Edward, and thou perjured George, And thou mis-shapen Dick, I tell ye all I am your better, traitors as ye are: And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine. K. Edw. Take that, thou likeness of this railer here. [Stabs him. Glou. Sprawl’st thou? take that, to end thy agony. [Stabs him. Cla. And there’s for twitting me with perjury. [Stabs him. . Mar. O, kill me too! lou. Marry, and shall. [Offers to kill her. kK. Hdw. Hold, Richard, hold; for we have done too much. [words ? Glou. Why should she live, to fill the world with K. Edw. What, doth she swoon? use means for her recovery. Glou. Clarence, excuse me to the king my brother; Ill hence to London on a serious matter: Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news. Clar. What? what ? Glou. The Tower, the Tower. [| Exit. Q. fs O Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, bo Canst tod not speak? O traitors! murderers! They that stabb’d Cesar shed no blood at all, Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, If this foul deed were by to equal it: He was a man; this, in respect, a child: And men ne’er spend their fury on a child. What ’s worse than murderer, that I may name it ? No, no, my heart will burst, an if I speak: And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals! How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp’d! You have no children, butchers! if you had, The thought of them would have stirr’d up remorse But if you ever chance to have a child, look in his youth to have him so cut off As,deathsmen, you haverid this sweet young prince! 455 OTT Ys TEL ED OP AT TOON K, Edw. Away with her; go, bear her hence per- force. [here; Q. Mar. Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me Here sheathe thy sword, I’ pardon thee my death: What, wilt thou not? then, Clarence, do it thou. Olar. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. @. Mar. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it. [do it ? Clar. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not Q. Mar. Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself: ’T was sin before, but now ’tis charity. What, wilt thou not ? Where is that devil’s butcher Hard-favour’d Richard ? Richard, where art thou 2 Thou art not here: murder is thy alms-deed ; Petitioners for blood thou ne’er put’st back. K. Edw. Away, say; I charge ye, bear her hence. q@. Mar. So come to you and yours, as to this prince! [Hwit, led out forcibly. K. Edw. Where’s Richard gone ? Clar. To London, all in post; and, as I guess, To make a bloody supper in the Tower. K. Edw. He’ssudden, if athing comes in his head. Now march we hence: discharge the common sort With pay and thanks, and let ’s away to London And see our gentle queen how well she fares: By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. [ Heeunt. SCENE VI. — London. Enter King Henry and Gloucester, with the Lieutenant, on the walls. Glou. Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard ? it, Hen. Ay, my good lord: —my lord, I should say rather; ’T is sin to flatter; ‘ good’ was little better: ‘Good Gloucester ’ and ‘ good devil’ were alike, And both preposterous; therefore, not ‘ good lord.’ Glou. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must con- fer. [Hxit Lieutenant. K. ok So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf ; So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. What scene of death hath Roscius now to act ? Glou. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer. tig, Hen. The bird that hath been limed in a bush, With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush; And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, Have now the fatal object in my eye [kill’d. Where my poor young was limed, was caught and Glow. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete, That taught his son the office of a fowl! And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown’d. K. Hen. 1, Dedalus; my poor boy, Icarus; Thy father, Minos, that denied our course ; The sun that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words! My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point Than can my ears that tragic history. But wherefore dost thou come ? is ’t for my life ? Glou. Think’st thou I am an executioner ? Kk. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art: If murdering innocents be executing, Why, then thou art an executioner. Glou. Thy son I kill’d for his presumption. K. Hen. Hadst thou been kill’d when first thou didst presume, Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine. | And thus I prophesy, that many a thousand, Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, And many an old man’s sigh and many a widow’s, And many an orphan’s water-standing eye— Men for their sons, wives for their husbands, 456 The Tower. KING HENRY VI. scene vit. And orphans for their parents’ timeless death — Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. The owl sbriek’d at thy birth,—an evil sign ; The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempest shook down trees: The raven rook’d her on the chimney’s top, And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain, And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope, To wit, an indigested and deformed lump, Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, To signify thou camest to bite the world: And, if the rest be true which I have heard, Thou camest — Glou. 1711 hear no more: die, prophet, in thy speech : [Stabs him. For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain’d. [this. kK. Hen. Ay, and for much more slaughter after O, God forgive my sins, and pardon thee! _[Dves. Glou. What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. See how my sword weeps for the poor king’s death! O, may such purple tears be alway shed From those that wish the downfall of our house! If any spark of life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither: [Stabs him again. I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. Indeed, ’tis true that Henry told me of; For I have often heard my mother say I came into the world with my legs forward: Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right ? The midwife wonder’d and the women cried ‘O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!’ And so I was; which plainly signified That I should snarl and bite and play the dog. Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so, Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it. I have no brother, [ am like no brother; And this word ‘love,’ which greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another And not in me: I am myself alone. Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light: But I will sort a pitchy day for thee; For I will buz abroad such prophecies That Edward shall be fearful of his life, And then, to purge his fear, I ll be thy death. King Henry and the prince his son are gone: Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, Counting myself but bad till I be best. I?ll throw thy body in another room And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. | Hxit, with the body. SCENE VII.— London. Flourish. Enter King Edward, Queen Elizabeth, Clarence, Gloucester, Hastings, a Nurse with the young Prince, and Attendants. K. Edw. Once more we sit in England’s royal Re-purchased with the blood of enemies. [throne, What valiant foemen, like to autumn’s corn, Have we mow’d down in tops of all their pride! Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown’d For hardy and undoubted champions; Two Clifftords, as the father and the son, And two Northumberlands; two brayer men Ne’er spurr’d their coursers at the trumpet’s sound; With them, the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague, That in their chains fetter’d the kingly lion And made the forest tremble when they roar’d. Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat And made our footstool of security. The palace. ACT V. TD EPA RL AOL LNG Ce NN iy SCENE VII. Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy. Young Ned, for thee, thine uncles and myself Have in our armours watch’d the winter’s night, Went all afoot in summer’s scalding heat, That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace ; And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. Glou. [Aside] Ill blast his harvest, if your head were laid; For yet I am not look’d on in the world. ‘This shoulder was ordain’d so thick to heave: And heave it shall some weight, or break my back: W ork thou the way,—and thou shalt execute. Kk. Edw. Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen ; And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both. Clar. The duty that I owe unto your majesty I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe. Q. Hliz. Thanks, noble Clarence ; worthy brother, thanks. Glou. And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang’st, Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. [Aside] To say the truth, so Judas kiss’d his master, And cried ‘all hail!’ when as he meant all harm. Kk. Kdw. Now am I seated as my soul delights, Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves. Clar. What will your grace have done with Margaret ? Reignier, her father, to the king of France Hath pawn’d the Sicils and Jerusalem, And hither have they sent it for her ransom. KK. Kdw. Away with her, and watt her hence to France. And now what rests but that we spend the time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure of the court ? Sound drums and trumpets! farewell sour annoy ! For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy. [Hxewnt. Richard.—Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, And this for Rutland ; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environ’d with a brazen wall. Clifford.—Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone: This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York: And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland ; And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother To execute the like upon thyself; And so, have at thee!—Acrt II., Scene iv. THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE THIRD. DRAMATIS PERSON. King Edward the Fourth. Edward, Prince of Wales, afterwards S0nR MAUR King Edward We King. Richard, Duke of York, George, Duke of Clarence, aes to Richard, Duke of Gloucester, afterwards the King. King Richard IIL., A young son of Clarence. Henry, Earl of Richmond, afterwards King Henry VII. Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury. Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York. John Morton, Bishop of Ely. Duke of Buckingham. Duke of Norfolk. Earl of Surrey, his son. Earl Rivers, brother to Elizabeth. Marquis of Dorset and Lord Grey, sons to Eliza- beth. Earl of Oxford. Lord Hastings. Lord Stanley, called also Earl of Derby. Lord Lovel. Sir Thomas Vaughan. Sir Richard Ratcliff. Sir William Catesby. Sir James Tyrrel. Sir James Blount. Sir Walter Herbert. Sir Robert Brakenbury, Lieutenant of the Tower. Christopher Urswick, a priest. Another Priest. Tressel and Berkeley, gentlemen attending on the Lady Anne. Lord Mayor of London. Sheriff of Wiltshire. Elizabeth, queen to King Edward IV. Margaret, widow of King Henry VI. Duchess of York, mother to King Edward IV. Lady Anne, widow of Edward Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI. ; afterwards married to Richard. A young Daughter of Clarence (Margaret Plan- tagenet). Ghosts of those murdered by Richard III., Lords and other Attendants ; a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Soldiers, &c. SCENE — England. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LVil.] oa, <0) BA SCENE I.— London. A street. Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, solus. Glou. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ; I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them; Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And descant on mine own deformity: And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, 458 To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate the one against the other: And if King Edward be as true and just As Iam subtle, false and treacherous, This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up, About a prophecy which says that G Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. [comes. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence Enter Clarence, guarded, and Brakenbury. Brother, good day: what means this armed guard That waits upon your grace ? Clar. His majesty, Tendering my person’s safety, hath appointed This conduct to convey me to the Tower. Glou. Upon what cause ? Clar. Because my name is George. Glou. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours; He should, for that, commit your godfathers : O, belike his majesty hath some intent That you shall be new-christen’d in the Tower. But what ’s the matter, Clarence ? may I know ? Clar. Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest As yet I do not: but, as I can learn, He hearkens after prophecies and dreams: And from the cross-row plucks the letter G, es hi = ——— KING RICHARD THE THIRD.—Act I., Scene ii. ee ACT I. And says a wizard told him that by G His issue disinherited should be; And, for my name of George begins with G, It follows in his thought that I am he. These, as I learn, and such like toys as these Have moved his highness to commit me now. Glow. Why, this it is, when men are ruled by women: *T is not the king that sends you to the Tower; My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, ’t is she That tempers him to this extremity. Was it not she and that good man of worship, Anthony Woodville, her brother there, That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower, From whence this present day he is deliver’d ? We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe. Clar. By heaven, I think there ’s no man is secure But the queen’s kindred and night-walking heralds That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore. Heard ye not what an humble suppliant Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery ? Glou. Humbly complaining to her deity Got my lord chamberlain his liberty. I’ll tell you what; I think it is our way, If we will keep in favour with the king, To be her men and wear her livery: The jealous o’erworn widow and herself, Since that our brother dubb’d them gentlewomen, Are mighty gossips in this monarchy. Brak. I beseech your graces both to pardon me; His majesty hath straitly given in charge That no man shall have private conference, Of what degree soever, with his brother. - Glou. Even so; an’t please your worship, Brak-. You may partake of any thing we say: [enbury, We speak no treason, man: we say the king Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous; We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot, A cherry lip,a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue ; And that the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks: How say you, sir? can you deny all this? Brak. With this, my lord, myself have nought to do. ° [thee, fellow, Glou. Naught to do with Mistress Shore! I tell He that doth naught with her, excepting one, Were best he do it secretly, alone. Brak. What one, my lord ? ; Glow. Her husband, knave: wouldst thou betray me? [withal Brak. I beseech your grace to pardon me, and Forbear your conference with the noble duke. [obey. Clar. Weknowthy charge, Brakenbury, and will Glou. We are the queen’s abjects, and must obey. Brother, farewell: I will unto the king; And whatsoever you will employ me in, Were it to call King Edward’s widow sister, I will perform it to enfranchise you. Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood Touches me deeper than you can imagine. Clar. I know it pleaseth neither of us well. Glou. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long; I will deliver you, or else lie for you: Meantime, have patience. Clar. I must perforce. Farewell. | [Hxeunt Clarence, Brakenbury, and Guard. Glou. Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne’er re- Simple, plain Clarence! Ido love thee so, [turn, That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven, If heaven will take the present at our hands. But who comes here? the new-deliver’d Hastings ? Enter Lord Hastings. Hast. Good time of day unto my gracious lord ! Glow. As much unto my good lord chamberlain! Well are you welcome to the open air. How hath your lordship brook’d imprisonment ? KUNG “RICHARD TIT. SCENE II, Hast. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must: But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks That were the cause of my imprisonment. Glou. No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence For they that were your enemies are his, [too; And have prevail’d as much en him as you. Hast. More pity that the eagle should be mew’d, While kites and buzzards prey at liberty. Glou. What news abroad ? Hast. No news so bad abroad as this at home; The king is sickly, weak and melancholy, And his physicians fear him mightily. Glou. Now, by Saint Paul, this news is bad indeed. O, he hath kept an evil diet long, And overmuch consumed his royal person: *T is very grievous to be thought upon. What, is he in his bed? Hast. He is. Glou. Go you before, and I will follow you. [Hxit Hastings. He cannot live, I hope; and must not die Till George be pack’d with post-horse up to heaven. Ill in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence, With les well steel’d with weighty arguments; And, if I fail not in my deep intent, Clarence hath not another day to live: Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy, And leave the world for me to bustle in! For then (ll marry Warwick’s youngest daughter. What though I kill’d her husband and her father ? The readiest way to make the wench amends Is to become her husband and her father: The which will I; not all so much for love As for another secret close intent, By marrying her which I must reach unto. But yet I run before my horse to market: Clarence still breathes; Edward stilllivesand reigns: When they are gone, then must I count my ae it. SCENE II.— The same. Another street. Enter the corpse of King Henry the Sixth, Gentlemen with halberds to guard it ; Lady Anne being the mourner. Anne. Set down, set down your honourable load, If honour may be shrouded in a hearse, Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. Poor key-cold figure of a holy king! Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster! Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood! Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost, To hear the lamentations of poor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter’d son, Stabb’d by the selfsame hand that made these wounds! Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life, I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes! Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it! Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence! More direful hap betide that hated wretch, That makes us wretched by the death of thee, Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads, Or any creeping venom’d thing that lives! If ever he have child, abortive be it, Prodigious and untimely brought to light, Whose ugly and unnatural aspect May fright the hopeful mother at the view ; And that be heir to his unhappiness! If ever he have wife, let her be made As miserable by the death of him As I am made by my poor lord and thee! Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load, Taken from Paul’s to be interred there ; And still, as you are weary of the weight, Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse. 459 ACTA, KINGS RICHARD VIL. SCENE II. Enter Gloucester. Glow. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down. Anne. What black magician conjures up this fiend, To stop devoted charitable deeds ? Glou. Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint I?ll make a corse of him that disobeys. [Paul, Gent. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass. Glow. Unmanner’d dog! stand thou, when I com- mand: Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, Or, by Saint Paul, I’ll strike thee to my foot, And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. Anne. What, do you tremble ? are you all afraid ? Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal, And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell! Thou hadst but power over his mortal body, His soul thou canst not have; therefore, be gone. Glou. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst. Anne. Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence, and trouble us not; For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, Fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry’s wounds Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh! Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity ; For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells; Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death! O earth, which this blood drink’st, revenge his death! Hither heaven with lightning strike the murderer _ Or earth, gape open wide and eat him quick, [dead, As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood, Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered ! Glow. Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. Anne. Villain, thou know’st no law of God nor man: No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. Glou. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. Anne. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth! Glou. More wonderful, when angels are so angry. Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, Of these supposed evils, to give me leave, By circumstance, but to acquit myself. Anne. Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man, For these known evils, but to give me leave, By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self. Glou. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me Some patient leisure to excuse myself. [have Anne. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst No excuse current, but to hang thyself. [make Glou. By such despair, I should accuse myself. Anne. And, by despairing, shouldst thou stand excused ; For doing worthy vengeance on thyself, Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others. Glou. Say that I slew them not ? Anne. Why, then they are not dead: But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee. Glou. I did not kill your husband. Anne. Why, then he is alive. Glow. Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward’s hand. [garet saw Anne. In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Mar- Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood: The which thou once didst bend against her breast, But that thy brothers beat aside the point. Glou. I was provoked by her slanderous tongue, Which laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders. Anne. Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind, 460 —_—— Which never dreamt on aught but butcheries: Didst thou not kill this king ? Glou. I grant ye. Anne. Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God grant me too Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed ! O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous! ; Glou. The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him. [come. Anne. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never Glow. Let him thank me, that holp to send him For he was fitter for that place than earth. [thither; Anne. And thou unfit for any place but hell. Glou. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me Anne. Some dungeon. [name it. Glow. Your bed-chamber. Anne. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest! Glou. So will it, madame, till I lie with you. Anne. I hope so. Glou. I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, To leave this keen encounter of our wits, And fall somewhat into a slower method, Is not the causer of the timeless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the executioner ? [effect. Anne. Thou art the cause, and most accursed Glou. Your beauty was the cause of that effect ; Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep To undertake the death of all the world, So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. Anne. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks. [wreck ; Glou. These eyes could never endure sweet beauty’s You should not blemish it, if I stood by: As all the world is cheered by the sun, So I by that; it is my day, my life. Anne. Black night o’ershade thy day, and death thy life! [both, Glow. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art Anne. I would I were, to be revenged on thee. Glou. It is a quarrel most unnatural, To be revenged on him that loveth you. Anne. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, To be revenged on him that slew my husband. Glow. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband, Did it to help thee to a better husband. Anne. His better doth not breathe upon the earth. Glou. He lives that loves thee better than he could. Anne. Name him. Glow. Plantagenet. Anne. Why, that was he. Glou. The selfsame name, but one of better nature. Anne. Where is he? Glou. Here. [She spitteth at him.] Why dost thou spit at me ? Anne. Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake! Glou. Never came poison from so sweet a place. Anne. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. Out of my sight! thou dost infect my eyes. Glou. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. ee eRe they were basilisks, to strike thee ead! Glou. I would they were, that I might die at once; For now they kill me with a living death. Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Shamed their aspect with store of childish drops: These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear, No, when my father York and Edward wept, To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him; Nor when thy warlike father, like a child, Told the sad story of my father’s death, And twenty times made pause to sob and weep, That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks, Like trees bedash’d with rain: in that sad time My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear; ACD TI. And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weep- I never sued to friend nor enemy ; . [ing. My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing But, now thy beauty is proposed my fee, [words; My proud heart sues and prompts my tongue to speak. [She looks scornfully at him. Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword ; Which if thou please to hide in this true bosom, And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, And humbly beg the death upon my knee. [He lays his breast open: she offers at at with his sword. Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry, But ’t was thy beauty that provoked me. [Edward, Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabb’d young But ’t was thy heavenly face that set me on. | Here she lets fall the sword. Take up the sword again, or take up me. Anne. Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death, I will not be the executioner. Glou. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it. Anne. I have already. Glou. Tush, that was in thy rage: Speak it again, and, even with the word, That hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love, Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love; To both their deaths thou shalt be accessary. Anne. I would I knew thy heart. Glou. ’Tis figured in my tongue. Anne. I fear me both are false. Glou. Then never man was true. Anne. Well, well, put up your sword. Glou. Say, then, my peace is made. Anne. That shall you know hereafter. Glow. But shall I live in hope ? Anne. All men, I hope, live so. Glou. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. Anne. To take is not to give. Glou. Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart ; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. And if thy poor devoted suppliant may But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever. Anne. What is it ? [designs Glow. That it would please thee leave these sad To him that hath more cause to be a mourner, And presently repair to Crosby Place; Where, after I have solemnly interr’d At Chertsey monastery this noble king, And wet his grave with my repentant tears, I will with all expedient duty see you: For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, Grant me this boon. Anne. With all my heart ; and much it joys me too, To see you are become so penitent. Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me. Glou. Bid me farewell. Anne. ”T is more than you deserve; But since you teach me how to flatter you, Imagine I have said farewell already. [Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel, and Berkeley. Glou. Sirs, take up the corse. Gent. Towards Chertsey, noble lord ? Glou. No, to White-Friars; there attend my coming. [Hxeunt all but Gloucester. Was ever woman in this humour woo’d ? Was ever woman in this humour won ? I ll have her; but I will not keep her long. What! I, that kill’d her husband and his father, To take her in her heart’s extremest hate, With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, KING RICHARD III SCENE III. The bleeding witness of her hatred by; [me, Having God, her conscience, and these bars against And I nothing to back my suit at all, But the plain devil and dissembling looks, ay yet to win her, all the world to nothing! a! Hath she forgot already that brave prince, Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since, Stabb’d in my angry mood at Tewksbury ? A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, Framed in the prodigality of nature, Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal, The spacious world cannot again afford: And will she yet debase her eyes on me, That cropp’d the golden prime of this sweet prince, And made her widow to a woful bed ? On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety ? On me, that halt and am unshapen thus.? My dukedom to a beggarly denier, I do mistake my person all this while: Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot, Myself to be a marvellous proper man. I'l be at charges for a looking-glass, And entertain some score or two of tailors, To study fashions to adorn my body: Since I am crept in favour with myself, I will maintain it with some little cost. But first I’ turn yon fellow in his grave; And then return lamenting to my love. Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass. | ait. SCENE III. — The palace. Enter Queen Elizabeth, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey. Riv. Have patience, madam: there’s no doubt his majesty Will soon recover his accustom’d health. Grey. Inthat you brook it ill, it makes him worse: Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort, And cheer his grace with quick and merry words. g Eliz. If he were dead, what would betide of iw. No other harm but lossofsuchalord. [me? . Eliz. The loss of such a lord includes all harm. rrey. The heavens have bless’d you with a goodly To be your comforter when he is gone. [son,. Q. Hliz. Oh, he is young, and his minority Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester, A man that loves not me, nor none of you. Riv. Is it concluded he shall be protector ? Q. Eliz. It is determined, not concluded yet: But so it must be, if the king miscarry. Enter Buckingham and Derby. Grey. Here come the lords of Buckingham and Derby. Buck. Good time of day unto your royal grace! Der. God make your majesty joyful as you have been ! [of Derby, Q. Eliz. The Countess Richmond, good my Lord To your good prayers will scarcely say amen. Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she’s your wife, And loves not me, be you, good lord, assured I hate not you for her proud arrogance. Der. I do beseech you, either not believe The envious slanders of her false accusers ; Or, if she be accused in true report, Bear with her weakness, which, I think, proceeds From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice. Riv. Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Derby ? Der. But now the Duke of Buckingham and I Are come from visiting his majesty. @. Eliz. What likelihood of his amendment, lords? Buck. Madam, good hope ; his grace speaks cheer- fully. [with him? Q. Eliz. God grant him health! Did you confer 461 AMST AE. Buck. Madam, we did: he desires to make atone- ment Betwixt the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers, And betwixt them and my lord chamberlain ; And sent to warn them to his royal presence. [be: Q. Eliz. Would all were well! but that will never I fear our happiness is at the highest. Enter Gloucester, Hastings, and Dorset. Glou. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it: Who are they that complain unto the king, That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not ? By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours. Because I cannot flatter and speak fair, Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive and cog, Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy. Cannot a plain man live and think no harm, But thus his simple truth must be abused By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks ? [grace ? Riv. To whom in all this presence speaks your Glou. 'To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. When have I injured thee ? when done thee wrong ? Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction ? A plague upon you all! His royal person, — Whom God preserve better than you would wish ! — Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while, But you must trouble him with lewd complaints. Q. Hiiz. Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the The king, of his own royal disposition, __[matter. And not provoked by any suitor else; Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred, Which in your outward actions shows itself Against my kindred, brothers, and myself, Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it. Glou. I cannot tell: the world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch: Since every Jack became a gentleman, There ’s many a gentle person made a Jack. Q. Eliz. Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester ; You envy my advancement and my friends’: God grant we never may have need of you! _[you: Glou. Meantime, God grants that we have need of Our brother is imprison’d by your means, Myself disgraced, and the nobility Held in contempt; whilst many fair promotions Are daily given to ennoble those [noble. That scarce, some two days since, were worth a Q. Hliz. By Him that raised me to this careful height From that contented hap which I enjoy’d, I never did incense his majesty Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been An earnest advocate to plead for him. My lord, you do me shameful injury, Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects. Glou. You may deny that you were not the cause Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment. Riv. She may, my lord, for-— [not so ? Glou. She may, Lord Rivers! why, who knows She may do more, sir, than denying that: She may help you to many fair preferments, And then deny her aiding hand therein, And lay those honours on your high deserts. What may she not? She may, yea, marry, may she,— tiv. What, marry, may she ? Glou. What, marry, may she! marry with a king, A bachelor, a handsome stripling too: I wis your grandam had a worser match. [borne @. Eliz. My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs: By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty With those gross taunts I often have endured. I had rather be a country servant-maid 462 KING RICHARD IIL SCENE III, Than a great queen, with this condition, To be thus taunted, scorn’d, and baited at: Enter Queen Margaret, behind. Small joy have I in being England’s queen. [thee! @. Mar. And lessen’d be that small, God, I beseech Thy honour, state and seat is due to me. [king ? lou. What! threat you me with telling of the Tell him, and spare not: look, what I have said I will avouch in presence of the king: I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower. ’T is time to speak ; my pains are quite forgot. Q. Mar. Out, devil! I remember them too well: Thou slewest my husband Henry in the Tower, And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. [king, Glou. Ere you were queen, yea, or your husband I was a pack-horse in his great aftairs ; A weeder-out of his proud adversaries, A liberal rewarder of his friends: To royalise his blood I spilt mine own. [thine. ). Mar. Yea, and much better blood than his or Glou. In all which time you and your husband Were factious for the house of Lancaster; [Grey And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband In Margaret’s battle at Saint Alban’s slain ? Let me put in your minds, if you forget, What you have been ere now, and what you are; Withal, what I have been, and what I am. . Mar. A murderous villain, and so still thou art. lou. Poor Clarence did forsake his father, War- wick; Yea, and forswore himself,— which Jesu pardon ! — . Mar. Which God revenge! lou. To fight on Edward’s party for the crown; And for his meed, poor lord, he is mew’d up. I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward’s; Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine: I am too childish-foolish for this world. [ world, Q. Mar. Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave the Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is. Riv. My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days Which here you urge to prove us enemies, We follow’d then our lord, our lawful king: So should we you, if you should be our king. Glou. If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar: Far be it from my heart, the thought of it! Q. Eliz. As little joy, my lord, as you suppose You should enjoy, were you this country’s king, AS little joy may you suppose in me, That I enjoy, being the queen thereof. Q. Mar. A little joy enjoys the queen thereof; For I am she, and altogether joyless. I can no longer hold me patient. [ Advancing, Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out In sharing that which you have pill’d from me! Which of you trembles not that looks on me? If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects, Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels ? O gentle villain, do not turn away! [my sight ? Glou. Foul wrinkled witch, what makest thou in Q. Mar. But repetition of what thou hast marr’d; That will I make before I let thee go. Glou. Wert thou not banished on pain of death ? Q. Mar. I was; but I do find more pain in ban-. ishment Than death can yield me here by my abode. A husband and a son thou owest to me; And thou a kingdom; all of you allegiance: The sorrow that I have, by right is yours, And all the pleasures you usurp are mine. Glou. The curse my noble father laid on thee, When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes, And then, to dry them, gavest the duke a clout Steep’d in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland,— His curses, then from bitterness of soul ACT I. Denounced against thee, are all fall’n upon thee; And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed. . Eliz. So just is God, to right the innocent. _ ast. O, ’t was the foulest deed to slay that babe, And the most merciless that e’er was heard of ! Riv. Tyrants themselves wept when it was re- ported. Dor. ‘No man but prophesied revenge for it. Buck. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it. [came, Q. Mar. What were you snarling all before I Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turn you all your hatred now on me? Did Y ork’s dread curse prevail so much with heaven That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s death, Their kingdom’s loss, my woful banishment, Could all but answer for that peevish brat ? Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven ? Why. then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick If not by war, by surfeit die your king, [curses ! As ours by murder, to make him a king! Edward thy son, which now is Prince of Wales, For Edward my son, which was Prince of Wales, Die in his youth by like untimely violence! Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen, Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self! Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s loss; And see another, as I see thee now, Deck’d in thy rights, as thou are stall’d in mine! Long die thy happy days before thy death ; And, after many lengthen’d hours of grief, Die neither mother, wife, nor England’s queen! Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by, And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son Was stabb’d with bloody daggers: God, I pray him, That none of you may live your natural age, But by some unlook’d accident cut off! [hag ! Glou. Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither’d Q. Mar. And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me. If heaven have any grievous plague in store Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, And then hurl down their indignation On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace! The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul! Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest, And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends ! No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, Unless it be whilst some tormenting dream Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils! Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog! Thou that wast seal’d in thy nativity The slave of nature and the son of hell! Thou slander of thy mother’s heavy womb! Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins! Thou rag of honour! thou detested — Glou. Margaret. Q. Mar. Richard! Glou. Ha! : : I call thee not. lou. I cry thee mercy then, for I had thought That thou hadst call’d me all these bitter names. Q. Mar. Why, so I did; but look’d for no reply. O, let me make the period to my curse! Glou. ’T is done by me, and ends in ‘ Margaret.’ Q. Eliz. Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself. (fortune! . Mar. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider, Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about ? Fool, fool! thou whet’st a knife to kill thyself. The time wil! come when thou shalt wish for me To help thee curse that poisonous bunch-back’d toad. Hast. False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse, Lest to thy harm thou move our patience. ISIN GOL LOTEARD (DL SCENE III. Q. Mar. Foul shame upon you! you have all moved mine. [your duty. Riv. Were you well served, you would be taught Q. ae To serve me well, you all should do me u b] Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects: O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty! Dor. Dispute not with her; she is lunatic. [pert: @).Mar. Peace, master marquess, you are mala- Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. QO, that your young nobility could judge What ’t were to lose it, and be miserable! They that stand high have many blasts to shake hem; And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces. Glou. Good counsel, marry: learn it, learn it, marquess. Dor. It toucheth you, my lord, as much as me. Glow. Yea,and much more: but I was born so high, Our aery buildeth in the cedar’s top, And dallies with the wind and scorns the sun. Q. Mar. And turns the sun to shade; alas! alas! Witness my son, now in the shade of death; Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath Hath in eternal darkness folded up. Your aery buildeth in our aery’s nest. O God, that seest it, do not suffer it; As it was won with blood, lost be it so! Buck. Have done! for shame, if not for charity. Q. Mar. Urge neither charity nor shame to me: Uncharitably with me have you dealt, And shamefully by you my hopes are butcher’d. My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage! Buck. Have done, have done. [hand, Q. Mar. O princely Buckingham, Ill kiss thy In sign of league and amity with thee: Now fair befal thee and thy noble house! Thy garments are not spotted with our blood, Nor thou within the compass of my curse. Buck. Nor no one here; for curses never pass The lips of those that breathe them in the air. Q. Mar. Ill not believe but they ascend the sky, And there awake God’s gentle-sleeping peace. O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog! Look, when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites, His venom tooth will rankle to the death: Have not to do with him, beware of him; Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him, And all their ministers attend on him. _[ingham ? Glou. What doth she say, my Lord of Buck- Buck. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord. Q. Mar. What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel ? And soothe the devil that I warn thee from? O, but remember this another day, When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow, And say poor Margaret was a prophetess ! Live each of you the subjects to his hate, And he to yours, and all of you to God’s! [| Hvit. Hast. My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses. [erty. Riv. And so doth mine: I muse why she’s at lib- Glou. I cannot blame her; by God’s holy mother, She hath had too much wrong; and I repent My part thereof that I have done to her. . Eliz. I never did her any, to my knowledge. lou. But you have all the vantage of her wrong. I was too hot to do somebody good, That is too cold in thinking of it now. Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid ; He is frank’d up to fatting for his pains: God pardon them that are the cause of it! Riv. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion, To pray for them that have done scathe to us. Glou. So do I ever: [Aside] being well advised. For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself. 463 ACT I. Enter Catesby. Cates. Madam, his majesty doth call for you: And for your grace; and you, my noble lords. [us ? . Eliz. Catesby, wecome. Lords,will you go with iv. Madam, we will attend your grace. [ Hxeunt all but Gloucester. Glou. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others. Clarence, whom I, indeed, have laid in darkness, I do beweep to many simple gulls; Namely, to Hastings, Derby, Buckingham ; And say it is the queen and her allies That stir the king against the duke my brother. Now, they believe it; and withal whet me To be revenged on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey : But then I sigh; and, with a piece of scripture, Tell them that God bids us do good for evil: And thus I clothe my naked villany With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil. Enter two Murderers. But, soft! here come my executioners. How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates! Are you now going to dispatch this deed ? First Murd. We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant, That we may be admitted where he is. Glou. Well thought upon; I have it here about me. [ Gives the warrant. When you have done, repair to Crosby Place. But, sirs, be sudden in the execution, Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead; For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him. First Murd. Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues. Glou. Your eyes drop millstones, when fools’ eyes drop tears: I like you, lads; about your business straight ; Go, go, dispatch. First Murd. We will, my noble lord. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.—London. The Tower. Enter Clarence and Brakenbury. Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ? Clar. O, I have pass’d a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though ’t were to buy a world of happy days, So full of dismal terror was the time! Brak. What was your dream? I long to hear you tell it. [ Tower, Clar. Methoughts that I had broken from the And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy; And, in my company, my brother Gloucester ; Who from my cabin tempted me to walk (land, Upon the hatches: thence we look’d toward Eng- And cited up a thousand fearful times, During the wars of York and Lancaster That had befall’n us. As we paced along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, [ing, Methought that Gloucester stumbled; and, in fall- Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, Into the tumbling billows of the main. Lord, Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown! What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears! What ugly sights of death within mine eyes! Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; Ten thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon ; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 464 KING RICHARD III. SCENE IV. Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All seatter’d in the bottom of the sea: Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and, in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, As *t were in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, Which woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by. Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death To gaze upon the secrets of the deep ? Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive To yield the ghost: but still the enviou’ flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To seek the empty, vast and wandering air; But smother’d it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony ? Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthen’d after life, O, then began the tempest to my soul, Who pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick ; Who cried aloud, ‘ What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ? ’ And so he vanish’d: then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he squeak’d out aloud, ‘Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury ; Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!’ With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends Environ’d me about, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise I trembling waked, and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell, Such terrible impression made the dream. [you; Brak. No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted I promise you, I am afraid to hear you tell it. Clar. O Brakenbury, I have done those things, Which now bear evidence against my soul, For Edward’s sake; and see how he requites me! O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds, Yet execute thy wrath in me alone, . O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children! I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me; My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. Brak. I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest! Clarence sleeps. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night. Princes have but their titles for their ere An outward honour for an inward toil; And, for unfelt imagination, They often feel a world of restless cares: So that, betwixt their titles and low names, There ’s nothing differs but the outward fame. Enter the two Murderers. First Murd. Ho! who’s here ? [you hither ? Brak. In God’s name what are you, and how came First Murd. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs. Brak. Yea, are you so brief ? Sec. Murd. O sir, it is better to be brief than te- dious. Shew him our commission; talk no more. [Brakenbury reads tt. Brak. I am, in this, commanded to deliver The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands: I will not reason what is meant hereby, Because I will be guiltless of the meaning. Here are the keys, there sits the duke asleep: Ill to the king; and signify to him That thus I have resign’d my charge to you. First Murd. Do so, it is a point of wisdom: fare you well. [Exit Brakenbury. 4 Sec. Murd. What. shall we stab him as he sleeps ? First Murd. No; then he will say ’t was done cow- ardly, when he wakes. Sec. Murd. When he wakes! why, fool, he shall never wake till the judgment-day. [sleeping. First Murd. Why, then he will say we stabbed him Sec. Murd. The urging of that word ‘judgment’ hath bred a kind of remorse in me. First Murd. What, art thou afraid ? Sec. Murd. Not to kill him, having a warrant for it; but to be damned for killing him, from which no warrant can defend us. First Murd. I thought thou hadst been resolute. Sec. Murd. So I am, to let him live. [him so. First Murd. Back to the Duke of Gloucester, tell Sec. Murd. I pray thee, stay a while: I hope my holy humour will change; ’t was wont to hold me but while one would tell twenty. First Murd. How dost thou feel thyself now ? Sec. Murd. ’Faith, some certain dregs of con- science are yet within me. First Murd. Remember our reward, when the deed is done. [ward. Sec. Murd. ’Zounds, he dies: I had forgot the re- First Murd. Where is thy conscience now ? Sec. Murd. In the Duke of Gloucester’s purse. First Murd. So when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out. Sec. Murd. Let it go; there’s few or none will entertain it. First Murd. How if it come to thee again ? Sec. Murd. I’ll not meddle with it: it is a dan- gerous thing: it makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; he cannot swear, but it checks him; he cannot lie with his neigh- bour’s wife, but it detects him: ’tis a blushing shamefast spirit that mutinies in a man’s bosom; it fills one full of obstacles: it made me once re- store a purse of gold that I found; it beggars any man that keeps it: it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well endeavours to trust to himself and to live without it. First Murd..’Zounds, it is even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the duke. Sec. Murd. Take the devil in thy mind, and be- lieve him not: he would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh. First Murd. Tut, I am strong-framed, he cannot prevail with me, I warrant thee. Sec. Murd. Spoke like a tall fellow that respects his reputation. Come, shall we to this gear ? First Murd. Take him over the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then we will chop him in the malmsey-butt in the next room. Sec. Murd. O excellent device! make a sop of him. First Murd. Hark! he stirs: shall I strike ? Sec. Murd. No, first let ’s reason with him. [wine. Clar. Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of Sec. Murd. You shall have wine enough, my lord, Clar. In God’s name, what art thou ? [anon. Sec. Murd. A man, as you are. Clar. But not, as I am, royal. Sec. Murd. Nor you, as we are, loyal. [humble. Clar. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are Sec. Murd. My voice is now the king’s, my looks mine own. Clar. How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak! Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale ? Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come? Both. To, to, to— Clar. To murder me ? Both. Ay, ay. _ Clar. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so, And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. Wherein, my friends, have I offended you? [king. First Murd. Offended us you have not, but the. 30 FOING RICE AR DY LPT. i pe er cm ree, SCENE IV. Clar. I shall be reconciled to him again. [die. Sec. Murd. Never, my lord; therefore prepare to Clar. Are you call’d forth from out a world of men To slay the innocent? What is my offence ? Where are the evidence that do accuse me ? What lawful quest have given their verdict up Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounced The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death ? Before I be convict by course of law, To threaten me with death is most unlawful. I charge you, as you hope to have redemption By Christ’s dear blood shed for our grievous sins, That you depart and lay no hands on me: The deed you undertake is damnable. First Murd. What we will do, we do upon com- mand. [king. Sec. Murd. And he that hath commanded is the Clar. Erroneous vassal! the great King of kings Hath in the tables of his law commanded That thou shalt do no murder: and wilt thou, then, Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man’s ? Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hands, To hurl upon their heads that break his law. Sec. Murd. And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee, For false forswearing and for murder too: Thou didst receive the holy sacrament, To fight in quarrel of the house of Lancaster. Kirst Murd. And,likea traitor to the name of God, Didst aiea that vow; and with thy treacherous ade Unrip’dst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son. Sec. Murd. Whom thou wert sworn to cherish and defend. [law to us, First Murd. How canst thou urge God’s dreadful When thou hast broke it in so dear degree ? Clar. Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed ? For Edward, for my brother, for his sake: Why, sirs, He sends ye not to murder me for this; For in this sin he is as deep as I. It God will be revenged for this deed, O, know you yet, he doth it publicly: Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm; He needs no indirect nor lawless course To cut off those that have offended him. lister, First Murd. Who made thee, then, a bloody min- When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet, That princely novice, was struck dead by thee ? Clar. My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage. Kirst Murd. Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee. _—_[fault, Clar. Oh, if you love my brother, hate not me; I am his brother, and I love him well. If you be hired for meed, go back again, And I will send you to my brother Gloucester, Who shall reward you better for my life Than Edward will for tidings of my death. Sec. Murd. You are deceived, your brother Glou- cester hates you. Clar. O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear: Go you to him from me. . Both. Ay, So we will. [York Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father Bless’d his three sons with his victorious arm, And charged us from his soul to love each other, He little thought of this divided friendship: Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep. First Murd. Ay, millstones; as he lesson’d us to weep. Clar. O, do not slander him, for he is kind. First Murd. Right, As snow in harvest. Thou deceivest thyself: ’T is he that sent us hither now to slaughter thee. OClar. It cannot be; for when I parted with him, He hugg’d me in his arms, and swore, with sobs, That he would labour my delivery. 465 ACT IT. Sec. Murd. Why,so he doth, now he delivers thee From this world’s thraldom to the joys of heaven. First Murd. Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord. Clar. Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul, To counsel me to make my peace with God, And art thou yet to thy own soul so blind, That thou wilt war with God by murdering me? Ah, sirs, consider, he that set you on To do this deed will hate you for the deed. Sec. Murd. What shall we do ? Clar. Relent, and save your souls. First Murd. Relent! ’t iscowardly and womanish. Clar. Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish. Which of you, if you were a prince’s son, Being pent from liberty, as I am now, If two such murderers as yourselves came to you, Would not entreat for life ? My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks; O, if thine eye be not a flatterer, Come thou on my side, and entreat for me, As you would beg, were you in my distress: A begging prince what beggar pities not ? KING RICHARD III. SCENE I. Sec. Murd. Look behind you, my lord. First Murd. Take that, and that: if all this will not do, [Stabs hin. I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. | Nxt, with the body. Sec. Murd. A bloody deed, and desperately dis- patch’d! How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands Of this most grievous guilty murder done! Re-enter First Murderer. First Murd. How now! what mean’st thou, that thou help’st me not ? By heavens, the duke shall know how slack thou art! Sec. Murd. I would he knew that I had saved his brother ! Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say; For I repent me that the duke is slain. [ Hai. First Murd. So do not I: go, coward as thou art. Now must I hide his body in some hole, Until the duke take order for his burial: And when I have my meed, I must away; For this will out, and here I must not stay. NSC Dee SCENE I. — London. Enter King Edward sick, Queen Elizabeth, The palace. Flourish. Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, Buckingham, Grey, and others. K. Hdw. Why,so: now have I done a good day’s You peers, continue this united league: [work: J every day expect an embassage From my Redeemer to redeem me hence; And now in peace my soul shall part to heaven, Since I have set my friends at peace on earth. Rivers and Hastings, take each other’s hand; Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love. [hate; Riv. By heaven, my heart is purged from grudging And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love. Hast. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like! kK. Hdw. Take heed you dally not before your Lest he that is the supreme King of kings _ [{king; Confound your hidden falsehood, and award Either of you to be the other’s end. Hast. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love! Riv. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart! ik, Edw. Madam, yourself are not exempt in this, Nor your son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you: You have been factious one against the other. Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand; And what you do, do it unfeignedly. [member Q. Hliz. Here, Hastings; I will never more re- Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine! dx, Edw. Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love lord marquess. Dor. This interchange of love, I here protest, Upon my part shall be unviolable. Hast. And so swear I, my lord. [They embrace. K. Hdw. Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league With thy embracements to my wife’s allies, And make me happy in your unity. Buck. Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate On you or yours [to the Queen], but with all duteous Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me _ [love With hate in those where I expect most love! When I have most need to employ a friend, And most assured that he is a friend, Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile, Be he unto me! this do I beg of God, When I am cold in zeal to you or yours. [They embrace. 466 K, Edw. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham, Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here, To make the perfect period of this peace. [duke. Buck. And, in good time, here comes the noble Enter Gloucester. Glou. Good morrow to my sovereign king and And, princely peers, a happy time of day! [queen ; . dw. Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day. Brother, we have done deeds of charity ; Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers. Glou. A blessed labour, my most sovereign liege’ Amongst this princely heap, if any here, By false intelligence, or wrong surmise, Hold me a foe; If I unwittingly, or in my rage, Have aught committed that is hardly borne By any in this presence, I desire To reconcile me to his friendly peace: ’T is death to me to be at enmity ; I hate it, and desire all good men’s love. First, madam, I entreat true peace of you, Which I will purchase with my duteous service; Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, If ever any grudge were lodged between us; Of you, Lord Rivers, and, Lord Grey, of you; That all without desert have frown’d on me; Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all. I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds More than the infant that is born to-night: I thank my God for my humility. Q. Eliz. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter: I would to God all strifes were well compounded. My sovereign liege, I do beseech your majesty. To take our brother Clarence to your grace. Glou. Why, madam, have I offer’d love for this, To be so flouted in this royal presence ? Who knows not that the noble duke is dead ? [| Vhey all start. You do him injury to scorn his corse. Riv. Who knows not he is dead! who knows he is ? Q. Eliz. All-seeing heaven, what a world is this! Buck. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest ? Dor. Ay, my good lord; and no one in this presence But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks. ACT II. AVG LOT AK Darr SCENE II. K. Edw. Is Clarence dead? the order was re- versed. Glou. But he, poor soul, by your first order died , And that a winged Mercury did bear ; Some tardy cripple bore the countermand, That came too lag to see him buried. God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, Nearer in bloody thoughts, but not in blood, Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did, And yet go current from suspicion ! Enter Derby. Der. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done! ik. Edw. I pray thee, peace: my soul is full of SOrrow. Der. I will not rise, unless your highness grant. kK. Edw. Then speak at once what is it thou de- mand’st. Der. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life; Who slew to-day a righteous gentleman Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk. [death, kK, Edw. Have La tongue to doom my brother’s And shall the same give pardon to a slave ? My brother slew no man; his fault was thought, And yet his punishment was cruel death. Who sued to me for him? who, in my rage, Kneel’d at my feet, and bade me be advised ? Who spake of brotherhood ? who spake of love ? Who told me how the poor soul did forsake The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me ? Who told me, in the field by Tewksbury, When Oxford had me down, he rescued me, And said, ‘ Dear brother, live, and be a king’ ? Who told me, when we both lay in the field Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me Even in his own garments, and gave himself, All thin and naked, to the numb cold night ? All this from my remembrance brutish wrath Sinfully pluck’d, and not a man of you Had so much grace to put it in my mind. But when your carters or your waiting-vassals Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon ; And I, unjustly too, must grant it you: But for my brother not a man would speak, Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all Have been beholding to him in his life; Yet none of you would once plead for his life. O God, I fear thy justice will take hold On me, and you, and mine, and yours for this! Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Oh, poor Clarence! [Hxeunt some with King and Queen. Glou. This is the fruit of rashness! Mark’d you How that the guilty kindred of the queen [not Look’d pale when they did hear of Clarence’ death ? O, they did urge it still unto the king! God will revenge it. But come, let us in, To comfort Edward with our company. Buck. We wait upon your grace. SCENE II.— The palace. Enter the Duchess of York, with the two children of Clarence. Boy. Tell me, good grandam, is our father dead ? Duch. No, boy. [breast, Boy. Why do you wring your hands, and beat your And ery ‘O Clarence, my unhappy son!’ [head, Girl. Why do you look on us, and shake your And call us wretches, orphans, castaways, - If that our noble father be alive ? Duch. My pretty cousins, you mistake me much; I do lament the sickness of the king, As loath to lose him, not your father’s death ; It were lost sorrow to wail one that’s lost. [ Exeunt. Boy. Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead. The king my uncle is to blame for this: God will revenge it; whom I will importune With daily prayers all to that effect. Girl. And so will I. [you well: Duch. Peace, children, peace! the king doth love Incapable and shallow innocents, You cannot guess who caused your father’s death. Boy. Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Glou- Told me, the king, provoked by the queen, [cester Devised impeachments to imprison him: And when my uncle told me so, he wept, [cheek ; And hugg’d me in his arm, and kindly kiss’d my Bade me rely on him as on my father, And he would love me dearly as his child. Duch. Oh, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes, And with a virtuous vizard hide foul guile! He is my son; yea, and therein my shame; Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. Son. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam ? Duch. Ay, boy. Son. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this ? Enter Queen Elizabeth, with her hair about her ears; Rivers and Dorset after her. Q. Eliz. Oh, who shall hinder me to wail and weep, To chide my fortune, and torment myself ? I ll join with black despair against my soul, And to myself become an enemy. Duch. What means this scene of rude impatience ? Q. Hliz. To make an act of tragic violence: Edward, my lord, your son, our king, is dead. Why grow the branches now the root is wither’d ? Why wither not the leaves the sap being gone ? If you will live, lament; if die, be brief, | That our swift-winged souls may catch the king’s; Or, like obedient subjects, follow him To his new kingdom of perpetual rest. Duch. Ah,so much interest have I in thy sorrow As I had title in thy noble husband! I have bewept a worthy husband’s death, And lived by looking on his images: But now two mirrors of his princely semblance Are crack’d in pieces by malignant death, And I for comfort have but one false glass, Which grieves me when I see my shame in him. Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother, And hast the comfort of thy children left thee: But death hath snatch’d my husband from mine arms, And pluck’d two crutches from my feeble limbs, Edward and Clarence. O, what cause have I, Thine being but a moiety of my grief, To overgo thy plaints and drown thy cries! [death ; Boy. Good aunt, you wept not for our father’s How can we aid you with our kindred tears ? Girl. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan’d ; Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept ! @. Eliz. Give me no help in lamentation ; IT am not barren to bring forth complaints: All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, That I, being govern’d by the watery moon, May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world ! Oh for my husband, for my dear lord Edward! Chil. Oh for our father, for our dear lord Clarence! Duch. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence! [gone. Q. Eliz. What stay had I but Edward ? and he’s Chil. What stay had we but Clarence? and he’s gone. [gone. Duch. What stays had I but they ? and they are (). Eliz. Was never widow had so dear a loss! Chil. Were never orphans had so dear a loss! Duch. Was never mother had so dear a loss! Alas, I am the mother of these moans! Their woes are parcell’d, mine are general. 467 MOT. Ti She for an Edward weeps, and so do I; I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she: These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I; I for an Edward weep, so do not they: . Alas, you three, on me, threefold distress’d, Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow’s nurse, And I will pamper it with lamentations. [pleased Dor. Comfort, dear mother: God is much dis- That you take with unthankfulness his doing: In comnion worldly things, ’tis call’d.ungrateful, With dull unwillingness to repay a debt Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent ; Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, For it requires the royal debt it lent you. Riv. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, Of the young prince your son: send straight for him; Let him be crown’d; in him your comfort lives: Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s grave, And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne. Enter Gloucester, Buckingham, Derby, Hastings, and Ratcliff. Glou. Madam, have comfort: all of us have cause To wail the dimming of our shining star ; But none can cure their harms by wailing them. Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy ; I did not see your grace: humbly on my knee I crave your blessing. [mind, Duch. God bless thee; and put meekness in thy Love, charity, obedience, and true duty ! [man ! Glou. [Aside] Amen ;'and make me diea good old That is the butt-end of a mother’s blessing: I marvel why her grace did leave it out. ~ [peers, Buck. You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing That bear this mutual heavy load of moan, Now cheer each other in each other’s love: Though we have spent our harvest of this king, We are to reap the harvest of his son. The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts, But lately splinter’d, knit, and join’d together, Must gently be preserved, cherish’d, and kept: Me seemeth good, that, with some little train, Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch’d Hither to London, to be crown’d our king. Riv. Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham ? Buck. Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude, The new-heal’d wound of malice should break out ; Which would be so much the more dangerous, By how much theestate is green and yet ungovern’d: Where every horse bears his commanding rein, And may direct his course as please himself, As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent, Jn my opinion, ought to be prevented. Glou. I hope the king made peace with all of us; And the compact is firm and true in me. Riv. And so in me; and so, I think, in all: Yet, since it is but green, it should be put To no apparent likelihood of breach, Which haply by much company might be urged: Therefore I say with noble Buckingham, That it is meet so few should fetch the prince. Hast. And so say I. ; Glow. Then be it so; and go we to determine Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow. Madam, and you, my mother, will you go To give your censures in this weighty business ? oe ae With all our hearts. [Hxeunt all but Buckingham and Gloucester. Buck. My Lord, whoever journeys to the prince, For God’s sake, let not us two be behind; For, by the way, Ill sort occasion, As index to the story we late talk’d of, To part the queen’s proud kindred from the king. Glou. My other self, my counsel’s consistory, My oracle, my prophet! My dear cousin, 468 KTN QVELOCHAR Dir SCENE IV. I, like a child, will go by thy direction. Towards Ludlow then, for we ’ll not stay behind. [ Kxewnt. SCENH III. —London. A. street. Enter two Citizens, meeting. ie Cit. Neighbour, well met: whither away so ast ? Sec. Cit. I promise you, I scarcely know myself: Hear you the news abroad ? First Cit. Ay, that the king is dead. Sec. Cit. Bad news, by ’r lady; seldom comes the better: I fear, I fear ’t will prove a troublous world. Enter another Citizen. Third Cit. Neighbours, God speed ! First Cit. Give you good morrow, sir. Third Cit. Doth this news hold of good King Ed- ward’s death ? [while! Sec. Cit. Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the Third Cit. Then, masters, look to see a troublous world. [shall reign. First Cit. No, no; by God’s good grace his son Third Cit. Woe to that land that’s govern’d by a child! Sec. Cit. In him there is a hope of government, That in his nonage council under him, And in his full and ripen’d years himself, No doubt, shall then and till then govern well. First Cit. So stood the state when Henry the Sixth Was crown’d in Paris but at nine months old. Third Cit. Stood the state so? No, no, good friends, God wot; For then this land was famously enrich’d With politic grave counsel; then the king Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace. First Cit. Why, so hath this, both by the father and mother. [father, Third Cit. Better it were they all came by the Or by the father there were none at all; For emulation now, who shall be nearest, Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not. O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester! And the queen’s sons and brothers haught and proud: And were they to be ruled, and not to rule, This sickly land might solace as before. First Cit. Come, come, we fear the worst; all shall be well. [their cloaks; Third Cit. When clouds appear, wise men put on When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand; When the sun sets, who doth not look for night ? Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. All may be well; but, if God sort it so, ’T is more than we deserve, or I expect. Sec. Cit. Truly, the souls of men are full of dread: Ye cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of fear. Third Cit. Before the times of change, still is it By a divine instinct men’s minds mistrust [so: Ensuing dangers; as, by proof, we see The waters swell’ before a boisterous storm. But leave it allto God. Whither away? Sec. Cit. Marry, we were sent for to the justices. Third Cit. And so was 1: Ill bear you company. | Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— London. Enter the Archbishop of York, the young Duke of York, Queen Elizabeth, and the Duchess of York. Arch. Last night, I hear, they lay at Northamp- At Stony-Stratford will they be to-night: [ton; To-morrow, or next day, they willbe here. _ Duch. I long with all my heart to see the prince: I hope he is much grown since last I saw him. The palace. ee ee ee ee ~ 4 \ oo a ONG Oe! hae ial @ is eI G PRT OMA KD TT. SCENE I. . Hliz. But I hear,no; they say myson of York Hath almost overta’en him in his growth. York. Ay, mother; but I would not have it so. Duch. Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow. York. Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper, My uncle Rivers talk’d how I did grow [cester, More than my brother: ‘ Ay,’ quoth my uncle Glou- ‘Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace:’ And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast, Because sweet flowers are Slowand weedsmakehaste. Duch. Good faith, good faith, the saying did not In him that did object the same to thee: [hold He was the wretched’st thing when he was young, So long a-growing and so leisurely, That, if this rule were true, he should be gracious. Arch. Why, madam, so, no doubt, he is. Duch. I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt. York. Now, by my troth, if [had beenremember’d, I could have given my uncle’s grace a flout, To touch his growth nearer than he touch’d mine. Duch. How, my pretty York? I pray thee, let me hear it. York. Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old: °T was full two years ere I could get a tooth. Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. Duch. Upray thee, pretty Y ork, who told thee this ? York. Grandam, his nurse. [born. Duch. His nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wert York. If ’t were not she, I cannot tell who told me. Q. Eliz. A parlous boy: go to, you are too shrewd. Arch. Good madam, be not angry with the child. Q. Eliz. Pitchers have ears. Enter a Messenger. Arch. Here comes a messenger. What news ? Mess. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to unfold. Q. Eliz. How fares the prince? Mess. Well, madam, and in health. Duch. What is thy news then ? [Pomfret, Mess. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners. Duch. Who hath committed them ? Mess. The mighty dukes Gloucester and Buckingham. Q. Hliz. For what offence ? Mess. The sum of all I can, I have disclosed ; Why or for what these nobles were committed Is all unknown to me, my gracious lady. Q. Eliz. Ay me, I see the downfall of our house! The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind; Insulting tyranny begins to jet Upon the innocent and aweless throne: Welcome, destruction, death, and massacre! I see, as in a map, the end of all. Duch. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days, How many of you have mine eyes beheld! My husband lost his life to get the crown; And often up and down my sons were toss’d, For me to joy and weep their gain and loss: And being seated, and domestic broils Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors, Make war upon themselves; blood against blood, Self against self: O, preposterous And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen ; Or let me die, to look on death no more! Q. Eliz. Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary. Madam, farewell. Duch. I’ go along with you. Q. Eliz. You have no cause. Arch. My gracious lady, go, And thither bear your treasure and your goods. For my part, Ill resign unto your grace The seal I keep: and so betide to me As well I tender you and all of yours! Come, Ill conduct you to the sanctuary. [Hzeunt. ACT SCENE I.— London. A street. The trumpets sound. Enter the young Prince, the Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham, Cardinal Bour- chier, Catesby, and others. Buck. Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber. [ereign : Glou. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ sov- The weary way hath made you melancholy. Prince. No, uncle; but our crosses on the way Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy: I want more uncles here to welcome me. [years Glow. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your Hath not yet dived into the world’s deceit: Nor more can you distinguish of a man Than of his outward show; which, God he knows, Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart. Those uncles which you want were dangerous ; Your grace attended to their sugar’d words, But look’d not on the poison of their hearts: God keep you from them, and from such false friends! Prince. God keep me from false friends! but they were none. [greet you. Glou. My lord, the mayor of London comes to Enter the Lord Mayor and his train. May. God bless your grace with health and happy days ! [you all. Prince. I thank you, good my lord; and thank I thought my mother, and my brother York, Would long ere this have met us on the way: Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not To tell us whether they will come or no! BASE Enter Lord Hastings. Buck. And, in good time, here comes the sweat- ing lord. [come ? Prince. Welcome, my lord: what, will our mother Hast. On what occasion, God he knows, not I, The queen your mother, and your brother York, Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince Would fain have come with me to meet your grace, But by his mother was perforce withheld. Buck. Fie, what an indirect and peevish course Is this of hers! Lord cardinal, will your grace Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York Unto his princely brother presently? _ If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him, And from her. jealous arms pluck him perforce. Card. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak ora- Can from his mother win the Duke of York, [tory Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid We should infringe the holy privilege Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land Would I be guilty of so deep a sin. Buck. You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord, Too ceremonious and traditional: Weigh it but with the grossness of this age, You break not sanctuary in seizing him. The benefit thereof is always granted To those whose dealings have deserved the place, And those who have the wit to claim the place: _ This prince hath neither claim’d it nor deserved it; And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it: Then, taking him from thence that is not there, 469 ACT III. You break no privilege nor charter there. Oft have I heard of sanctuary men ; But sanctuary children ne’er till now. _[once. Card. My lord, you shall o’er-rule my mind for Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me? Hast. 1 go, my lord. Prince. Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may. [Exeunt Cardinal and Hastings. Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come, Where shall we sojourn till our coronation ? Glou. Where it seems best unto your royal self. If I may counsel you, some day or two Your highness shall repose you at the Tower: [fit Then where you please, and shall be thought most For your best health and recreation. Prince. I do not like the Tower, of any place. Did Julius Cesar build that place, my lord ? Buck. He did, my gracious lord, begin that place; Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified. Prince. Is it upon record, or else reported Successively from age to age, he built it ? Buck. Upon record, my gracious lord. Prince. But say, my lord, it were not register’d, Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As ’t were retail’d to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day. {live long. Glou. [Aside] So wise so young, they say, do never Prince. What say you, uncle? Glou. I say, without characters, fame lives long. Aside] Thus, like the formal vice, Iniquity, I moralize two meanings in one word. Prince. That Julius Cesar was a famous man; With what his valour did enrich his wit, His wit set down to make his valour live: Death makes no conquest of this conqueror; For now he lives in fame, though not in life. I'll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham, — Buck. What, my gracious lord ? Prince. An if I live until I be a man, Ill win our ancient right in France again, Or die a soldier, as I lived a king. ward spring. Glou. [Aside] Short summers lightly have a for- Enter young York, Hastings, and the Cardinal. Buck. Now, in good time, here comes the Duke of York. [brother ? Prince. Richard of York! how fares our loving York. Well, my dread lord: so must I call you now. Prince. Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours: Too late he died that might have kept that title, Which by his death hath lost much majesty. Glou. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York ? York. I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord, You said that idle weeds are fast in growth: The prince my brother hath outgrown me far. Glou. He hath, my lord. York. And therefore is he idle ? Glou. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so. York. Then is he more beholding to you than I. Glou. He may command me as my sovereign ; But you have power in me as in a kinsman. York. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger. Glou. My dagger, little cousin ? with all my heart. Prince. A beggar, brother ? York. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give; And being but a toy, which is no grief to give. Glou. A greater gift than that Ill give my cousin. York. A greater gift! O,that’s the sword to it. Glou. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. York. O, then, I see, you will part but with light In weightier things you ’ll say a beggar nay. [gifts; Glow. It is too heavy for your grace to wear. York. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. [lord ? Glou. What, would you have my weapon, little York. I would, that I might thank you as you Glou. How ? [call me. York. Little. 470 KING: RICHARD) TIL. SCENE I. Prince. My Lord of Y ork will still be cross in talk: Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with him. York. You mean, to.bear me, not to bear with me: Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me; Because that I am little, like an ape, [ders. He thinks that you should bear me on your shoul- Buck. With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons! To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle, He prettily and aptly taunts himself: So cunning and so young is wonderful. Glou. My lord, will’t please you pass along ? Myself and my good cousin Buckingham Will to your mother, to entreat of her To meet you at the Tower and welcome you. York. What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord ? Prince. My lord protector needs will have it so. York. I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower. Glou. Why, what should you fear ? York. Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry ghost: My grandam told me he was murder’d there. Prince. I fear no uncles dead. Glou. Nor none that live, I hope. Prince. An if they live, I hope I need not fear. But come, my lord; and with a heavy heart, Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. [A Sennet. Exeunt all but Gloucester , Buckingham and Catesby. Buck. Think you, my lord, this little prating Was not incensed by his subtle mother [York To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously ? Glou. No doubt, no doubt: O, ’tis a parlous boy; Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable: He is all the mother’s, from the top to toe. Buck. Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby. Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend As closely to conceal what we impart: Thou know’st our reasons urged upon the way; What think’st thou? is it not an easy matter To make William Lord Hastings of our mind, For the instalment of this noble duke In the seat royal of this famous isle ? Cate. He for his father’s sake so loves the prince, That he will not be won to aught against him. Buck. What think’st thou, then, of Stanley ? what will he ? Cate. He will do all in all as Hastings doth. [by, Buck. Well,then,no more but this: go,gentle Cates- And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings, How he doth stand affected to our purpose; And summon him to-morrow to the Tower, To sit about the coronation. If thou dost find him tractable to us, ; Encourage him, and show him all our reasons: If he be leaden, icy-cold, unwilling, Be thou so too; and so break off your talk, And give us notice of his inclination: For we to-morrow hold divided councils, Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ’d. [Catesby, Glou. Commend me to Lord William: tell him, His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret-castle ; And bid my friend, for joy of this good news, Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more. Buck. Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly. fmay. Cate. My good lords both, with all the heed L Glow. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we Cate. You shall, my lord. [sleep ? Glow. At Crosby Place, there shall you find us both. [ Hxit Catesby. Buck. Now, my lord, what shall we do, if we per- ceive Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots ? Glou. Chop off his head, man; somewhat we will And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me [do: The earldom of Hereford, and the moveables | Whereof the king my brother stood possess’d. ACT III. Buck. Vllclaim that promise at your grace’s hands. tlou. And look to have it yielded with all willing- Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards __[ness. We may digest our complots in some form. [EHzeunt. SCENE II.— Before Lord Hastings’ house. Enter a Messenger. What, ho! my lord! [ Within] Who knocks at the door ? A messenger from the Lord Stanley. Mess. Hast. Mess. Enter Lord Hastings. What is ’t o’clock ? Upon the stroke of four. [nights ? Hast. Cannot thy master sleep these tedious Mess. So it should seem by that I have to say. First, he commends him to your noble lordship. Hast. And then ? Mess. And then he sends you word He dreamt to-night the boar had razed his helm : Besides, he says there are two councils held; And that may be determined at the one Which may make you and him to rue at the other. Therefore he sends to know your lordship’s pleasure, If presently you will take horse with him, And with all speed post with him toward the north, To shun the danger that his soul divines. Hast. Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord; Bid him not fear the separated councils: His honour and myself are at the one, And at the other is my servant Catesby ; Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us Whereof I shall not have intelligence. Tell him his fears are shallow, wanting instance: And for his dreams, I wonder he is so fond To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers: To fly the boar before the boar pursues, Were to incense the boar to follow us And make pursuit where he did mean no chase. Go, bid thy master rise and come to me; And we will both together to the Tower, Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly. Mess. My gracious lord, 1 ’ll tell him what you say. Exit. 7 Enter Catesby. Leet Cate. Many good morrows to my noble lord! Hast. Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stir- ring: What news, what news, in this our tottering state ? Cate. It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord; And I believe ’t will never stand upright Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. [crown ? Hast. How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the Cate. Ay, my good lord. [shoulders Hast. 1’ll have this crown of mine cut from my Ere I will see the crown so foul misplaced. But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it ? Cate. Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you for- Upon his party for the gain thereof : [ward And thereupon he sends you this good news, That this same very day your enemies, The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret. Hast. Indeed, I am no mourner for that news, Because they have been still mine enemies: But, that Ill give my voice on Richard’s side, To bar my master’s heirs in true descent, God knows I will not do it, to the death. [mind! Cate. God keep your lordship in that gracious Hast. But I shall laugh at this a twelve-month hence, That they who brought me in my master’s hate, I live to look upon their tragedy. I tell thee, Catesby,— Cate. What, my lord ? Hast. Ere a fortnight make me elder, Ill send some packing that yet think not on it. Hast. Mess. KING BICHARD, Tit, SCENE II, Cate. ’Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, When men are unprepared and look not for it. Hast. O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey: and so ’t will do With some men else, who think themselves as safe As thou and I; who, as thou know’st, are dear To princely Richard and to Buckingham,’ Cate. The princes both make high account of you; [Aside] For they account his head upon the bridge. Hast. I know they do; and I have well deserved it. Enter Lord Stanley. Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man? Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided ? Stan. My lord, good morrow; good morrow, You may jest on, but, by the holy rood, [Catesby: I do not like these several councils, I. Hast. My lord, I hold my life as dear as you do yours; And never in my life, I do protest, Was it more precious to me than ’tis now: Think you, but that I know our state secure, I would be so triumphant as I am? [London, Stan. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from Were jocund, and supposed their state was sure, And they indeed had no cause to mistrust ; But yet, you see, how soon the day o’ercast. This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt: Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward! What, shall we toward the Tower ? the day is spent. Hast. Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my lord ? To-day the lords you talk of are beheaded. [heads Stan. They, for their truth, might better wear their Than some that have accused them wear their hats. But come, my lord, let us away. Enter a Pursuivant. Hast. Go on before; I ’ll talk with this good fel- low. [Hxeunt Stanley and Catesby. How now, sirrah! how goes the world with thee? Purs. The better that your lordship please to ask. Hast. I tell thee, man, ’t is better with me now Than when I met thee last where now we meet: Then was I going prisoner to the Tower, By the suggestion of the queen’s allies ; But now, I tell thee—keep it to thyself — This day those enemies are put to death, And I in better state than e’er I was. Purs. God hold it, to your honour’s good content! Hast. Gramercy, fellow: there, drink that for me. [Throws him his purse. Purs. God save your lordship! | Hatt. Enter a Priest. Priest. Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour. . __ [heart. Hast. I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my I am in your debt for your last exercise ; Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you. | | He whispers in his ear. Enter Buckingham. Buck. What, talking with a priest, lord chamber- lain ? Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest ; Your honour hath no shriving work in hand. Hast. Good faith, and when I met this holy man, Those men you talk of came into my mind. What, go you toward the Tower ? Buck. I do, my lord; but long I shall not stay: I shall return before your lordship thence. Hast. ’T is like enough, for I stay dinner there. Buck. [Aside] And supper too, although thou know’st it not. Come, will you go? Hast. Ill wait upon your lordship. 471 | Heeunt. ACT III. SCENE III. —Pomfret Castle. Enter Sir Richard Ratcliff, with halberds, carrying Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan to death. Rat. Come, bring forth the prisoners. Riv. Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this: To-day shalt thou behold a subject die For truth, for duty, and for loyalty. [you! Grey. God keep the prince from all the pack of A knot you are of damned blood-suckers. after. Vaug. You live that shall cry woe for this here- Rat. Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out. Riv. O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison, Fatal and ominous to noble peers! Within the guilty closure of thy walls Richard the second here was hack’d to death; And, for more slander to thy dismal seat, We give thee up our guiltless blood to drink. Grey. Now Margaret’s curse is fall’n upon our heads, For standing by when Richard stabb’d her son. JTtiv. Then cursed she Hastings, then cursed she Buckingham, Then cursed she Richard. O, remember, God, To hear her prayers for them, as now for us! And for my sister and her princely sons, Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood, Which, as thou know’st, unjustly must be spilt. Rat. Make haste; the hour of death is expiate. Riv. Come, Grey, come, Vaughan, let us all em- brace: And take our leave, until we meet in heaven. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— The Tower of London. Enter Buckingham, Derby, Hastings, the Bishop of Ely, Ratcliff, Lovel, with others, and take their seats at a table, Hast. My lords, at once: the cause why we are Is, to determine of the coronation. In God’s name, speak: when is the royal day ? Buck. Are all things fitting for that royal time ? Der. It is, and wants but nomination. Ely. To-morrow, then, I judge a happy day. Buck. Who knows the lord protector’s mind herein ? Who is most inward with the royal duke ? Hiy. Your grace, we think, should soonest know his mind. [faces, Buck. Who, I, my lord! we know each other’s But for our hearts, he knows no more of mine, Than I of yours; Nor I no more of his, than you of mine. Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love. Hast. 1 thank his grace, I know he loves me well; But, for his purpose in the coronation, I have not sounded him, nor he deliver’d His gracious pleasure any way therein: But you, my noble lords, may name the time; And in the duke’s behalf Ill give my voice, Which, I presume, he’ll take in gentle part. Enter Gloucester. fily. Now in good time, here comes the duke him- self. row. Glou. My noble lords and cousins all, good mor- I have been long a sleeper; but, I hope, My absence doth neglect no great designs, Which by my presence might have been concluded. Buck. Had not you come upon your cue, my lord, William Lord Hastings had pronounced your part,— i mean, your voice,— for crowning of the king. Glou. Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder ; His lordship knows me well, and loves me well. fast. I thank your grace. 472 KING RICHARD LTE. SCENE IY. Glou. My lord of Ely! Ely. My lord ? Glou. When I was last in Holborn, I saw good strawberries in your garden there: I do beseech you send for some of them. Ely. Marry, and will, my lord, with all my (ie vit, Glou. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you. [Drawing him aside. Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business, And finds the testy gentleman so hot, As he will lose his head ere give consent His master’s son, as worshipful he terms it, Shall lose She royalty of England’s throne. __[you. Buck. Withdraw you hence, my lord, Ill follow [Hxit Gloucester, Buckingham following. Dev. We have not yet set down this day of triumph. To-morrow, in mine opinion, is too sudden; For I myself am not so well provided As else I would be, were the day prolong’d. Re-enter Bishop of Ely. Ely. Where is my lord protector ? I have sent for these strawberries. Hast. His grace looks cheerfully and smooth to- There ’s some conceit or other likes him well, [day; When he doth bid good morrow with such a spirit. I think there ’s never a man in Christendom That can less hide his love or hate than he; For by his face straight shall you know his heart. Der. What of his heart perceive you in his face By any likelihood he show’d to-day ? Hast. Marry, that with no man here he is offended ; For, were he, he had shown it in his looks. Der. I pray God he be not, I say. Re-enter Gloucester and Buckingham. Glou. I pray you all, tell me what they deserve That do conspire my death with devilish plots Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevail’d Upon my body with their hellish charms ? Hast. The tender love I bear your grace, my lord, Makes me most forward in this noble presence To doom the offenders, whatsoever they be: I say, my lord, they have deserved death. Glou. Then be your eyes the witness of this ill: See how I am bewitch’d; behold mine arm Is, like a blasted sapling, wither’d up: And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch, Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore, That by their witchcraft thus have marked me. ae fy they have done this thing, my gracious ord,— ; et, Glou. If! thou protector of this damned strum- Tellest thou me of ‘ifs’? Thou art a traitor: Off with his head! Now, by Saint Paul I swear, I will not dine until I see the same. Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done: The rest, that love me, rise and follow me. [Hxeunt all but Hastings, Ratcliff, and Lovel. Hast. Woe, woe for England! not a whit for me; For I, too fond, might have prevented this. Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm; But I disdain’d it, and did scorn to fly: Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble, And startled, when he look’d upon the Tower, As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. O, now I want the priest that spake to me: I now repent I told the pursuivant, As ’t were triumphing at mine enemies, How they at Pomfret bloodily were butcher’d, And I myself secure in grace and favour. O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head! [ner; fat. Dispatch, my lord; the duke would be at dins Make a short shrift; he longs to see your head. Hast. O momentary grace of mortal men, Fg, Wall al _ Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! Who builds his hopes in air of your good looks, Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready, with every nod, to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. [claim. Lov. Come, come, dispatch; ’tis bootless to ex- Hast. O bloody Richard! miserable England! I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee That ever wretched age hath look’d upon. Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head: They smile at me that shortly shall be dead. [ Hceunt. SCENE V.—The Tower-walls. Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, i rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured. Glou. Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and change thy colour, Murder thy breath in the middle of a word, And then begin again, and stop again, As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror ? Buck. Tut, I can counterfeit the deep tragedian ; Speak and look back, and pry on every side, Tremble and start at wagging of a straw, Intending deep suspicion: ghastly looks Are at my service, like enforced smiles ; And both are ready in their offices, At any time, to grace my stratagems. But what, is Catesby gone? Glow. He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along. Enter the Mayor and Catesby. Lord mayor,— Look to the drawbridge there! Hark! a drum. Catesby, o’erlook the walls. Lord mayor, the reason we have sent — Glow. Look back, defend thee, here are enemies. Buck. God and our innocency defend and guard us! [Lovel. Glow. Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliff and Enter Lovel and Ratcliff, with Hastings’ head. Lov. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor, The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. Glou. So dear I loved the man, that I must weep. I took him for the plainest harmless creature That breathed upon this earth a Christian ; Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded The history of all her secret thotghts: So smooth he daub’d his vice with show of virtue, That, his apparent open guilt omitted, I mean, his conversation with Shore’s wife, He lived from all attainder of suspect. [traitor Buck. Well, well, he was the covert’st shelter’d That ever lived. Would you imagine, or almost believe, Were ’t not that, by great preservation, We live to tell it you, the subtle traitor This day had plotted, in the council-house To murder me and my good Lord of Gloucester ? May. What, had he so? Glow. What, think you we are Turks or infidels ? Or that we would, against the form of law, Proceed thus rashly to the villain’s death, But that the extreme peril of the case, The peace of England and our persons’ safety, Enforced us to this execution ? May. Now, fair befall you! he deserved his death ; And you my good lords, both have well proceeded, To warn false traitors from the like attempts. I never look’d for better at his hands, After he once fell in with Mistress Shore, Glou. Yet had not we determined he should die, Until your lordship came to see his death; Which now the loving haste of these our friends, Somewhat against our meaning, have prevented: Buck. Glou. Buck. Glou. Buck. KING RICHARD ITI. SCENE VI. Because, my lord, we would have had you heard The traitor speak, and timorously contess The manner and the purpose of his treason; That you might well have signified the same Unto the citizens, who haply may Misconstrue us in him and wail his death. [serve, May. But, my good lord, your grace’s word shall As well as I had seen and heard him speak: And doubt you not, right noble princes both, But [ll acquaint our duteous citizens With all your just proceedings in this cause. [here. Glou. And to that end we wish’d your lordship To avoid the carping censures of the world. Buck. But since you come too late of our intents, Yet witness what you hear we did intend: And so, my good lord mayor, we bid farewell. [ Hait Mayor. Glou. Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham. The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post ; There, at your meet’st advantage of the time, Infer the bastardy of Edward’s children: Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen, Only for saying he would make his son Heir to the crown; meaning indeed his house, Which, by the sign thereof, was termed so. Moreover, urge his hateful luxury, And bestial appetite in change of lust; Which stretched to their servants, daughters, wives, Even where his lustful eye or savage heart, Without control, listed to make his prey. Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person : Tell them, when that my mother went with child Of that unsatiate Edward, noble York My princely father then had wars in France; And, by just computation of the time, Found that the issue was not his begot; Which well appeared in his lineaments, Being nothing like the noble duke my father: But touch this sparingly, as ’t were far off; Because you know, my lord, my mother lives. Buck. Fear not, my lord, Ill play the orator As if the golden fee for which I plead Were for myself: and so, my lord, adieu. [Castle; Glou. If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard’s Where you shall find me well accompanied With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops. Buck. I go; and towards three or four o’clock Look for the news that the Guildhall as ORE eit. Glou. Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw; [To Cate.] Go thou to Friar Penker; bid them both Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle. [Hxeunt all but Gloucester. Now will I in, to take some privy order, To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight; And to give notice, that no manner of person At any time have recourse unto the princes. [Hzvt. SCENE VI.— The same. A street. Enter a Scrivener, with a paper in his hand. Scriv. This is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings; Which in a set hand fairly is engross’d, That it may be this day read over in Paul’s. And mark how well the sequel hangs together: Eleven hours I spent to write it over, For yesternight by Catesby was it brought me; The precedent was full as long a-doing: And yet within these five hours lived Lord Hastings, Untainted, unexamined, free, at liberty. Here’sa good world the while! Why who’sso gross, That seeth not this palpable device ? Yet who’s so blind, but says he sees it not? Bad is the world; and all will come to nought, When such bad dealing must be seen in amas sf et 473 ACT III. SCENE VII.— Baynard’s Castle. Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, at several doors. Glou. How now, my lord, what say the citizens ? Buck. Now, by the holy mother of our Lord, The citizens are mum and speak not a word. Glou. Touch’d you the bastardy of Edward’s children ? Buck. I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy, And his contract by deputy in France; The insatiate greediness of his desires, And his enforcement of the city wives; His tyranny for trifies; his own bastardy, As being got, your father then in France, And his resemblance, being not like the duke: Withal I did infer your lineaments, Being the right idea of your father, Both in your form and nobleness of mind; Laid open all your victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your bounty, virtue, fair humility ; Indeed, left nothing fitting for the purpose Untouch’d, or sightly handled, in discourse: And when mine oratory grew to an end, I bid them that did love their country’s good Cry ‘God save Richard, England’s royal king! ’ Glow. Ah! and did they so? Buck. No,so God help me, they spake not a word ; But, like dumb statuas or breathing stones, Gazed each on other, and look’d deadly pale. Which when I saw, I reprehended them; And ask’d the mayor what meant this wilful silence: His answer was, the people were not wont To be spoke to but by the recorder. Then he was urged to tell my tale again, ‘Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr’d ;’ But nothing spake in warrant from himself. When he had done, some followers of mine own, At the lower end of the hall, hurl’d up their caps, And some ten voices cried ‘ God save King Richard!’ And thus I took the vantage of those few, ‘ Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,’ quoth I; ‘This general applause and loving shout Argues your wisdoms and your love to Richard:?’ And even here brake off, and came away. Glou. What tongueless blocks were they! would they not speak ? Buck. No, by my troth, my lord. [come ? Glou. Will not the mayor then and his brethren Buck. The mayor is here at hand: intend some Be not you spoke with, but by mighty suit: [fear; And look you get a prayer-book in your hand, And stand betwixt two churchmen, good my lord; For on that ground I’ build a holy descant: And be not easily won to our request : Play the maid’s part, still answer nay, and take it. Glou. 1 go; and if you plead as well for them As I can say nay to thee for myself, No doubt we’ll bring it to a happy issue. Buck. Go, go, up to the leads; the lord mayor knocks. [ Hxit Gloucester. Enter the Mayor and Citizens. Welcome, my lord: I dance attendance here; I think the duke will not be spoke withal. Enter Catesby. Here comes his servant: how now, Catesby, What says he? Cate. My lord, he doth entreat your grace To visit him to-morrow or next day: He is within, with two right reverend fathers, Divinely bent to meditation ; And in no worldly suit would he be moved, To draw him from his holy exercise. Buck. Return, good Catesby, to thy lord again: 474 KING \RIGHAR DV TILT SCENE VII. | | Tell him, myself, the mayor and citizens, In deep designs and matters of great moment, No less importing than our general good, Are come to have some conference with his grace. Cate. Ill tell him what you say, my lord. [Hvit. Buck. Ab, ha, my lord, this prince is not an Ed- He is not lolling on a lewd day-bed, [ward ! But on his knees at meditation ; Not dallying with a brace of courtezans, But meditating with two deep divines ; | Not sleeping, to engross his idle body, But praying, to enrich his watchful soul: Happy were England, would this gracious prince Take on himself the sovereignty thereof: But, sure, I fear, we shall ne’er win him to it. May. Marry, God forbid his grace should say us Buck. I fear he will. [nay! Re-enter Catesby. How now, Catesby, what says your lord ? Cate. My lord, He wonders to what end you have assembled Such troops of citizens to speak with him, His grace not being warn’d thereof before: My lord, he fears you mean no good to him. Buck. Sorry I am my noble cousin should Suspect me, that I mean no good to him: By heaven, I come in perfect love to him ; And so once more return and tell his grace. | Hxit Catesby. When holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, ’t is hard to draw them thence, So sweet is zealous contemplation. Enter Gloucester aloft, between two Bishops. Catesby returns. May. sie where he stands between two clergy- men ! Buck. Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, To stay him from the fall of vanity: And, see, a book of prayer in his hand, True ornaments to know a holy man. Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince, Lend favourable ears to our request ; And pardon us the interruption Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal. Glou. My lord, there needs no such apology: I rather do beseech you pardon me, Who, earnest in the service of my God, Neglect the visitation of my friends. But, leaving this, what is your grace’s pleasure ? Buck. Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God And all good men of this ungovern’d isle. [above, Glou. I do suspect I have done some offence That seems disgracious in the city’s eyes, And that you come to reprehend my ignorance. Buck. You have, my lord: would it might please your grace, At our entreaties, to amend that fault! fland ? Glow. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian Buck. Then know, it is your fault that you resign The supreme seat, the throne majestical, The scepter’d office of your ancestors, Your state of fortune and your due of birth, The lineal glory of your royal house, To the corruption of a blemish’d stock: Whilst, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, Which here we waken to our country’s good, This noble isle doth want her proper limbs; Her face defaced with scars of infamy, Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost shoulder’d in the swallowing gulf Of blind forgetfulness and dark oblivion. Which to recure, we heartily solicit Your gracious self to take on you the charge | And kingly government of this your land; , Not as protector, steward, substitute, ie ACT IV. KING RICHARD III. SCENE I. Or lowly factor for another’s gain; But as successively from blood to blood, Your right of birth, your empery, your own. For this, consorted with the citizens, Your very worshipful and loving friends, And by their vehement instigation, In this just suit come I to move your grace. Glow. I know not whether to depart in silence, Or bitterly to speak in your reproof, Best fitteth my degree or your condition: If not to answer, you might haply think Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty, Which fondly you would here impose on me; If to reprove you for this suit of yours, So season’d with your faithful love to me, Then, on the other side, I check’d my friends. Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first, And then, in speaking, not to incur the last, Definitively thus I answer you. Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert Unmeritable shuns your high request. First, if all obstacles were cut away, And that my path were even to the crown, As my ripe revenue and due by birth; Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother’d. But, God be thanked, there ’s no need of me, And much I need to help you, if need were; The royal tree hath left us royal fruit, Which, mellow’d by the stealing hours of time, Will well become the seat of majesty, And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. On him I lay what you would lay on me, The right and fortune of his happy stars; Which God defend that I should wring from him! Buck. My lord, this argues conscience in your grace; But the respects thereof are nice and trivial, All circumstances well considered. You say that Edward is your brother’s son: So say we too, but not by Edward’s wife; For first he was contract to Lady Lucy — Your mother lives a witness to that vow— And afterward by substitute betroth’d To Bona, sister to the King of France. These both put by, a poor petitioner, A care-crazed mother of a many children, A beauty-waning and distressed widow, Even in the afternoon of her best days, Made prize and purchase of his lustful eye, Seduced the pitch and height of all his thoughts To base declension and loathed bigamy: By her, in his unlawful bed, he got This Edward, whom our manners term the prince. More bitterly could I expostulate, ACT SCENE I.— Before the Tower. Enter, on one side, Queen Elizabeth, Duchess of York, and Marquess of Dorset; on the other, Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, Clarence’s young Daughter. Duch. Who meets us here? my niece Plantage- ne Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester ? Now, for my life, she’s wandering to the Tower, On pure heart’s love to greet the tender princes. Daughter, well met. Save that, for reverence to some alive, I give a sparing limit to my tongue. Then, good my lord, take to your royal self This proffer’d benefit of dignity ; If not to bless us and the land withal, Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry From the corruption of abusing times, Unto a lineal true-derived course. May. Do, good my lord, your citizens entreat you. Buck. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer’d love. Cate. O, make them joyful, grant their lawful suit ! Glou. Alas, why would you heap these cares on me? I am unfit for state and majesty: I do beseech you, take it not amiss; I cannot nor I will not yield to you. Buck. If you refuse it, —as, in love and zeal, Loath to depose the child, your brother’s son; As well we know your tenderness of heart And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, Which we have noted in you to your kin, And egally indeed to all estates, — Yet whether you accept our suit or no, Your brother’s son shall never reign our king ; But we will plant some other in the throne, To the disgrace and downfall of your house: And in this resolution here we leave you. — Come, citizens: ’zounds! J ’ll entreat no more. Glou. O, do not swear, my lord of Buckingham. [Exit Buckingham with the Citizens. Cate. Call them again, my lord, and accept their suit. [rue it. Another. Do, good my lord, lest all the land do Glou. Would you enforce me to a world of care ? Well, call them again. I am not made of stone, But penetrable to your kind entreats, Albeit against my conscience and my soul. Re-enter Buckingham and the rest. Cousin of Buckingham, and you sage, grave men, Since you will buckle fortune on my back, To bear her burthen, whether I will or no, I must have patience to endure the load: But if black scandal or foul-faced reproach Attend the sequel of your imposition, Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me From all the impure blots and stains thereof ; For God he knows, and you may partly see, How far I am from the desire thereof. fit. May. God bless your grace! we see it, and will say Glou. In saying so, you shall but say the truth. Buck. Then I salute you with this kingly title: Long live Richard, England’s royal king! May. and Cit. Amen. Buck. To-morrow will it please you to be crown’d? Glou. Even when youplease, since you willhaveitso. Buck. To-morrow, then, we willattend your grace: And so most joyfully we take our leave. Glou. Come, let us to our holy task again. Farewell, good cousin; farewell, gentle friends. | Hxeunt. Ther Anne. God give your graces both A happy and a joyful time of day! [away ? (). Hliz. As much to you, good sister! Whither Anne. No farther than the Tower; and, as I guess, Upon the like devotion as yourselves, To gratulate the gentle princes there. [gether. Q. Eliz. Kind sister, thanks: we ’ll enter all to- Enter Brakenbury. And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes. Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave, How doth the prince, and my young son of York? 475 y ACT IV. Brak. Right well, dear madam. By your pa- I may not suffer you to visit them ,; [tience, The king hath straitly charged the contrary. Q. Eliz. The king! why, who’s that ? Brak. Lery you mercy: I mean the lord protector. (). Eliz. The Lord protect him from that kingly Hath he set bounds betwixt theirloveand me? [title! Lam their mother; who should keep me from them? Duch. Tam their father’s mother; I will see them. Anne. Their aunt Lam in law, in love their mother: Then bring me to their sights; I’ll bear th blame And take thy office from thee, on my peril. Brak. No, madam, no; I may not leave it so: Tam bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. [Hvit. Enter Lord Stanley. Stan. Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, And Ill salute your grace of York as mother, And reverend looker on,of two fair queens. [minster, [To Anne] Come, madam, you must straight to West- There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen. [heart ). Eliz. O, cut my lace in sunder, that my pent May have some scope to beat, or else I swoon With this dead-killing news! Anne. Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news! Dor. Be of good cheer: mother, how fares your grace ? [hence! Q. Hliz. O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee Death and destruction dog thee at the heels; Thy mother’s name is ominous to children. If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas, And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell: Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house, Lest thou increase the number of the dead ; And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse, Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted queen. Stan. Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam. Take all the swift advantage of the hours; You shall have letters from me to my son ‘To meet you on the way, and welcome you. Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay. Duch. O ill-dispersing wind of misery! O my accursed womb, the bed of death! A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world, Whose unavoided eye is murderous. [sent. Stan. Come, madam, come; I in all haste was Anne. And I in all unwillingness will go. I would to God that the inclusive verge Of golden metal that must round my brow Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brain! Anointed let me be with deadly venom, And die, ere men can say, God save the queen ! Q). Eliz. Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory; To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. [now Anne. No! why? When he that is my husband Came to me, as I follow’d Henry’s corse, [hands When scarce the blood was well wash’d from his Which issued from my other angel husband And that dead saint which then I weeping follow’d; O, when, I say, I look’d on Richard’s face, This was my wish: ‘ Be thou,’ quoth I, ‘ accursed, For making me, so young, so old a widow! And, when thou wed’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed; And be thy wife—if any be so mad — As miserable by the life of thee As thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death!’ Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, Even in so short a space, my woman’s heart Grossly grew captive to his honey words And proved the subject of my own soul’s curse, Which ever since hath kept my eyes from rest; lor never yet one hour in his bed Have I enjoy’d the golden dew of sleep, But have been waked by his timorous dreams. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick; And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me. [ing. Q. Hiiz. Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complain- 476 KING SELOCHAR D LT. SCENE If, — Anne. No more than from my soul I mourn for yours. Q. Eliz. Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory! Anne. Adieu, poor soul, that takest thy leave of it ! Duch. [To Dorset| Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee! . [To Anne] Go thou to Richard, and good angels guard thee! [To Queen Eliz.] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee! I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me! Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, And each hour’s joy wreck’d with a week of teen. Q. Hliz. Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes Whom envy hath immured within your walls! Rough cradle for such little pretty ones! Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use my babies well! So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell. [ Hxewnt. SCENE II.— London. Sennet. Enter Richard, in pomp, crowned; Buck- ingham, Catesby, a Page, and others. K. Rich. Standallapart. Cousin of Buckingham! — Buck. My gracious sovereign ? | . K. Rich. Give me thy hand. [Here he ascendeth his throne.| Thus high, by thy advice And thy assistance, is King Richard seated: But shall we wear these honours for a day ? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them ? Buck. Still live they and for ever may they last! k. Rich. O Buckingham, now do I play the touch, To try if thou be current gold indeed: Young Edward lives: think now what I would say. Buck. Say on, my loving lord. {king. K. Rich. Why, Buckingham, I say, I would be — Buck. Why, so you are, my thrice renowned liege. K. Rich. Ha! am I king? ’tis so: but Edward Buck. True, noble prince. [lives. A. Rich. O bitter consequence, That Edward still should live! ‘ True, noble prince!’ Cousin, thou wert not wont to be so dull: Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead; And I would have it suddenly perform’d. What sayest thou? speak suddenly; be brief. Buck. Your grace may do your pleasure. K. Rich. Tut, tut, thou art all ice, thy kindness freezeth: Say, have I thy consent that they shall die ? Buck. Give me some breath, some little pause, my Before I positively speak herein: {lord, I will resolve your grace immediately. [ Evit. Cate. [Aside to a stander by| The king is angry: see, he bites the lip. K. Rich. I will converse with iron-witted fools And unrespective boys: none are for me a That look into me with considerate eyes: High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect. Boy! Page. My lord ? [gold K. Rich. Know’st thou not any whom corrupting Would tempt unto a close exploit of death ? Page. My lord, I know a discontented gentleman, Whose humble means match not his haughty mind: Gold were as good as twenty orators, A And will, no doubt, tempt him to any thing. K. Rich. What is his name ? ‘ Page. His name, my lord, is Tyrrel. K. Rich. I partly know the man: go, call him © hither. [Hxit Page. The deep-revolving witty Buckingham No more shall be the neighbour to my counsel: Hath he so long held out with me untired, And stops he now for breath ? The palace. SOS ONS Enter Stanley. How now! what news with you ? Stan. My lord, I hear the Marquis Dorset’s fled To Richmond, in those parts beyond the sea Where he abides. [Stands apart. K. Rich, Catesby! Cate. My lord ? K. Rich. Rumour it abroad That Anne, my wife, is sick and like to die: I will take order for her keeping close. Inquire me out some mean-born gentleman, Whom I will marry straight to Clarence’ daughter : The boy is foolish, and I fear not him. Look, how thou dream’st! I say again, give out That Anne my wife is sick and like to die: About it; for it stands me much upon, To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me. | Hxit Catesby. I must be married to my brother’s daughter, Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass. Murder her brothers, and then marry her! Uncertain Way of gain! But Iam in So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin: Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. Re-enter Page, with Tyrrel. Is thy name Tyrrel ? [ject. Tyr. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient sub- K. Rich. Art thou, indeed ? . Tyr. Prove me, my gracious sovereign. K. Rich. Darest thou resolve to kill a friend of Tyr. Ay, my lord; [mine ? But I had rather kill two enemies. [enemies, K. Rich. Why, there thou hast it: two deep Foes to my rest and my sweet sleep’s disturbers Are they that I would have thee deal upon: Tyrrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower. Tyr. Let me have open means to come to them, And soon Ill rid you from the fear of them. K. Rich. Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel: Go, by this token: rise, and lend thine ear: | Whispers. There is no more but so: say it is done, And I will love thee, and prefer thee too. Tyr. ’T is done, my gracious lord. [sleep ? . Rich. Shall we hear from thee, Tyrrel, ere we Tyr. Ye shall, my Jord. [ Heit. Re-enter Buckingham. Buck. My lord, I have consider’d in my mind The late demand that you did sound me in. K. Rich. Well, let that pass. Dorset is fled to Buck. I hear that news, my lord. [Richmond. kK. Rich. Stanley, he is your wife’s son: well, look to it. [promise, Buck. My lord, I claim your gift, my due by For which your honour and your faith is pawn’d; The earldom of Hereford and the moveables The which you promised I should possess. [vey K. Rich. Stanley, look to your wife: if she con- Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it. [mand ? Buck. What says your highness to my just de- Kk. Rich. As I remember, Henry the Sixth _ Did prophesy that Richmond should be king, When Richmond was a little peevish boy. A king, perhaps, perhaps,— Buck. My lord! [that time K. Rich. How chance the prophet could not at Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him ? Buck. My lord, your promise for the earldom ,— K. Rich. Richmond! When last I was at Exe- The mayor in courtesy show’d me the castle, [ter, And eall’d it Rougemont: at which name I started, Because a bard of Ireland told me once, I should not live long after 1 saw Richmond. EOIN ELT OIPAR DV LTE. SCENE III, Buck. My lord! Kk. Rich. Ay, what ’s o’clock ? Buck. Lam thus bold to put your grace in mind Of what you promised me. KK. ftich. Well, but what ’s o’clock ? Buck. Upon the stroke of ten. , K. Bich. Well, let it strike. Buck. Why let it strike ? [the stroke KK. Rich. Because that, like a Jack, thou keep’st Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. I am not in the giving vein to-day. [or no. Buck. Why, then resolve me whether you will KY Eich, “Mut, tut, Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein. [Kxeunt all but Buckingham. Buck. Is it even so? rewards he my true service With such deep contempt? made I him king for O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone [this ? To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on! [Hzit. SCENH III.— The same. Enter Tyrrel. Tyr. The tyrannous and bloody deed is done, The most arch act of piteous massacre That ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn To do this ruthless piece of butchery, Although they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs, Melting with tenderness and kind compassion Wept like two children in their deaths’ sad stories. ‘ Lo, thus,’ quoth Dighton, ‘ lay those tender babes :’ ‘ Thus, thus,’ quoth Forrest, ‘ girdling one another Within their innocent alabaster arms: Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, Which in their suminer beauty kiss’d each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay ; {mind; Which once,’ quoth Forrest, ‘almost changed my But O! the devil ’— there the villain stopp’d; Whilst Dighton thus told on: ‘ We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature, That from the prime creation e’er she framed.’ Thus both are gone with conscience and remorse; They could not speak; and so I left them both, To bring this tidings to the bloody king. And here he comes. Enter King Richard. All hail, my sovereign liege! K. Rich. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news ? Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in charge Beget your happiness, be happy then, For it is done, my lord. Kk. Rich. But didst thou see them dead ? Tyr. I did, my lord. KK, dite And buried, gentle Tyrrel ? Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them ; But how or in what place I do not know. Kk. Rich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon at after supper, And thou shalt tell the process of their death. Meantime, but think how I may do thee good, And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell till soon. [Heit Tyrrel. The son of Clarence have I pent up close; His daughter meanly have I match’d in marriage; The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom, And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night. Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter, And, by that knot, looks proudly o’er the crown, To her I go, a jolly thriving wooer. Enter Catesby. Cate. My lord! K. Rich. Good news or bad, that thou comest in so bluntly ? [mond ; Cate. Bad news, my lord: Ely is fled to Rich- 477 ACT IV. And Buckingham, back’d with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. [near K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more Than Buckingham and his rash-levied army. Come, I have heard that fearful commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary : Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king! Come, muster men: my counsel is my shield; We must be brief when traitors brave the field. [Heeunt. | SCENE IV.— Before the palace. Enter Queen Margaret. Q. Mar. So, now prosperity begins to mellow And drop into the rotten mouth of death. Here in these confines slily have I lurk’d, To watch the waning of mine adversaries. A dire induction am I witness to, And will to France, hoping the consequence Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical. [here ? Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret: who comes Enter Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York. (). Hliz. Ah, my young princes! ah, my tender babes! My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets! If yet your gentle souls fly in the air And be not fix’d in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings And hear your mother’s lamentation ! [right @. Mar. Hover about her; say, that right for Hath dimm/’d your infant morn to aged night. Duch. So many miseries have crazed my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is mute and dumb, Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead ? Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet. Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. (lambs, Q. Eliz. Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle And throw them in the entrails of the wolf ? When didst thou sleep when such a deed was done ? Q. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my sweet son. Duch. Blind sight, dead life, poor mortal living ghost, fusurp’d, Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth, [Sitting down. Unlawfully made drunk with innocents’ blood! Q. Eliz. O, that thou wouldst as well afford a As thou canst yield a melancholy seat! [grave Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here. O, who hath any cause to mourn but I ? [Sitting down by her. Q. Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reverend, Give mine the benefit of seniory, And let my woes frown on the upper hand. If sorrow can admit society, [Sitting down with them. Tell o’er your woes again by viewing mine: I had an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him; I had a Harry, till a Richard kill’d him: Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him; Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill’d him. Duch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill Thad a Rutland too, thou holp’st to kill him. [him ; @. Mar. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill’d him. From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death: That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes, To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood, That foul defacer of God’s handiwork, That excellent grand tyrant of the earth, That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls, Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves. 478 KING RICHARD) TIL SCENE IV. O upright, just, and true-disposing God, How do I thank thee, that this carnal cur Preys on the issue of his mother’s body, And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan! Duch. O Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes! God witness with me, I have wept for thine. Q. Mar. Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge, And now I cloy me with beholding it. Thy Edward he is dead, that stabb’d my Edward; ‘Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; Young York he is but boot, because both they Match not the high perfection of my loss: Thy Clarence he is dead that kil’d my Edward ; And the beholders of this tragic play, The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, Untimely smother’d in their dusky graves. | Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer, Only reserved their factor, to buy souls | And send them thither: but at hand, at hand, Ensues his piteous and unpitied end: Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, To have him suddenly convey’d away. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, That I may live to say, The dog is dead! [come Q. Eliz. O, thou didst prophesy the time would That I should wish for thee to help me curse | That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back’d toad! Q. Mar. I call’d thee then vain flourish of my fortune; I call’d thee then poor shadow, painted queen; The presentation of but what 1 was; The flattering index of a direful pageant; One heaved a-high, to be hurl’d down below; A mother only mock’d with two sweet babes; A dream of what thou wert, a breath, a bubble, A sign of dignity, a garish flag, To be the aim of every dangerous shot; A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. Where is thy husband now ? where be thy brothers ? © Where are thy children ? wherein dost thou joy ? Who sues to thee and cries ‘ God save the queen ?’ Where be the bending peers that flatter’d thee ? Where be the thronging troops that follow’d thee ? Decline all this, and see what now thou art: . For happy wife, a most distressed widow; For joyful mother, one that wails the name; For queen, a very caitiff crown’d with care; For one being sued to, one that humbly sues; For one that scorn’d at me, now scorn’d of me; For one being fear’d of all, now fearing one; For one commanding all, obey’d of none. Thus hath the course of justice wheel’d about, And left thee but a very prey to time; Having no more but thought of what thou wert, To torture thee the more, being what thou art. Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow ? Now thy proud neck bears half my burthen’d yoke; From which even here I slip my weary neck, And leave the burthen of it all on thee. Farewell, Y ork’s wife, and queen of sad mischance: These English woes will make me smile in France. Q. Hliz. O thou well skill’d in curses, stay awhile, And teach me how to curse mine enemies! [days; Q. Mar. Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the Compare dead happiness with living woe; Think that thy babes were fairer than they were, And he that slew them fouler than he is: Bettering thy loss makes the bad causer worse: Revolving this will teach thee how to curse. [thine! Q. Eliz. My words are dull; O, quicken them with Q. Mar. Thy woes will make them sharp, and pierce like mine. Exit. Duch. Why should calamity be full of words ? _ Q. Eliz. Windy attorneys to their client woes, Airy succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing orators of miseries! ACT ?PV. Let them have scope: though what they do impart Help not at all, yet do they ease the heart. Duch. Tf so, then be not tongue-tied: go with me, And in the breath of bitter words let ’s smother My damned son, which thy two sweet sons smoth- I hear his drum: be copious in exclaims. fer’d. Hinter King Richard, marching, with drums and trumpets. K. Rich. Who intercepts my expedition ? Duch. O, she that might have intercepted thee, By strangling thee in her accursed womb, From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done! [crown, . Hliz. Hidest thou that forehead with a golden Where should be graven, if that right were right, The slaughter of the prince that owed that crown, And the dire death of my two sons and brothers ? Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my children ? Duch. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother And little Ned Plantagenet, his son? [Clarence ? Q. Hliz. Whereis kind Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey ? {[drums! kK. Rich. A flourish, trumpets! strike alarum, Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women Rail on the Lord’s anointed: strike, I say! [Flourish. Alarums. Either be patient, and entreat me fair, Or with the clamorous report of war Thus will I drown your exclamations. Duch. Art thou my son? [self. K. Rich. Ay, I thank God, my father, and your- Duch. Then patiently hear my impatience. [tion, K. Rich. Madame, I have a touch of your condi- Which cannot brook the accent of reproof. Duch. O, let me speak ! K. Rich. Do then; but I’ll not hear. Duch. I will be mild and gentle in my speech. kK. Rich. And brief, good mother; for I am in haste. Duch. Art thouso hasty? Ihave stay’d for thee, God knows, in anguish, pain and agony. K. Rich. And came I not at last to comfort you ? Duch. No, by the holy rood, thou know’st it well, Thou camest on earth to make the earth my hell. A grievous burthen was thy birth to me; Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy: Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild, and furious, Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous, Thy age confirm’d, proud, subtle, bloody, treach- erous, More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred: What comfortable hour canst thou name, That ever graced me in thy company ? K. Rich. Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that call’d your grace To breakfast once forth of my company. If I be so disgracious in your sight, Let me march on, and not offend your grace. Strike up the drum. Duch. I prithee, hear me speak. K. Rich. You speak too bitterly. Duch. Hear me a word; For I shall never speak to thee again. Kk. Rich. So. Duch. Either thou wilt die, by God’s just ordi- Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror, [nance, Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish And never look upon thy face again. Therefore take with thee my most heavy curse; Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st ! My prayers on the adverse party fight; And there the little souls of Edward’s children Whisper the spirits of thine enemies And promise them success and victory. | eMC e ECE DR DS LEE SCENE IV. Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end; Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend. [ Hicit. Q. Eliz. Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse Abides in me; I say amen to all. toe ES OG: K. Rich. Stay, madam; I must speak a word with Q. Eliz. I have no moe sons of the royal blood For thee to murder: for my daughters, Richard, They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens ; And therefore level not to hit their lives. K. Rich. You have a daughter call’d Elizabeth, Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious. Q. Hliz. And must she die for this ? O, let her live, And I7ll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty ; Slander myself as false to Edward’s bed; Throw over her the veil of infamy: So she may live unscarr’d of bleeding slaughter, I will confess she was not Edward’s daughter. K. Rich. Wrong not her birth, she is of royal blood. ). Hliz. To save her life, I ’ll say she is not so. . Rich. Her life is only safest in her birth. . Eliz. And only in that safety died her brothers. . Rich. Lo, at their births good stars were op- posite. [trary. . Kliz. No, to their lives bad friends were con- . Rich. All unavoided is the doom of destiny. Q. Eliz. True, when avoided grace makes destiny : My babes were destined to a fairer death, If grace had bless’d thee with a fairer life. Kk. Rich. You speak as if that I had slain my cousins. [cozen’d Q. Hliz. Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. Whose hand soever lanced their tender hearts, Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction: No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart, To revel in the entrails of my lambs. But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame, My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys Till that my nails were anchor’d in thine eyes; And I, in such a desperate bay of death, Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft, Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom. K. Rich. Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise And dangerous success of bloody wars, As I intend more good to you and yours Than ever you or yours were by me wrong’d! Q. Eliz. What good is cover’d with the face of To be discover’d, that can do me good? [heaven, K. Rich. The advancement of your children, gentle lady. [heads ? Q. Eliz. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their Kk. Rich. No,tothe dignity and height of honour, The high imperial type of this earth’s glory. Q. Eliz. Flatter my sorrows with report of it; Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour, Canst thou demise to any child of mine? K. Rich. Even all I have; yea, and myself and Will I withal endow a child of thine; all, So in the Lethe of thy angry soul Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs Which thou supposest I have done to thee. Q. Eliz. Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness Last longer telling than thy kindness’ date. Kk. Rich. Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter. Q. Eliz. My daughter’s mother thinks it with her kK. Rich. What do you think ? [soul. Q. Eliz. That thou dost love my daughter froin thy soul: So from thy soul’s love didst thou love her brothers, And from my heart’s love I do thank thee for it. K. Rich. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning: 479 AOT TV: T mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter, And mean to make her queen of England. @. Eliz. Say then, who dost thou mean shall be her king ? K. Rich. Even he that makes her queen : should be else ? % Eliz. What, thou ? Rich. 1,even 1: what think you of it, madam ? Q. Eliz. How canst thou woo her ? K. Rich. That would I learn of you, As one that are best acquainted with her humour. Q. Eliz. And wilt thou learn of me ? AK, Rich. Madam, with all my heart. Q. Eliz. Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers, A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave Edward and York; then haply she will weep: Therefore present to her,—as sometime Margaret Did to thy father, steep’d in Rutland’s blood, -- A handkerchief ; ‘whieh, say to her, did drain The purple sap from her sweet brother’s body. And bid her dry her weeping eyes therewith. If this inducement force her not to love, Send her a story of thy noble acts; Tell her thou madest away her uncle Clarence, Her uncie Rivers; yea, and, for her sake, Madest quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne. kK. Rich. Come, come, you mock me; this is not To win yoy daughter. [the way There is no other way; Unless the couldst put on some other shape, And not be Richard that hath done all this. kK. Rich. Say that I did all this for love of her. Q. Eliz. Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee, Having bought ‘love with such a bloody spoil. Keicn. “Look, what is done cannot be now Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, [amended: Which after hours give leisure to repent. If I did take the kingdom from your sons, To make amends, Il] give it to your daughter. If I have kill’d the issue of your womb, . To quicken your increase, I will beget Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter: A grandam’s name is little less in love Than is the doting title of a mother; They are as children but one step below, Even of your mettle, of your very blood; Of all one pain, save for a night of groans Endured of her, for whom you bid like sorrow. Your children were vexation to your youth, But mine shall be a comfort to your age. The loss you have is but a son being king, And by that loss your daughter is made queen. I cannot make you what amends I would, Therefore accept such kindness as I can. Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul Leads discontented steps in foreign soil, This fair alliance quickly shall call home To high promotions and great dignity: The king, that calls your beauteous daughter wife, Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother; Again shall you be mother to a king, And all the ruins of distressful times Repair’d with double riches of content. What! we have many goodly days to see: The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform’d to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness. Go, then, my mother, to thy daughter go; Make bold her bashful years with your experience ; Prepare her ears to hear a wooer’s tale; Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the princess With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys: And when this arm of mine hath chastised 480 who KING RICHARD ff]. SCENE IV, Bound with triumphant garlands will I come And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed; To whom I will retail my conquest won, And she shall be sole victress, Ceesar’s Ceesar. ’ Q. Eliz. What were I best to say? her father’s — brother Would be her lord ? or shall I say, her uncle ? 1 Or, he that slew her brothers and her uncles ? Under what title shall I woo for thee, That God, the law, my honour and her love, Can make seem pleasing to her tender years ? | kK. Rich. Infer fair England’s peace by this alliance. [ing war. . Eliz. Which she shall purchase with still last- t. Rich. Say that the king, which may command, entreats. [forbids. . Hliz. That at her hands which the king’s King . Rich. Say,sheshall beahigh and mighty queen. . Eliz. To wail the title, as her mother doth. . Rich. Say, I will love her everlastingly. Q. Eliz. But how long shall that title ‘ ever’ last ? KK. Rich. Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end. ; Q. ee: But how long fairly shall her sweet life ast ? its Kk, Rich. So long as heaven and nature lengthens Q. Eliz. So long as hell and Richard likes of it. Kk. Rich. Say,I,her sovereign,amhersubjectlove. Q. Hliz. But she, your subject, loathes such soy- ereignty. K. Rich. be eloquent in my behalf to her. [told. @. Eliz. An honest tale speeds best being plainly — kK. Rich. Then in plain terms tell her my loving tale. | . Eliz. Plain and not honest is too harsh a style. .. dtich. Your reasons are too shallow and too quick. Q. Hliz. O no, my reasons are too deep and dead; Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their grave. K. Rich. Harp not on that string, madam ; that is past. (break. Q. Eliz. Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings i. Rich. Now, by my George, my garter, and my . erown,— fusurp’d. — Q. Eliz. Profaned, dishonour’d, and the third kK. Rich. I swear — Q. Eliz. By nothing; for this is no oath: The George, profaned, hath lost his holy honour; The garter, blemish’d, pawn’d his knightly virtue; The crown, usurp’d, disgraced his kingly glory. If something thou wilt swear to be believed, Swear then by something that thou hast not w yong’. K. Rich. Now, by the world — The petty rebel, dull-brain’d Buckingham, ; i TF ee ee a ee Q. Eliz ’T is full of thy foul wrongs. nL Rich. My father’s death — . Eliz. Thy life hath that dishonour’d. K. Rich. Then, by myself — Q. Lliz Thyself thyself misusest. K. Rich. W hy then, by God — . Eliz. God’s wrong is most of all. If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by Him, The unity the king thy brother made Had not been broken, nor my brother slain : If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by Him, The imperial metal, circling now thy brow, Had graced the tender temples of my child, And both the princes had been breathing here, Which now, two tender playfellows for dust, Thy br oken faith hath made a prey for worms. What canst thou swear by now ? KK. Rich. The time to come. (). Eliz. That thou hast wronged in the time o’er- | For I myself have many tears to wash [past; — Hereafter time, for time past wrong’d by thee. The children live, whose parents thou hast slaugh- — Ungovern’d youth, to wail it in their age; [ter’d, The parents live swhose children thou hast butcher’ d, ACT IV. Old wither’d plants, to wail it with their age. Swear not by time to come; for that thou hast Misused ere used, by time misused o’erpast. K. Rich. As I intend to prosper and repent, So thrive I in my dangerous attempt Of hostile arms! myself myself confound! Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours! Day, yield me not thy light; nor, night, thy rest! Be opposite all planets of good luck ' To my proceedings, if, with pure heart’s love, Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter! In her consists my happiness and thine; Without her, follows to this land and me, To thee, herself, and many a Christian soul, Death, desolation, ruin and decay : It cannot be avoided but by this; It will not be avoided but by this. Therefore, good mother,— I must call you so— Be the attorney of my love to her: Plead what I wili be, not what I have been; Not my deserts, but what I will deserve: Urge the necessity and state of times, And be not peevish-fond in great designs. Q. Eliz. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus ? kk. Rich. Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good. Q. Eliz. Shall I forget myself to be myself ? it, Rich. Ay, if yourself’s remembrance wrong yourself. Q. Hliz. But thou didst kill my children. [them: kK. Rich. But in your daughter’s womb I bury Where in that nest of spicery they shall breed Selves of themselves, to your recomforture. Q. Hliz. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will? K. Rich. And be a happy mother by the deed. Q. Eliz. Igo. Write to me very shortly, And you shall understand from me her mind. kK. Rich. Bear her my true love’s kiss; and so, farewell. [Hutt Queen Elizabeth. Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman! Enter Ratcliff; Catesby following. How now! what news ? Rat. My gracious sovereign, on the western coast Rideth a puissant navy; to the shore Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, Unarm’d, and unresolved to beat them back : *T is thought that Richmond is their admiral ; And there they hull, expecting but the aid Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore. [Norfolk: kK. Rich. Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Ratcliff, thyself, or Catesby ; where is he? Cate. Here, my lord. ik. Rich. Fly to the duke: [To Ratcliff] Post thou to Salisbury : When thou comest thither,— [To Catesby] Dull, un- mindful villain, Why stand’st thou still, and go’st not to the duke? Cate. First, mighty sovereign, let me know your mind, What from your grace I shall deliver to him. Kk. Rich. O, true, good Catesby: bid him levy straight The greatest strength and power he can make, And meet me presently at Salisbury. Cate. I go. [ Nxt. Rat. What is’t your highness’ pleasure I shall do At Salisbury ? [I go? K. Rich. Why, what wouldst thou do there before Rat. Your highness told me I should post before. K. Rich. My mind is changed, sir, my mind is changed. Enter Lord Stanley. How now, what news with you? [hearing ; Stan. None good, my lord, to please you with the Nor none so bad, but it may well be told. K. Rich. Hoyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad! 31 FONG RICOH A RD SLT. SCENE IV. Why dost thou run so many mile about, When thou mayst tell thy tale a nearer way ? Once more, what news ? Stan. Richmond is on the seas. Kk. Rich. There let him sink, and be the seas on White-liver’d runagate, what doth he there? [him! Sian. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess. KK, Rich. Well, sir, a8 you guess, as you guess ? Stan. Stirr’d up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Ely, He makes for England, there to claim the crown. UCL Cis As the chair empty? is the sword un- sway’d : Is the king dead ? the empire unpossess’d ? What heir of York is there alive but we? And who is England’s king but great York’s heir ? Then, tell me, what doth he upon the sea ? Stan. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess. K. Rich. Unless for that he comes to be your liege, You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes. Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear. Stan. No, mighty liege; therefore mistrust me not. K. Rich. Where is thy power, then, to beat him Where are thy tenants and thy followers? [back ? Are they not now upon the western shore, Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships ? Stan. N st my good lord, my friends are in the north. kk. Rich. Cold friends to Richard: what do they in the north, When they should serve their sovereign in the west ? Stan. They have not been commanded, mighty sov- Please it your majesty to give me leave, _[ereign: I ’ll muster up my friends, and meet your grace Where and what time your majesty shall please. K. Rich. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with I will not trust you, sir. [Richmond : Stan. Most mighty sovereign, You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful: I never was nor never will be false. Kk. Rich. Well, Go muster men; but, hear you, leave behind Your son, George Stanley: look your faith be firin, Or else his head’s assurance is but frail. Stan. So deal with him as I prove true to you. Enter a Messenger. ete Mess. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire, As I by friends am well advertised, Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate Bishop of Exeter, his brother there, With many moe confederates, are in arms. Enter another Messenger. Sec. Mess. My liege, in Kent the Guildfords are in And every hour more competitors [arms ; Flock to their aid, and still their power increaseth. Enter another Messenger. Third Mess. My lord, the army of the Duke of Buckingham — K. Rich. Out on you, owls! nothing but songs of death ? | He striketh him. Take that, until thou bring me better news. Third Mess. The news I have to tell your majesty Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters, Buckingham’s army is dispersed and scatter’d ; And he himself wander’d away alone, No man knows whither. K. Rich. I cry thee mercy: There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. Hath any well-advised friend proclaim’d Reward to him that brings the traitor in ? Third Mess. Such proclamation hath been made, my liege. Enter another Messenger. Fourth Mess. Sir Thomas Lovel and Lord Mar- quis Dorset, 481 ACT ¥V. °T is said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms. Yet this good comfort bring I to your grace, The Breton navy is dispersed by tempest: Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks if they were his assistants, yea or no; Who answer’d him, they came from Buckingham Upon his party: he, mistrusting them, Hoised sail and made away for Brittany. kK. Rich. March on, march on, since we are up in If not to fight with foreign enemies, [arms ; Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. Re-enter Catesby. Cate. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken; That is the best news: that the Earl of Richmond Is with a mighty power landed at Milford, Is colder tidings, yet they must be told. K. Rich. Away towards Salisbury ! while we rea- A royal battle might be won and lost: [son here, Some one take order Buckingham be brought To Salisbury; the rest march on with me. [Flouwrish. Hxeunt. KING RICHARD I11. SCENE IIIf. SCENE V.— Lord Derby’s house. Enter Derby and Sir Christopher Urswick. Der. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me: That in the sty of this most bloody boar My son George Stanley is frank’d up in hold: If I revolt, off goes young George’s head; The fear of that withholds my present aid. But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now ? Chris. At Pembroke, or at Ha/’rford-west, in Der. What men of name resort to him? [Wales. Chris. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier ; Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley ; Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt, And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew; And many moe of noble fame and worth: And towards London they do bend their course, If by the way they be not fought withal. Der. Return unto thy lord; commend me to him: Tell him the queen hath heartily consented He shall espouse Elizabeth her daughter. These letters will resolve him of my mind. Farewell. [ Hxeunt. BANEGD LT REN 0 SCENE I.— Salisbury. An open place. Enter the Sheriff, and Buckingham, with halberds, led to execution. Buck. Will not King Richard let me speak with him ? Sher. No, my good lord; therefore be patient. Buck. Hastings, and Edward’s children, Rivers, Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, [Grey, Vaughan, and all that have miscarried By underhand corrupted foul injustice, If that your moody discontented souls Do through the clouds behold this present hour, Even for 1 revenge mock my destruction! This is All-Souls’ day, fellows, is it not ? Sher. It is, my lord. [doomsday. Buck. Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s This is the day that, in King Edward’s time, I wish’d might fall on me, when I was found False to his children or his wife’s allies ; This is the day wherein I wish’d to fall By the false faith of him I trusted most ; This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul Is the determined respite of my wrongs ; That high All-Seer that I dallied with Hath turn’d my feigned prayer on my head And given in earnest what I begg’d in jest. Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men To turn their own points on their masters’ bosoms: Now Margaret’s curse is fallen upon my head ‘When he,’ quoth she, ‘shall split thy heart With Remember Margaret was a prophetess.’ _—_‘[Sorrow, Come, sirs, convey me to the block of shame; Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due ee veunt, SCENE II.— The camp near Tamworth. Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with drum and colours. Richm. Fellow Ss in arms, and my most loving Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny, [friends, Thus far into the bowels of the lan Have we march’d on without impediment ; And here receive we from our father Stanley Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, That spoil’d your summer fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough 482 In your embowell’d bosoms, this foul swine Lies now even in the centre of this isle, Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn: From Tamworth thither is but one day’s march. In God’s name, cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war. Oxf. Every man’s conscience is a thousand swords, To fight against that bloody homicide. Herb. I doubt not but his friends will fly to us. Blunt. He hath no friends but who are friends for fear Which in his greatest need will shrink from him. Richm. All for our vantage. Then, in God’s name, march: True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. [ Hxeunt. SCENE III.— Bosworth Field. Enter King Richard in arms, with Norfolk, the Earl of Surrey, and others. K. Rich. Here pitch our tents, even here in Bos- My Lord of Surrey why look you 30 sad ? {worth field. Sur. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks. i. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk, — Nor Here, most gracious liege. K. Rich. Nortolk, we must have knocks: ha! must we not? lord. Nor. We must both give and take, my gracious K. Rich. Up with my tent there! here will I lie to-night ; But where to-morrow ? Well, all’s one for that. Who hath descried the number of the foe ? Nor. Six or seven thousand is their utmost power. K. Rich. Why, our battalion trebles that account: Besides, the king’s name is a tower of strength, Which they upon the adverse party want. Up with my tent there! Valiant gentlemen, Let us survey the vantage of the field ; Call for some men of sound direction : Let ’s want no discipline, make no delay ; For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day. [ Hxeunt. Enter, on the other side of the field, Richmond, Sir Wil- liam Brandon, Oxford, and others. Some of the Sol- diers pitch Richmond’s tent. Richm. The weary sun hath made a golden set, And, by the bright track of his fiery car, MOTE VN. Gives signal of a goodly day to-morrow. Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard. Give me some ink and paper in my tent: I’ draw the form and model of our battle, Limit each leader to his several charge, And part in just proportion our small strength. My Lord of Oxford, you, Sir William Brandon, And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me. The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment : Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him, And by the second hour in the morning Desire the earl to see me in my tent: Yet one thing more, good Blunt, before thou go’st, Where is Lord Stanley quarter’d, dost thou know ? Blunt. Unless I have mista’en his colours much, Which well I am assured I have not done, His regiment lies half a mile at least South from the mighty power of the king. Richm. If without peril it be possible, Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him, And give him from me this most needful scroll. Blunt. Upon my life, my lord, I ll undertake it ; And so, God give you quiet rest to-night! Richm. Good-night, good Captain Blunt. gentlemen, Let us consult upon to-morrow’s business : In to our tent; the air is raw and cold. [They withdraw into the tent. Enter, to his tent, King Richard, Norfolk, Rat- cliff, Catesby, and others. K. Rich. What is ’t o’clock ? f It’s supper-time, my lord; Come, It’s nine o’clock. kK. Rich. I will not sup to-night. Give me some ink and paper. What, is my beaver easier than it was ? And all my armour laid into my tent ? [ness. Cate. It is, my liege; and all things are in readi- K. Rich. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge; Use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels. Nor. I go, my lord. [Norfolk. A. Rich. Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Nor. I warrant you, my lord. [ Hxit. kK. Rich. Catesby! Cate. My lord ? K. Rich. Send out a pursuivant at arms To Stanley’s regiment; bid him bring his power Before sunrising, lest his son George fall Into the blind cave of eternal night. [Hit Catesby. Fill me a bowl of wine. Give mea watch. Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow. Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy. _ Ratcliff! fiat. My lord ? [fumberland ? K. Rich. Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord North- Rat. Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himself, Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers. K. Rich. So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of I have not that alacrity of spirit, [wine: Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have. Set it down. Is ink and paper ready ? Rat. It is, my lord. Ix, Rich. Bid my guard watch; leave me. Ratcliff, about the mid of night come to my tent And help to arm me. Leave me, I say. [| Hxeunt Ratcliff and the other Attendants. ' Enter Derby to Richmond in his tent, Lords and others attending. Der. Fortune and victory sit on thy helm! Richm. All comfort that the dark night can afford Be to thy person, noble father-in-law! Tell me, how fares our loving mother ? Der. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, Who prays continually for Richmond’s good: So much for that. The silent hours steal on, KTR Canter. At Dwr E SCENE III. And flaky darkness breaks within the east. In brief,—for so the season bids us be,— Prepare thy battle early in the morning, And put thy fortune to the arbitrement Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war. I, as I may—that which I would I cannot,— With best advantage will deceive the time, And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms: But on thy side I may not be too forward, Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, Be executed in his father’s sight. Farewell: the leisure and the fearful time Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love And ample interchange of sweet discourse, Which so long sunder’d friends should dwell upon: God give us leisure for these rites of love! Once more, adieu: be valiant, and speed well! Richm. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment: Ill strive, with troubled thoughts, to take a nap, Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow, When I should mount with wings of victory: Once more, good-night, kind lords and gentlemen. [Hxeunt all but Richmond. O Thou, whose captain I account myself, Look on my forces with a gracious eye; Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath, That they may crush down with a heavy fall The usurping helmets of our adversaries! Make us thy ministers of chastisement, That we may praise thee in the victory ! To thee I do commend my watchful soul, Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes: Sleeping and waking, O, defend me still! [Sleeps. Enter the Ghost of Prince Edward, son to Henry the Sixth. Ghost. [To Richard] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! Think, how thou stab’dst me in my prime of youth At Tewksbury: despair, therefore, and die! [To Richmond] Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls Of butcher’d princes fight in thy behalf: King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee. Enter the Ghost of Henry the Sixth. Ghost. [To Richard] When I was mortal, my anointed body By thee was punched full of deadly holes: Think on the Tower and me: despair, and die! Harry the Sixth bids thee despair anddie! [queror! [To Richmond] Virtuous and holy, be thou con- Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be king, Doth comfort thee in thy sleep: live, and flourish! Enter the Ghost of Clarence. Ghost. [To Richard] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine, Poor Clarence, by thy guile betrayed to death! To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die! — [To Richmond] Thou offspring of the house of Lan- The wronged heirs of Y ork do pray for thee: [caster, Good angels guard thy battle! live, and flourish! Enter the Ghosts of Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan. Ghost of R. [To Richard] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow, Rivers, that died at Pomfret! despair, and die! Ghost of G. [To Richard] Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair ! Ghost of V. [To Richard] Think upon Vaughan, and, with guilty fear, Let fall thy lance: despair, and die! All. [To Richmond] Awake, and think our wrongs in Richard’s bosom Will conquer him! awake, and win the day! 483 AGE, V8 Enter ine Ghost of Hastings. Ghost. [To Richard] Bloody and guilty, guiltily And in a bloody battle end thy days! _ [awake, Think on Lord Hastings: despair, and die! [To Richmond] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake! Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England’s sake! Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes. Ghosts. [To Richard] Dream on thy cousins smother’d in the Tower: Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard, And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death! Thy nephews’ souls bid thee despair and die! [To Richmond] Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy; Good angels guard thee from the boar’s annoy! Live, and beget a happy race of kings! Edward’s unhappy sons do bid thee flourish. Enter the Ghost of Lady Anne. Ghost. [To Richard] Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife, That never slept a quiet hour with thee, Now fills thy sleep with perturbations: To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die! [To Richmond] Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet Dream of success and happy victory! [sleep ; Thy adversary’s wife doth pray for thee. Enter the Ghost of Buckingham. Ghost. [To Richard] The first was I that helped thee The last was I that felt thy tyranny: [to the crown; O, in the battle think on Buckingham, And die in terror of thy guiltiness! Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death: Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath! [To Richmond] I died for hope ere I could lend thee But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay’d: [aid: God and good angels fight on Richmond’s side; And Richard falls in height of all his pride. [The Ghosts vanish. King Richard starts out of his dream. kK. Rich. Give me another horse: bind up my wounds. Have mercy, Jesu!—Soft! I did but dream. O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What do I fear? myself? there’s none else by: Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, Iam: Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why: Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself ? Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? for any good That I myself have done unto myself ? O, no! alas, I rather hate myself For hateful deeds committed by myself! I ama villain: yet I lie, I am not. Fool, of thyself speak well: fool, do not flatter. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high’st degree; Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree; All several sins, all used in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! guilty! I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; And if I die, no soul shall pity me: Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself ? Methought the souls of all that I had murder’d Came to my tent; and every one did threat To-morrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard. Enter Ratcliff. Rat. My lord! Kk. Rich. ’Zounds! who is there ? 484 KING? PUOCHAR DY aT SCENE ITT. — Rat. Ratcliff, my lord; ’tis I. The early village- Hath twice done salutation to the morn; [cock Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour. kK. Rich. O Ratcliff, I have dream’d a fearful dream ! What thinkest thou, will our friends prove all true ? Rat. No doubt, my lord? ; K. Rich. O Ratcliff, I fear, I fear,— Rat. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows, Kk, Rich. By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond. It is not yet near day. Come, go with me; Under our tents Ill play the eaves-dropper, To see if any mean to shrink from me. [ Hxeunt. Enter the Lords to Richmond, sitting in his tent. Lords. Good morrow, Richmond! Richm. Cry mercy, lords and watchful gentlemen, That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here. Lords. How have you slept, my lord? [dreams Richm. The sweetest sleep, and fairest-boding That ever enter’d in a drowsy head, Have I since your departure had, my lords. [der’d, Methought their souls, whose bodies Richard mur-. Came to my tent, and cried on victory: I promise you, my soul is very jocund In the remembrance of so fair a dream. How far into the morning is it, lords ? Lords. Upon the stroke of four. [tion, Richm. Why, then ’t is time to arm and give direc- His oration to his soldiers. More than I have said, loving countrymen, The leisure and enforcement of the time Forbids to dwell upon: yet remember this, God and our good cause fight upon our side; The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls, Like high-rear’d bulwarks, stand before our faces; Richard except, those whom we fight against Had rather have us win than him they follow: For what is he they follow? truly, gentlemen, A bloody tyrant and a homicide ; One raised in blood, and one in blood establish’d ; One that made means to come by what he hath, And slaughter’d those that were the means to help. A base foul stone, made precious by the foil {him;_ Of England’s chair, where he is falsely set ; One that hath ever been God’s enemy: Then, if you fight against God’s enemy, God will in justice ward you as his soldiers ; If you do sweat to put a tyrant down, You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain; If you do fight against your country’s foes, Your country’s fat shall pay your pains the hire; If you do fight in safeguard of your wives, Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors ; If you do free your children from the sword, Your children’s children quit it in your age. Then, in the name of God and all these rights, Advance your standards, draw your willing swords, . For me, the ransom of my bold attempt Shall be this cold corpse on the earth’s cold face; But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt The least of you shall share his part thereof. Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully ; God and Saint George! Richmond and victory! [ Hxeunt, Re-enter King Richard, Ratcliff, Attendants and Forces. K,. Rich. What said Northumberland as touching Richmond ? fat. That he was never trained up in arms. K. Rich. He said the truth: and what said Sur. rey then ? [pose.’ Rat. He smiled and said ‘ The better for our pur. | eg ACT V:. KK. Rich. He was in the right; and so indeed it is. [Clock striketh. Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. Who saw the sun to-day ? Rat. NotI, my lord. [book Kk. Rich. Then he disdains to shine; for by the He should have braved the east an hour ago: A black day will it be to somebody. Ratcliff ! Rat. My lord ? dig.. Rich. The sun will not be seen to-day ; The sky doth frown and lour upon our army. I would these dewy tears were from the ground. Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me More than to Richmond ? for the selfsame heaven That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. Enter Norfolk. ae ue arm, my lord; the foe vaunts in the eld. K. Rich. Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse. Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power: J will lead forth my soldiers to the plain, And thus my battle shall be ordered : My foreward shall be drawn out all in length, Consisting equally of horse and foot; Our archers shall be placed in the midst: John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey, Shall have the leading of this foot and horse. They thus directed, we will follow In the main battle, whose puissance on either side Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse. This, and Saint George to boot! What think’st thou, Norfolk ? Nor. A good direction, warlike sovereign. This found I on my tent this morning. [He sheweth him a paper. K. Rich. [Reads] ‘ Jockey of Norfolk, be not too For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.’ [bold, A thing devised by the enemy. Go, gentlemen, every man unto his charge: Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls: Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law. March on, join bravely, let us to ’t pell-mell ; If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell. His oration to his army. What shall I say more than I have inferr’d ? Remember whom you are to cope withal ; A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, A scum of Bretons, and base lackey peasants, Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth To desperate ventures and assured destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest; You having lands, and blest with beauteous wives, They would restrain the one, distain the other. And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow, Long kept in Bretagne at our mother’s cost ? A milk-sop, one that never in his life Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow ? Let ’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas again ; Lash hence these overweening rags of France, These famish’d beggars, weary of their lives; Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit, For want of means, poor rats, had hang’d them- If we be conquer’d, let men conquer us, [selves : And not these bastard Bretons; whom our fathers Have in their own land beaten, bobb’d, and thump’d, And in record, left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives ? Ravish our daughters? [Drum afar off.] Hark! I hear their drum. Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen ! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head ! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood; Amaze the welkin with your broken staves! HOLING | Let CLEAR Dery. SCENE V. ~——— Enter « Messenger. What says Lord Stanley ? will he bring his power ? Mess. My lord, he doth deny to come. KK. Rich. Off with his son George’s head ! Nor. My lord, the enemy is past the marsh: After the battle let George Stanley die. . K. Rich. A thousand hearts are great’ within my Advance our standards, set upon our foes; [bosom: Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! Upon them! Victory sits on our helms. [Hxeunt. SCENE IV. — Another part of the field. Alarum: excursions. Enter Norfolk and forces Jighting; to him Catesby. Cate. Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue! The king enacts more wonders than a man, Daring an opposite to every danger: His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights, Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death. Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost! Alarums. Enter King Richard. Kk. Rich. A horse! a horse! my kingdom fora horse! Cate. Withdraw, my lord; I 71] help you to a horse. K. Rich. Slave, I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die: I think there be six Richmonds in the field; Five have I slain to-day instead of him. A horse] a horse! my kingdom fora horse! [Hzeunt. SCENE V.— Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter Richard and Richmond; they fight. Richard 7s slain. Retreat and flourish. Re-enter Rich- mond, Derby bearing the crown, with divers other Lords. Richm. God and your arms be praised, victorious The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead. _ [friends; Der. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty [thee. From the dead temples of this bloody wretch Have I pluck’d off, to grace thy brows withal: Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it. Richm. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all! But, tell me, is young George Stanley living ? Der. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town ; Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us. Richm. What men of name are slain on either side ? Der. John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers, Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon. Richm. Inter their bodies as becomes their births: Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled That in submission will return to us: And then, as we have ta’en the sacrament, We will unite the white rose and the red: Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, That long have frown’d upon their enmity! What traitor hears me, and says not amen ? England hath long been mad, and scarr’d herself ; The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood, The father rashly slaughter’d his own son, The son, compell’d, been butcher to the sire: All this divided York and Lancaster, Divided in their dire division, O, now, let Richmond and Elizabeth, The true succeeders of each royal house, By God’s fair ordinance conjoin together! And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so, Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace, With smiling plenty and fair prosperous days! Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, That would reduce these bloody days again, And make poor England weep in streams of blood! Let them not live to taste this land’s increase That would withtreason wound this fair land’s peace ! Now civil wounds are stopp’d, peace lives again : That she may long live here, God say amen! [Hxeunt. THE FAMOUS HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. DRAMATIS PERSON. King Henry the Eighth. Cardinal Wolsey. Cardinal Campeius. Capucius, Ambassador Charles V. Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. Duke of Norfolk. Duke of Buckingham. Duke of Suffolk. Earl of Surrey. Lord Chamberlain. Lord Chancellor. Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester. Bishop of Lincoln. Lord Abergavenny. Lord Sands. Sir Henry Guildford. Sir Thomas Lovell. Sir Anthony Denny. Sir Nicholas Vaux. Secretaries to Wolsey. Cromwell, Servant to Wolsey. from the Emperor Griffith, Gentleman-usher to Queen Katharine. Three Gentlemen. Doctor Butts, Physician to the King. Garter King-at-Arms. Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham. Brandon, and a Sergeant-at-Arms. Door-keeper of the Council-chamber. his Man. Page to Gardiner. A Crier. Queen Katharine, wife to King Henry, afterwards divorced. Anne Bullen, her Maid of Honour, afterwards Queen. An old Lady, friend to Anne Bullen. Patience, woman to Queen Katharine. Porter, and Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women attending upon the Queen; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants. Spirits. SCENE — London; Westminster ; Kimbolton. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lvit.] TELE PROLOG UE. I COME no more to make you laugh: things now, That bear a weighty and a serious brow, Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe, Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, We now present. Those that can pity, here May, if they think it well, let fall a tear; The subject will deserve it. Such as give Their money out of hope they may believe, May here find truth too. Those that come to see Only a show or two, and so agree The play may pass, if they be still and willing, L’ll undertake may see away their shilling Richly in two short hours. Only they That come to hear a merry bawdy play, A noise of targets, or to see a fellow In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, Will be deceived; for, gentle hearers, know, To rank our chosen truth with such a show As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring, To make that only true we now intend, Will leave us never an understanding friend. Therefore, for goodness’ sake, and as you are known The first and happiest hearers of the town, Be sad, as we would make ye: think ye see The very persons of our noble story As they were living; think you see them great, And follow’d with the general throng and sweat Of thousand friends; then in a moment, see How soon this mightiness meets misery: And, if you can be merry then, I ’ll say A mah may weep upon his wedding-day. Ba 8 BA PR SCENE I.— London. An antechamber in the palace. Enter the Duke of Norfolk at one door ; at the other, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Abergavenny. Buck. Good morrow, and well met. Since last we saw in France ? [ye done Nor. I thank your grace Healthful; and ever since a fresh adiiuee 4 Of what I saw there. How have 486 Buck. An untimely ague Stay’d me a prisoner in my chamber when Those suns of glory, those two lights of men, Met in the vale of Andren. Nor. ; *Twixt Guynes and Arde: I was then present, saw them salute on horseback ; Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung In their embracement, as they grew together ; Which had they, what four throned ones could Such a compounded one? - [have weigh’d ACT I. KRING CHIEN RY *VOELE SCENE I. Buck. _ All the whole time Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have I was my chamber’s prisoner. By this so sicken’d their estates, that never Nor. Then you lost They shall abound as formerly. The view of earthly glory: men might say, Till this time pomp was single, but now married To one above itself. Each following day Became the next day’s master, till the last Made former wonders its. To-day the French, All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, Shone down the English; and, to-morrow, they Made Britain India: every man that stood Show’d likea mine. Their dwarfish pages were As cherubins, all gilt: the madams too, Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear The pride upon them, that their very labour Was to them as a painting: now this masque Was cried incomparable; and the ensuing night Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings, Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, As presence did present them; him {n eye, Still him in praise: and, being present both, *T was said they saw but one; and no discerner Durst wag his tongue incensure. When these suns— For so they phrase ’em — by their heralds challenged The noble spirits to arms, they did perform Beyond thought’s compass; that former fabulous Being now seen possible enough, got credit, [story, That Bevis was believed. Buck. O, you go far. Nor. As I belong to worship and affect In honour honesty, the tract of every thing Would by a good discourser lose some life, Which action’s self was tongue to. All was royal; To the disposing of it nought rebell’d, Order gave each thing view; the oflice did Distinctly his full function. B Who did guide, uck. I mean, who set the body and the limbs Of this great sport together, as you guess ? Nor. One, certes, that promises no element In such a business. Buck. pray you, who, my lord? Nor. All this was order’d by the good discretion Of the right reverend Cardinal of York. Buck. The devil speed him! no man’s pie is freed From his ambitious finger. What had he To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder That such a keech can with his very bulk Take up the rays 0’ the beneficial sun And keep it from the earth. Nor. Surely, sir, There’s in him stuff that puts him to these ends; For, being not propp’d by ancestry, whose grace Chalks successors their way, nor call’d upon For high feats done to the crown; neither allied To eminent assistants; but, spider-like, Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note, The force of his own merit makes his way; A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys A place next to the king. Aber. I cannot tell What heaven hath given him,— let some graver eye Pierce into that; but I can see his pride [that, Peep through each part of him: whence has he If not from hell? the devil is a niggard, Or has given all before, and he begins A. new hell in himself. Buck. Why the devil, Upon this French going out, took he upon him, Without the privity o’ the king, to appoint Who should attend on him? He makes up the file Of all the gentry; for the most part such To whom as great a charge as little honour He meant to lay upon: and his own letter, The honourable board of council out, Must fetch him in the papers. Aber. I do know The cost that did conclude it. Buck. O, many Have broke their backs with laying manors on ’em For this great journey. What did this vanity But minister communication of ; A most poor issue ? Nor. Grievingly I think, The peace between the French and us not values Buck. Every man, After the hideous storm that follow’d, was A thing inspired; and, not consulting, broke Into a general prophecy; That this tempest, Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded The sudden breach on ’t. Nor. Which is budded out; For France hath flaw’d the league, and hath at- Our merchants’ goods at Bourdeaux. [tach’d Aber. Is it therefore The ambassador is silenced ? Nor. Marry, is’t. Aber. A proper title of a peace; and purchased At a superfluous rate! Buck. Why, all this business Our reverend cardinal carried. or. Like it your grace, The state takes notice of the private difference Betwixt you and the cardinal. I advise you— And take it from a heart that wishes towards you Honour and plenteous safety — that you read The cardinal’s malice and his potency Together; to consider further that What his high hatred would effect wants not A minister in his power. You know his nature, That he’s revengeful, and I know his sword Hath a sharp edge: it’s long and, ’t may be said, It reaches far, and where ’t will not extend, Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel, [rock You’ll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that That I advise your shunning. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, the purse borne before him, cer- tain of the Guard, and two Secretaries with papers. The Cardinal in his passage fixeth his eye on Bucking- ham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdain. Wol. The Duke of Buckingham’s surveyor, ha? Where’s his examination ? First Secr. Here, so please you. Wol. Is he in person ready ? First Secr. Ay, please your grace. Wol. Well, we shall then know more; and Buck- Shall lessen this big look. [ingham [Hxeunt Wolsey and his Train. Buck. This butcher’s cur is venom-mouth’d, and I Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar’s book Outworths a noble’s blood. or. What, are you chafed ? Ask God for temperance; that’s the appliance only Which your disease requires. Buck. I read in’s looks Matter against me; and his eye reviled Me, as his abject object: at this instant He bores me with some trick ; he’s gone to the king; Ill follow and outstare him. Nor. Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What ’tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow’d his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not aman in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend. ; Buck. I'll to the king; And from a mouth of honour quite cry down 487 . ACT I. KING CHE MBE LT: SCENE If. This Ipswich fellow’s insolence; or proclaim There ’s difference in no persons. Nor. Be advised ; Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself: we may outrun, By violent swiftness, that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor till ’t run o’er, In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised: I say again, there is no English soul More stronger to direct you than yourself, If with the sap of reason you would quench, Or but allay, the fire of passion. Buck. Sir, T am thankful to you; and I’ll go along By your prescription: but this top-proud fellow, Whom from the flow of gall I name not but From sincere motions, by intelligence, And proofs as clear as founts in July when We see each grain of gravel, I do know To be corrupt and treasonous. Nor. Say not ‘ treasonous.’ Buck. To the king I’ll say ’t; and make my vouch as strong As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox, Or wolf, or both,—for he is equal ravenous As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief As able to perform ’t; his mind and place Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally — Only to show his pomp as well in France As here at home, suggests the king our master To this last costly treaty, the interview, That swallow’d so much treasure, and like a glass Did break i’ the rinsing. Nor. Faith, and so it did. Buck. Pray, give me favour, sir. This cunning The articles 0’ the combination drew [cardinal As himself pleased; and they were ratified As he cried ‘ Thus let be’: to as much end As giveacrutch to the dead: but our count-cardinal Has done this, and ’tis well; for worthy Wolsey, Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows,— Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy To the old dam, treason,— Charles the emperor, Under pretence to see the queen his aunt,— For ’t was indeed his colour, but he came To whisper Wolsey,— here makes visitation: His fears were, that the interview betwixt England and France might, through their amity, Breed him some prejudice; for from this league Peep’d harms that menaced him: he privily Deals with our cardinal; and, as I trow,— Which I do well; for I am sure the emperor Paid ere he promised ; whereby his suit was granted Ere it was ask’d; but when the way was made, And paved with gold, the emperor thus desired, That he would please to alter the king’s course, And break the foresaid peace. Let the king know, As soon he shall by me, that thus the cardinal Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases, And for his own advantage. Nor. I am sorry To hear this of him; and could wish he were Something mistaken in ’t. Buck. No, not a syllable: I do pronounce him in that very shape He shall appear in proof. inter Brandon, a Sergeant-at-arms before him, and two or three of the Guard. Bran. Your office, sergeant; execute it. Serg. Sir, My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl Ot Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I Arrest thee of high treason, in the name Of our most sovereign king. Buck. Lo, you, my lord, 488 The net has fall’n upon me! I shall perish Under device and practice. Bran. I am sorry To see you ta’en from liberty, to look on The business present: ’tis his highness’ pleasure You shall to the Tower. . Buck. It will help me nothing To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me Which makes my whitest part black. The will of Be done in this and all things! I obey. [heaven O my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well! Bran. Nay, he must bear youcompany. The king [To Abergavenny. Is pleased you shall to the Tower, till you know How he determines further. Aber. As the duke said, The will of heaven be done, and the king’s pleasure By me obey’d! Bran. Here is a warrant from The king to attach Lord Montacute; and the bodies Of the duke’s confessor, John de la Car, One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor,— Buck. So, so; These are the limbs 0’ the plot; no more, I hope. Bran. A monk o’ the Chartreux. Buck. O, Nicholas Hopkins ? Bran. ; He. Buck. My surveyor is false ; the o’er-great cardinal Hath show’d him gold; my life is spann’d already: I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on, By darkening my clear sun. My lord, farewell. | Hxeunt. SCENE II. — The same. Cornets. Enter the King, leaning on the Cardinal’s shoul- der, the Nobles, and Sir Thomas Lovell; the Cardinal places himself under the King’s feet on his right side. King. My life itself, and the best heart of it, Thanks you for this great care: I stood i’ the level Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks To you that choked it. Let be call’d before us That gentleman of Buckingham’s; in person J ll hear him his confessions justify ; And point by point the treasons of his master He shall again relate. The council-chamber. A noise within, crying ‘Room for the Queen!’ Hnter Queen Katharine, ushered by the Duke of Norfolk, and the Duke of Suffolk: she kneels. The King riseth from his state, takes her up, kisses and placeth her by him. Q. Kath. Nay, we must longer kneel: Iamasuitor. - King. Arise, and take place by us: half your suit Never name to us; you have half our power: The other moiety, ere you ask, is given; Repeat your will and take it. Q. Kath. Thank your majesty. That you would love yourself, and in that love Not unconsider’d leave your honour, nor The dignity of your office, is the point Of my petition. King. Lady mine, proceed. Q. Kath. I am solicited, not by a few. And those of true condition, that your subjects Are in great grievance: there have been commissions Sent down among ’em, which hath flaw’d the heart Of all their loyalties: wherein, although, My good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches Most bitterly on you, as putter on Of these exactions, yet the king our master— Whose honour heaven shield from soil! —even he escapes not — Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks The sides of loyalty, and almost appears In loud rebellion. Nor. Not almost appears, me f ACT I. TOIIG: SEI EY OW BEL. SCENE II. It doth appear; for, upon these taxations, The clothiers all, not able to maintain The many to them longing, have put off The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who, Unfit for other life, compell’d by hunger And lack of other means, in desperate manner Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar, And danger serves among them. ving. Taxation! Wherein? and what taxation? My lord cardinal, You that are blamed for it alike with us, Know you of this taxation ? Wol. Please you, sir, I know but of a single part, in aught Pertains to the state; and front but in that file Where others tell steps with me. . Q. Kath. No, my lord, Youknownomorethan others; but youframe [some Things that are known alike; which are not whole- To those which would not know them, and yet must Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions, Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are Most pestilent to the hearing; and, to bear ’em, The back is sacrifice to the load. They say They are devised by you; or else you suffer Too hard an exclamation. ving. Still exaction ! The nature of it? in what kind, let ’s know, Is this exaction ? Q. Kath. I am much too venturous In tempting of your patience; but am bolden’d Under your promised pardon. The subjects’ grief Comes through commissions, which compel from The sixth part of his substance, to be levied [each Without delay; and the pretence for this [mouths: Is named, your wars in France: this makes bold Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze Allegiance in them; their curses now Live where their prayers did: and it ’s come to pass, This tractable obedience is a slave To each incensed will. I would your highness Would give it quick consideration, for There is no primer business. King. . This is against our pleasure. By my life, ol. And for me, I have no further gone in this than by A single voice; and that not pass’d me but By learned approbation of the judges. If Iam Traduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know My faculties nor person, yet will be The chronicles of my doing, let me say ’T is but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue must go through. We must not stint Our necessary actions, in the fear To cope malicious censurers; which ever, As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow That is new-trimm/’d, but benefit no further Than vainly longing. What we oft do best, By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is Not ours, or not allow’d; what worst, as oft, Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up For our best act. If we shall stand still, In fear our motion will be mock’d or carp’d at, We should take root here where we sit, or sit State-statues only. King. Things done well, And with a care, exempt themselves from fear ; Things done without example, in their issue Are to be fear’d. Have you a precedent Of this commission? I believe, not any. We must not rend our subjects from our laws, And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each ? A trembling contribution! Why, we take From every tree lop, bark, and part o’ the timber ; And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack’d, The air will drink the sap. To every county Where this is question’d send our letters, with Free pardon to each man that has denied The force of this commission: pray, look to ’t ; I put it to your care. Wol. A word with you. [To the Secretary. Let there be letters writ to every shire, Of the king’s grace and pardon. The grieved com- Hardly conceive of me; let it be noised [mons That through our intercession this revokement And pardon comes: I shall anon advise you Further in the proceeding. [Hxit Secretary. Enter Surveyor. @. Kath. Iam sorry that the Duke of Bucking- Is run in your displeasure. {hain King. It grieves many: The gentleman is learn’d, and a most rare speaker ; To nature none more bound; his training such, That he may furnish and instruct great teachers, And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see, | When these so noble benefits shall prove Not well disposed, the mind growing once corrupt, hey turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly Than ever they were fair. This man so complete, Who was enroll’d ’mongst wonders, and when we, Almost with ravish’d listening, could not find His hour of speech a minute; he, my lady, Hath into monstrous habits put the graces That once were his, and is become as black Asif besmear’d in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear — This was his gentleman in trust —of him Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount The fore-recited practices ; whereof We cannot feel too little, hear too much. Wol. Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what Most like a careful subject, have collected [you, Out of the Duke of Buckingham. King. Speak freely. Surv. First, it was usual with him, every day It would infect his speech, that if the king Should without issue die, he ’ll carry it so To make the sceptre his: these very words I’ve heard him utter to his son-in-law, Lord Abergavenny; to whom by oath he menaced Revenge upon the cardinal. Wol. Please your highness, note This dangerous conception in this point. Not friended by his wish, to your high person His will is most malignant; and it stretches Beyond you, to your friends. Q. Kath. My learn’d lord cardinal, Deliver all with charity. King. Speak on: How grounded he his title to the crown, Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him At any time speak aught ? Surv. He was brought to this By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins. King. What was that Hopkins ? Surv. Sir, a Chartreux friar, His confessor; who fed him every minute With words of sovereignty. King. How know’st thou this ? Surv. Not long before your highness sped to France, The duke being at the Rose, within the parish Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand What was the speech among the Londoners Concerning the French journey: I replied, Men fear’d the French would prove perfidious, To the king’s danger. Presently the duke Said, ’t was the fear, indeed; and that he doubted ’T would prove the verity of certain words Spoke by a holy monk; ‘that oft,’ says he, ‘Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour To hear from him a matter of some moment: 489 ACT I. Whom after under the confession’s seal He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke My chaplain to no creature living, but To me, should utter, with demure confidence This pausingly ensued: Neither the king nor’s heirs, Tell you the duke, shall prosper: bid him strive To gain the love o’ the commonalty: the duke Shall govern England.’ Q. Kath. If I know you well, You were the duke’s surveyor, and lost your office On the complaint o’ the tenants: take good heed You charge not in your spleen a noble person - And spoil your nobler soul: I say, take heed; Yes, heartily beseech you. king. Let him on. Go forward. Surv. On my soul, Ill speak but truth. I told my lord the duke, by the devil’s illusions The monk might be deceived; and that ’t was dan- gerous for him To ruminate on this so far, until It forged him some design, which, being believed, It was much like to do: he answer’d, ‘ Tush, It can do me no damage ;’ adding further, That, had the king in his last sickness fail’d, The cardinal’s and Sir Thomas Lovyell’s heads Should have gone off. King. Ha! what, so rank? Ah ha! There ’s mischief in this man: canst thou say fur- Surv. I can, my liege. [ther? King. Proceed. Surv. Being at Greenwich, After your highness had reproved the duke About Sir William Blomer,— King. I remember Of such a time: being my sworn servant, The duke retain’d him his. But on; what hence ? Surv. ‘If,’ quoth he, ‘I for this had been com- mitted, As, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play’d The part my father meant to act upon The usurper Richard ; who, being at Salisbury, Made suit to come in ’s presence; which if granted, As he made semblance of his duty, would Have put his knife into him.’ King. A giant traitor ! Wol. Now, madam, may his highness live in free- And this man out of prison ? [dom, Q. Kath. God mend all! dxing. There ’s something more would out of thee; what say’st ? [knife,’ Surv. After ‘the duke his father,’ with ‘the He stretch’d him, and, with one hand on his dagger, Another spread on ’s breast, mounting his eyes, He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenour Was,— were he evil used, he would outgo His father by as much as a performance Does an irresolute purpose. King. There ’s his period, To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach’d; Call him to present trial: if he may Find mercy in the law, ’tis his; if none, Let him not seek ’t of us: by day and night, He ’s traitor to the height. [ Hxeunt. SCENE IIT. — An antechamber in the palace. Enter the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Sands. Cham. Is’t possible the spells of France should Men into such strange mysteries ? [juggle Sands. New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous, Nay, let ’em be unmanly, yet are follow’d. Cham. As far as I see, all the good our English Have got by the late voyage is but merely A fit or two o’ the face; but they are shrewd ones; For when they hold ’em, you would swear directly 490 KING HENRY VIII. SCENE III. Their very noses had been counsellors To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so. Sands. They have all new legs, and lame ones, one would take it, That never saw ’em pace before, the spayvin Or springhalt reign’d among ’em. Cham. Death! my lord, Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too, That, sure, they’ve worn out Christendom. Enter Sir Thomas Lovell. How now! What news, Sir Thomas Lovell ? Lov. Faith, my lord, I hear of none, but the new proclamation That ’s clapp’d upon the court-gate. Cham. What is ’t for? Lov. The reformation of our travell’d gallants, That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. Cham. I’m glad ’tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs To think an English courtier may be wise, And never see the Louvre. Lov. They must either, | For so run the conditions, leave those remnants Of fool and feather that they got in France, With all their honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks, Abusing better men than they can be, Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings, Short blister’d breeches, and those types of travel, And understand again like honest men; Or pack to their old playfellows ; there, I take it, They may, ‘cum privilegio,’ wear away The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh’d at. Sands. Tis time to give ’em physic, their dis- Ayre grown so catching. [eases Cham. What a loss our ladies Will have of these trim vanities! ov. Ay, marry, There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies ; A French song and a fiddle has no fellow. Sands. The devil fiddle em! Iam glad they are going, For, sure, there ’s no converting of ’em: now An honest country lord, as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plain-song And have an hour of hearing; and, by ’r lady, Held current music too. Cham. Well said, Lord Sands; Your colt’s tooth is not cast yet. Sands. No, my lord; Nor shall not, while I have a stump. Cham. Sir Thomas, Whither were you a-going ? Lov. To the cardinal’s: Your lordship is a guest too. Cham. O, tis true: - This night he makes a supper, and a great one, To many lords and ladies; there will be | The beauty of this kingdom, I ’ll assure you. ; Lov. That churchman bears a bounteous mind — indeed, A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; ~ ) His dews fall every where. ¥ Cham. No doubt he’s noble; He had a black mouth that said other of him. ‘ Sands. He may, my lord; has wherewithal: in him Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine: Men of his way should be most liberal; | They are set here for examples. Cham. True, they are so; But few now give so great ones. My barge stays: Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas, ACT I. LODING LEN LY VILLE SCENE IV. We shall be late else; which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford This night to be comptrollers. Sands. lam your lordship’s. [Hxeunt. SCENE IV.— A Hall in York Place. Hautboys. A smail table under a state for the Cardinal, a longer table for the guests. Then enter Anne Bullen and divers other Ladies and Gentlemen as guests, at one door; at another door, enter Sir Henry Guildford. Guild. Ladies, a general welcome from his grace Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates To fair content and you: none here, he hopes, In all this noble bevy, has brought with her One care abroad; he would have all as merry As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome, Can make good people. O, my lord, you ’re tardy: Enter Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands, and Sir Thomas Lovell. The very thought of this fair company Clapp’d wing's to me. Cham. You are young, Sir Harry Guildford. Sands. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the cardinal But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these Should find a running banquet ere they rested, I think would better please ’em: by my life, They are a sweet society of fair ones. Lov. QO, that your lordship were but now confessor To one or two of these! Sands. I would I were; They should find easy penance. Lov. Faith, how easy ? Sands. As easy as a down-bed would afford it. Cham. Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry, Place you that side; Ill take the charge of this: His grace is entering. Nay, you must not freeze; Two women placed together makes cold weather: My Lord Sands, you are one will keep ’em waking ; Pray, sit between these ladies. Sands. By my faith, And thank your lordship. By your leave,sweet ladies: If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father. Anne. Was he mad, sir? Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too: But he would bite none; just as I do now, He would kiss you twenty with a breath. [Kisses her. Cham. Well said, my lord. So, now you’re fairly seated. Gentlemen, The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies Pass away frowning. Sands. For my little cure, Let me alone. Hautboys. Hnter Cardinal Wolsey, and takes his state. Wol. You’re welcome, my fair guests: that noble Or gentleman, that is not freely merry, lady, Is not my friend: this, to confirm my welcome; And to you all, good health. [Drinks. Sands. Your grace is noble: Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks, And save me so much talking. My Lord Sands, ol. I am beholding to you: cheer your neighbours. Ladies, you are not merry: gentlemen, Whose fault is this ? Sands. The red wine first must rise In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have Talk us to silence. [’em Anne. You are a merry gamester, My Lord Sands. Sands. Yes, if I make my play. Here’s to your ladyship: and pledge it, madam, For ’tis to such a thing,— Anne. You cannot show me. Sands. I told your grace they would talk anon. [Drum and trumpet, chambers discharged. Wol. What’s that ? Cham. Look out there, some of ye. [ Hxit Servant. ol. What warlike voice, And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear not; By all the laws of war you ’re privileged. Re-enter Servant. Cham. How now! what is’t ? Serv. A noble troop of strangers ; For so they seem: they ’ve left their barge and landed; And hither make, as great ambassadors From foreign princes. Wol. Good lord chamberlain, Go, give ’em welcome; you can speak the French tongue ; And, pray, receive ’em nobly, and conduct ’em Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him. [Exit Chamberlain, attended. All rise, and tables removed. You have now a broken banquet; but we ’1l mend it. A good digestion to you all: and once more I shower a welcome on ye; welcome all. Hautboys. Enter the King and others, as masquers, habited like shepherds, ushered by the Lord Chamberlain. They pass directly before the Cardinal, and gracefully salute him. A noble company! what are their pleasures? [pray’d Cham. Because they speak no English, thus they To tell your grace, that, having heard by fame Of this so noble and so fair assembly This night to meet here, they could do no less, Out of the great respect they bear to beauty, But leave their flocks; and, under your fair conduct, Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat An hour of revels with ’em. Wol. Say, lord chamberlain, They have done my poor house grace; for which I ay ’em [ures. A thousand thanks, and pray ’em take their pleas- [They choose Ladies es the dance. The King chooses Anne Bullen. King. The fairest hand I ever touch’d! O beauty, Till now I never knew thee! [Music. Dance. Wol. My lord! Cham. Your grace ? Wol. Pray, tell °em thus much from me: There should be one amongst ’em, by his person, More worthy this place than myself; to whom, If I but knew him, with my love and duty I would surrender it. Cham. I will, my lord. [ Whispers the Masquers« Wol. What say they ? Cham. Such a one, they all confess, There is indeed; which they would have your grace Find out, and he will take it. Wol. Let me see, then. By all your good leaves, gentlemen; here I 71] make My royal choice. oa Wh Iving. Ye have found him. cardinal: | Unmasking. You hold a fair assembly ; you do well, lord: You are a churchman, or, I ll tell you, cardinal, I should judge now unhappily. Wol. Tam glad Your grace is grown so pleasant. - King. My lord chamberlain, Prithee, come hither: what fair lady ’s that ? Cham. An’t please your grace, Sir Thomas Bul- len’s daughter,— 491 Bb. OT. GEE. The Viscount Rochford,—one of her highness’ women. King. By heaven, sheisa dainty one. Sweet-heart, | In the next chamber. I were unmannerly, to take you out, And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen! Let it go round. Wol. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready YP the privy chamber ? Lov. Wol. T fear, with dancing is a little heated. Yes, my lord. Your grace, KING WHEVAY, SV SCENE I. oak I fear, too much. Wo There ’s fresher air, my lord. King. Lead in your ladies, every one: sweet part- ner I must not yet forsake you: let’s be merry: Good my lord cardinal, I have half a dozen healths To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure To lead ’em once again; and then let ’s dream Who’s best in favour. Let the music knock it. [Exeunt with trumpets. ont, O40 Be ad Bal SCENE I.— Westminster. A street. Enter two Gentlemen, meeting. First Gent. Whither away so fast ? Sec. Gent. O, God save ye! Even to the hall, to hear what shall become Of the great Duke of Buckingham. First Gent. I?ll save you That labour, sir. All’s now done, but the ceremony Of bringing back the prisoner. Sec. Gent. Were you there ? First Gent. Yes, indeed, was I. Sec. Gent. Pray, speak what has happen’d. First Gent. You may guess quickly what. Sec. Gent. Is he found guilty ? First Gent. Yes, truly ishe,and condemn’d upon ’t. Sec. Gent. I am sorry for ’t. First Gent. So are a number more. Sec. Gent. But, pray, how pass’d it ? First Gent. I ’lltellyouina little. The great duke Came to the bar; where to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty and alleged Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. The king’s attorney on the contrary Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions Of divers witnesses; which the duke desired To have brought viva voce to his face: At which appear’d against him his surveyor ; Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor; and John Car, Confessor to him; with that devil-monk, Hopkins, that made this mischief. Sec. Gent. That fed him with his prophecies ? First Gent. The same. All these accused him strongly; which he fain Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could And so his peers, upon this evidence, [not: Have found him guilty of high treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all Was either pitied in him or forgotten. Sec. Gent. After all this, how did he bear himself ? First Gent. When he was brought again to the bar, to hear His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr’d With such an agony, he sweat extremely, And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty: But he fell to himself again, and sweetly In all the rest show’d a most noble patience. Sec. Gent. I do not think he fears death. First Gent. Sure, he does not: He never was so womanish; the cause He may a little grieve at. That was he Sec. Gent. Certainly The cardinal is the end of this. First Gent. ’T is likely, By all conjectures: first, Kildare’s attainder, Then deputy of Ireland; who removed, Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too, Lest he should help his father. Sec. Gent. That trick of state Was a deep envious one. 492 First Gent. At his return No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, And generally, whoever the king favours, The cardinal instantly will find employment, And far enough from court too. | Sec. Gent. All the commons Hate him perniciously, and, 0’ my conscience, Wish him ten fathom deep: this duke as much They love and dote on; call him bounteous Buck- The mirror of all courtesy ;— [ingham, First Gent. Stay there, sir, And see the noble ruin’d man you speak of. Enter Buckingham from his arraignment ; tipstaves before him ; the axe with the edge towards him ; halberds on each side: accompanied with Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nich- olas Vaux, Sir William Sands, and common people. Sec. Gent. Let’s stand close, and behold him. uck, All good people, You that thus far have come to pity me, Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. Ihave this day received a traitor’sjudgment, [ness, And by that name must die: yet, heaven bear wit- — And if I have a conscience, let it sink me, Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful! The law I bear no malice for my death ; ’T has done, upon the premises, but justice: But those that sought it I could wish more Chris- Be what they will, I heartily forgive ’em: Yet let ’em look they glory not in mischief, Nor build their evils on the graves of great men; For then my guiltless blood must cry against ’em. For further life in this world I ne’er hope, Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies More than I dare make faults. You few that loved And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, __[me, His noble friends and fellows, whom to.leave Is only bitter to him, only dying, Go with me, like good angels, to my end; And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me, Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, And lift my soulto heaven. Lead on, 0’ God’s name. Lov. I do beseech your grace, for charity, If ever any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly. Buck. Sir Thomas Lovell, 1 as free forgive you As I would be forgiven: I forgive all; There cannot be those numberless offences [envy ’Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with: no black Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his grace; And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him You met him half in heaven: my vows and prayers Yet are the king’s; and, till my soul forsake, Shall cry for blessings on him: may he live Longer than I have time to tell his years! Ever beloved and loving may his rule be! And when old time shall lead him to his end, Goodness and he fill up one monument! Lov. To the water side I must conduct your grace: Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux- Who undertakes you to your end. [tians: ATi bs UNL GY PON Te YOO. SCENE II. Vauc. Prepare there, The duke is coming: see the barge be ready ; And fit it with such furniture as suits The greatness of his person. Buck. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone; my state now will but mock me. When I came hither, I was lord high constable And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Yet I am richer than my base accusers, [Bohun: That never knew what truth meant: I now seal it; And with that blood will make ’em one day groan My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, (for ’t. Who first raised head against usurping Richard, Flying for succour to his servant Banister, Being distress’d, was by that wretch betray’d, And without trial fell; God’s peace be with him! Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying My father’s loss, like a most royal prince, Restored me to my honours, and, out of ruins, Made my name once more noble. Now his son, Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name and all That made me happy at one stroke has taken For ever from the world. I had my trial, And, must needs say, a noble one; which makes me A little happier than my wretched father: Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both Fell by our servants, by those men we loved most; A most unnatural and faithless service! Heaven has an end in all: yet, you that hear me, This from a dying man receive as certain: Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends And give your hearts to, when they once perceive The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, never found again But where they mean to sink ye. All good people, Pray for me! I must now forsake ye: the last hour Of my long weary life is come upon me. Farewell: And when you would say something that is sad, Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me! [Exeunt Duke and Train. First Gent. O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calis, I fear, too many curses on their heads That were the authors. Sec. Gent. If the duke be guiltless, *T is full of woe: yet I can give you inkling Of an ensuing evil, if it fall, Greater than this. Hirst Gent. Good angels keep it from us! What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir? Sec. Gent. This secret is so weighty, ’t will require A strong faith to conceal it. First Gent. I do not talk much. Sec. Gent. I am confident ; You shall, sir: did you not of late days hear A buzzing of a separation Between the king and Katharine ? First Gent. Yes, but it held not: For when the king once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the lord mayor straight To stop the rumour, and allay those tongues That durst disperse it. Sec. Gent. But that slander, sir, Ts found a truth now: for it grows again Fresher than e’er it was; and held for certain The king will venture at it. Either the cardinal, Or some about him near, have, out of malice To the good queen, possess’d him with a scruple That will undo her: to confirm this too, Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately; As all think, for this business. First Gent. ’T is the cardinal ; And merely to revenge him on the emperor For not bestowing on him, at his asking, The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purposed. Let me have it; Sec. Gent. I think you have hit the mark: but is ’t not cruel That she should feel the smart of this? The cardinal Will have his will, and she must fall. First Gent. We are too open here to argue this; Let ’s think in private more. *T is woful. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— Have I with all my full affections [him ? Still met the king ? loved him next heaven ? Bs i: Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him ? | Almost for got my prayers to content him ? And am [ thus rewarded ? ’t is not well, lords. | Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne’er dream’d a joy beyond his pleasure; And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour, a great patience. Wol. Madam, you wander from the good weaim at Q. Kath. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, To give up willingly that noble title Your master wed me to: nothing but death Shall e’er divorce my dignities. Wol. Pray, hear me. Q. Kath. Would I had never trod this English Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! [earth, Ye have angels’ faces, but heaven knows your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched lady! J am the most unhappy woman living. Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes! Shipwreck’ ‘d upon a kingdom, where no pity, No friends, no hope; no ) kindred weep for me; Almost no grave allow’d me: like the lily, That once was mistress of the field and flourish’d, I 7ll hang my head and perish. Wol. If your grace Could but be brought to know our ends are honest, You ’ldteel more comfort: why should we, good lady, Upon what cause, wrong you? alas, our places, The way of our profession is against it: We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow ’em., For goodness’ sake, consider what you do; How you may hurt your self, ay, utterly Grow from the king’s acquaintance, by this car- The hearts of princes kiss obedience, [riage. So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits They swell, and grow as terrible as storms. I know you have a gentle, noble temper, ‘A soul as even as a calm: pray, think us _ [vants. Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and ser- Cam. Madam, you’ll finditso. You wrong your virtues With these weak women’s fears: a noble spirit, As yours was put into you, ever casts [you ; Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves Beware you lose it not: for us, if you please To trust us in your business, we are ready To use our utmost studies in your service. Q. Kath. Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray, forgive me, If I have used myself unmannetly ; You know I am a woman, lacking wit To make a seemly answer to such persons. Pray, do my service to his majesty: He has my heart yet; and shall have my prayers While [shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, Bestow your counsels on me: she now begs, That little thought, when she set footing here, She should have bought her dignities so ‘dear. [| Hxeunt. ACT III. SCENE II. — Antechamber to the King’s apartment. Enter the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lora Chamberlain. Nor. If you will now unite in your complaints, And force them with a constancy, the cardinal Cannot stand under them: if you omit The offer of this time, [ cannot promise But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces, With these you bear already. Sur. IT am joyful To meet the least occasion that may give me temembrance of my father-in-law, the duke, To be revenged on him. Suf. Which of the peers Have uncontemn’d gone by him, or at least Strangely neglected ? when did he regard The stamp of nobleness in any person Out of himself ? Cham. My lords, you speak your pleasures: What he deserves of you and me I know; What we can do to him, though now the time Gives way to us, I much fear. If you cannot Bar his access to the king, never attempt Any thing on him; for he hath a witchcraft Over the king in’s tongue. Nor. O, fear him not; His spell in that is out: the king hath found Matter against him that for ever mars The honey of his language. No, he’s settled, Not to come off, in his displeasure. Sur. Sir, I should be glad to hear such news as this Once every hour. Nor. Believe it, this is true: In the divorce his contrary proceedings Ayre all unfolded; wherein he appears «As | would wish mine enemy. Sur. How came Tis practices to light ? Suf. Most strangely. Sur. O, how, how? Suf. The cardinal’s letters to the pope miscarried, And came to the eye o’ the king: wherein was read, Tlow that the cardinal did entreat his holiness To stay the judgment o’ the divorce; for if It did take place, ‘ I do,’ quoth he, ‘ perceive My king is tangled in affection to A creature of the queen’s, Lady Anne Bullen.’ Sur. Has the king this? . Suf. Believe it. Sur. Will this work ? Cham. The king in this perceives him, how he coasts And hedges his own way. But in this point All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic After his patient’s death: the king already Hlath married the fair lady. Sur. Would he had! Suf. May you be happy in your wish, my lord! For, I profess, you have it. Sur. Now, all my joy Trace the conjunction! Suf. My amen to’t! Nor. All men’s! Suf. There’s order given for her coronation : Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, She is a gallant creature, and complete In mind and feature: I persuade me, from her Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall In it be memorized. Sur. But, will the king Digest this letter of the cardinal’s ? The Lord forbid! Nor. Suf. No, no; There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose Marry, amen! ING ERI MEY PLE SCENE II- Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius Is stol’n away to Rome; hath ta’en no leave; Has left the cause 0’ the king unhandled; and Is posted, as the agent of our cardinal, To second all his plot. I do assure you The king cried Ha! at this. Cham. Now, God incense him, And let him ery Ha! louder! Nor. But, my lord, When returns Cranmer ? Suf. He is return’d in his opinions; which Have satisfied the king for his divorce, ° Together with all famous colleges Almost in Christendom: shortly, I believe, His second marriage shall be publish’d, and Her coronation. Katharine no more Shall be call’d queen, but princess dowager And widow to Prince Arthur. Nor. This same Cranmer ’s A worthy fellow, and hath ta’en much pain In the king’s business. Suf. He has; and we shall see him For it an archbishop. Nor. So I hear. Suf. T is so. The cardinal! Enter Wolsey and Cromwell. Nor. Observe, observe, he’s moody. Wol. The packet, Cromwell, Gave ’t you the king ? Crom. To his own hand, in’s bedchamber. Wol. Look’d he o’ the inside of the paper ? Crom. Presently He did unseal them: and the first he view’d, He did it with a serious mind; a heed Was in his countenance. You he bade Attend him here this morning. Wol. Is he ready To come abroad ? Crom. I think, by this he is. Wol. Leave me awhile. [Exit Cromwell. [ Aside] It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon, The French king’s sister: he shall marry her. Anne Bullen! No; I’ll no Anne Bullens for him: There ’s more in’t than fair visage. Bullen! No, we’ll no Bullens. Speedily I wish To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke! Nor. He’s discontented. Suf. May be, he hears the king Does whet his anger to him. Oe Sharp enough, Lord, for thy justice! Wol. [Aside] The late queen’s gentlewoman, a knight’s daughter, To be her mistress’ mistress! the queen’s queen! This candle burns not clear: ’tis I must snuff it; Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous And well deserving ? yet I know her for A spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to Our cause, that she should lie i’ the bosom of Our hard-ruled king. Again, there is sprung up An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one Hath crawl’d into the favour of the king, And is his oracle. Dee VOR: He is vex’d at something. Sur. I would ’t were something that would fret The master-cord on’s heart! [the string, Enter the King, reading of a schedule, and Lovell. Suf. The king, the king! King. What piles of wealth hath he accumulated To his own portion! and what expense by the hour Seems to flow from him! How, i’ the name of thrift, Does he rake this together! Now, my lords, Saw you the cardinal ? or. My lord, we have Stood here observing him: some strange commotion 499 ACT ITI. Is in his brain: he bites his lip, and starts; Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, Then lays his finger on his temple; straight Springs out into fast gait; then stops again, Strikes his breast hard, and anon he casts His eye against the moon: in most strange pustures We have seen him set himself. King. It may well be; There is a mutiny in’s mind. This morning Papers of state he sent me to peruse, As I required: and wot you what I found There,— on my conscience, but unwittingly ? Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing ; The several parcels of his plate, his treasure, Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which I find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks Possession of a subject. Nor. It’s heaven’s will: Some spirit put this paper in the packet, To bless your eye withal. King. If we did think His contemplation were above the earth, And fix’d on spiritual object, he should still Dwell in his musings: but I am afraid His thinkings are below the moon, not worth His serious considering. [King takes his seat; whispers Lovell, who goes to the Cardinal. Wol. Heaven forgive me! Ever God bless your highness ! King. Good my lord, You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inven- Of your best graces in your mind; the which [tory You were now running o’er: you have scarce time To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span To keep your earthly audit: sure, in that I deem you an ill husband, and am glad To have you therein my companion. Wol. For holy offices I have a time; a time To think upon the part of business which I bear i’ the state; and nature does require Her times of preservation, which perforce I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal, Must give my tendence to. King. You have said well. Wol. And ever may your highness yoke together, As I will lend you cause, my doing well With my well saying! King. "T is well said again ; And ’tis a kind of good deed to say well: And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you: He said he did; and with his deed did crown His word upon you. Since I had my oftice, I have kept you next my heart; have not alone Employ’d you where high profits might come home, But pared my present havings, to bestow My bounties upon you. ol. [ Aside] What should this mean ? Sur. [Aside] The Lord increase this business ! king. Have I not made you The prime man of the state? I pray you, tell me, [If what I now pronounce you have found true: And, if you may confess it, say withal, If you are bound to us or no. What say you? _ Wol. My sovereign, I confess your royal graces, Shower’d on me daily, have been more than could My studied purposes requite; which went Beyond all man’s endeavours: my endeavours Have ever come too short of my desires, Yet filed with my abilities: mine own ends Have been mine so that evermore they pointed To the good of your most sacred person and The profit of the state. For your great graces Heap’d upon me, poor undeserver, I Can nothing render but allegiant thanks, My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty, 500 Sir, KING EN AA Ae SCENE il. Which ever has and ever shall be growing, Till death, that winter, kill it. King. A loyal and obedient subject is Therein illustrated: the honour of it Does pay the act of it; as, i’ the contrary, The foulness is the punishment. I presume That, as my hand has open’d bounty to you, My heart dropp’d love, my power rain’d honour, On you than any; so your hand and heart, [more Your brain, and every function of your power, Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty, As ’t were in love’s particular, be more To me, your friend, than any. Wol. I do profess That for your highness’ good I ever labour’d More than mine own; that am, have, and will be— Though all the world should crack their duty to you, And throw it from their soul; though perils did Abound, as thick as thought could make ’em, and Appear in forms more horrid,— yet my duty, As doth a rock against the chiding flood, Should the approach of this wild river break, And stand unshaken yours. King. *T is nobly spoken : Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast, For you have seen him open ’t. Read o’er this; [Giving him papers. And after, this: and then to breakfast with What appetite you have. [Exit King, frowning upon Cardinal Wolsey : the Nobles throng after him, smiling and whispering. Fairly answer’d ; Wol. What should this mean ? What sudden anger ’s this? how have I reap’d it ? He parted frowning from me, as if ruin Leap’d from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion Upon the daring huntsman that has gall’d him; Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper; I fear, the story of his anger. ’Tis so; This paper has undone me: ’tis the account Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the popedom, And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence! . Fit for a fool to fall by: what cross devil Made me put this main secret in the packet I sent the king? Is there no way to cure this ? No new device to beat this from his brains ? I know ’t will stir him strongly; yet I know A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune [Pope!’ Will bring me off again. What’s this? ‘To the The letter, as I live, with all the business I writ to’s holiness. Nay then, farewell! I have touch’d the highest point of all my greatness : And, from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting: I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. Re-enter to Wolsey, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain. Nor. Hear the king’s pleasure, cardinal : who com- To render up the great seal presently [mands you Into our hands; and to confine yourself To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester’s, Till you hear further from his highness. Wol. tay: Where ’s your commission, lords? words cannot Authority so weighty. [carry Suf. Who dare cross ’em, Bearing the king’s will from his mouth expressly ? Wol. Till I find more than will or words to do it, I mean your malice, know, officious lords, _I dare and must deny it. Now I feel Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy: How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, | As if it fed ye! and how sleek and wanton SS =< ) = => 2 = _ —= =—s a a en: ‘Ir sus0S WTI] IV—HLHDIA AHL AUYNFAH ONIM !) ms Po rhs ee a a a ee ee oe eee “ _ oe a ON yyy 1 i Hl i | | | = uD i/\ i : ‘i I} AN \ | VW YO Ny i a 4 . — oe ! i Mt Lt Sone | Aili | TTT Ca I ll ACT IT. Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin! Follow your envious courses, men of malice; You have Christian warrant for ’em, and, no doubt, in time will find their fit rewards. That seal, You ask with such a violence, the king, Mine and your master, with his own hand gave me; Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, During my life; and, to confirm his goodness, Tied it by letters-patents: now, who ’ll take it ? Sur. The king, that gave it. Wol. It must be himself, then. Sur. Thou art a proud traitor, priest. Wol. Proud lord, thou liest: Within these forty hours Surrey durst better {ave burnt that tongue than said so. Sur. Thy ambition, Thou scarlet sin, robb’d this bewailing land Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law: The heads of all thy brother cardinals, With thee and all thy best parts bound together, Weigh’d not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! You sent me deputy for Ireland; Far from his succour, from the king, from all That might have mercy on the fault thou gavest him; Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, Absolved him with an axe. Wol. This, and all else This talking lord can lay upon my credit, 1 answer is most false. The duke by law Found his deserts: how innocent I was From any private malice in his end, His noble jury and foul cause can witness. If [ loved many words, lord, I should tell you You have as little honesty as honour, That in the way of loyalty and truth Toward the king, my ever royal master, Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be, And all that love his follies. Sur. By my soul, [feel Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst My sword i’ the life-blood of thee else. My lords, Can ye endure to hear this arrogance ? And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely, To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, Farewell nobility; let his grace go forward, And dare us with his cap like larks. Wol. All goodness Is poison to thy stomach. Sur. Yes, that goodness Of gleaning all the land’s wealth into one, Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion ; The goodness of your intercepted packets [ness, You writ to the pope against the king: your good- Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble, As you respect the common good, the state Of our despised nobility, our issues, Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen, Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles Collected from his life. Ill startle you Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench Lay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal. Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this man, But that Iam bound in charity against it! Nor. Those articles, my lord, are in the king’s But, thus much, they are foul ones. [hand : Wol. So much fairer And spotless shall mine innocence arise, When the king knows my truth. Sur. This cannot save you: I thank my memory, I yet remember Some of these articles; and out they shall. Now, if you can blush and cry ‘ guilty,’ cardinal, You ‘ll show a little honesty. Wol. Speak on, sir; I dare your worst objections: if I blush, It is to see a nobleman want manners. KING HENRY VIIL | SCENE II. Sur. [had Rea want those than my head. Have at you! First, that, without the king’s assent or knowledge, You wrought to be a legate; by which power You maim’d the jurisdiction of all bishops. Nor. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else To foreign princes, ‘ Ego et Rex meus’ Was still inscribed; in which you brought the king To be your servant. Suf. Then that, without the knowledge Either of king or council, when you went Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold To carry into Flanders the great seal. Sur. Item, you sent a large commission To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude, Without the king’s will or the state’s allowance, A league between his highness and Ferrara. Suf. That, out of mere ambition, you have caused Your holy hat to be stamp’d on the king’s coin. Sur. Then that you have sent innumerable sub- stance — By what means got, I leave to your own conscience— To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways You have for dignities; to the mere undoing Of all the kingdom. Many more there are; Which, since they are of you, and odious, I will not taint my mouth with. Cham. O my lord, Press not a falling man too far! *tis virtue: His faults lie open to the laws; let them, Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him So little of his great self. Sur. I forgive him. Suf. Lord cardinal, the king’s further pleasure is, Because all those things you have done of late, By your power legatine, within this kingdom, Fall into the compass of a preemunire, That therefore such a writ be sued against you ; To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements, Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be Out of the king’s protection. This is my charge. Nor. And so we’ll leave you to your meditations How to live better. For your stubborn answer About the giving back the great seal to us, —_[you. The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal. [Hxeunt all but Wolse,. Wol. So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a Sea of glory, i But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new open’d. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed. Why, how now, Cromwell! Orom. I have no power to speak, sir. Wol. What, amazed At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep, I am fall’n indeed. 501. ACB TY. 0. RIG CEO AEE KING HENRY Vii. SCENE I. What and how true thou art: he will advance thee - Some little memory of me will stir him — I know his noble nature — not to let Thy hopeful service perish too: good Cromwell, Neglect him not; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety. Crom. O my lord, Must I, then, leave you? must I needs forego So ood, so noble and so true a master ? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, Too heavy fora man that hopes for heaven ! With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right | The king shall have my service; but my prayers Orom. How does your grace ? use of it. For ever and for ever shall be yours. Wol. Why, well; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoul- These ruin’d pillars, out of pity, taken [ders, A load would sink a navy, too much honour: O, tis a burthen, Cromwell, ’t is a burthen Wol. I hope I have: I am able now, methinks, Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, In all my miseries : but thou hast forced me, To endure more miseries and greater far Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. Let ’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Crom- What news abroad ? And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, {well ; Crom. The heaviest and the worst | And "sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Is your displeasure with the king. Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, Wol. God bless him! | Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Ph chancellor in your place. That ’s somewhat sudden: But he ’s alearned man. May he continue Long in his highness’ favour, and do justice For truth’s sake and his conscience; that his bones, When he has run his course and sleeps i in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on ’em! What more ? Crom. That Cranmer is return’d with welcome, Install’d lord archbishop of Canterbury. Wol. That ’s news indeed. Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne, Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, This day was view’d in open as his queen, Going to chapel; and the voice is now Only about her coronation. Wol. There was the weight that pull’d me down. O Cromwell, The king has gone beyond me: all my glories In that one woman I have lost for ever: No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell; And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate Corruption wins not more than honesty. [thee ; Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. “Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king; And,— prithee, lead me in: There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; ’tis the king’s: my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is ‘all I dare now call mineown. O Cr omwell, Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. Crom. Good sir, have patience. TI am a poor fall’n man, unworthy now Wol. So Thave. Farewell To be thy lord and master: seek the king: The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him [ Hxeunt. ES GAC EN. SCENE I.— A street in Westminster. The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims ‘ To be high-steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk, Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another. He to be earl marshal: you may read the rest. First Gent. You’re well met once again. Sec. Gent. I thank you, sir: had I not known Sec. Gent. So are you. those customs, First Gent. You come to take your stand here, and | I should have been beholding to your paper. The Lady Anne pass from her coronation ? [behold | But, I beseech you, what’s become of Katharine, Sec. Gent. ’T is all my business. At our last en- | The princess dowager ? how goes her business ? counter, First Gent. That I can tell you too. The Arch- The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial. Of Canterbury, accompanied with other [bishop First Gent. *T is very true: but that time offer’d | Learned and reverend fathers of his order, This, general joy. [sorrow; | Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off Sec. Gent. *T is well: the citizens, From Ampthill where the princess lay ; to which Iam sure, have shown at full their royal minds— | She was often cited by them, but appear’d not: As, let ’em have their rights, they are ever forward— | And, to be short, for not appearance and In celebration of this day with show S, | The king’s late scruple, by the main assent Pageants and sights of honour. , Of all these learned men she was divorced, First Gent. Never greater, | And the late marriage made of none effect : Nor, I ’ll assure you, better taken, sir. Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, Sec. Gent. May I be bold to ask what that con-| Where she remains now sick. That paper in your hand ? [tains, Sec. Gent. Alas, good lady! First Gent. Yes; ’tis the list [ Trumpets. Of those that claim their offices this day | The trumpets sound : stand close, the queen is com- By custom of the coronation. ing. [ Hautboys. 502 ACT IV. TING VN oY Ey, THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION. 1. A lively flourish of Trumpets. 2. Then, two Judges. [him. 8. Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace before 4. Choristers, singing. [| Music. 5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Gar- ter, in his coat of arms, and on his head a gilt copper crown. 6. Marquess DorsET, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the Earl of SURREY, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an earl’s coronet. Col- lars of Ss. . Duke of SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his coro- net on his head, bearing a long white wand, as high-steward. With him, the Duke of Nor- FOLK, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of SS. 8. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports ; under it, the Queen in her robe; in her hair richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the Bishops of London and Win- chester. 9. Theold Duchess of NORFOLK, inacoronalof gold, wrought with flowers, bearing the Queen’s train. 10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold without flowers. They pass over the stage in order and state. These I ~I Sec. Gent. A royal train, believe me. Who’s that that bears the sceptre ? [know: First Gent. Marquess Dorset: And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod. Sec. Gent. A bold brave gentleman. That should The Duke of Suffolk? [be First Gent. *T is the same: high-steward. Sec. Gent. And that my Lord of Norfolk ? First Gent. ' Sec. Gent. Yes. Heaven bless thee ! [Looking on the Queen. Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look’d on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel; Our king has all the Indies in his arms, And more and richer, when he strains that lady; I cannot blame his conscience. ) First Gent. They that bear The cloth of honour over her, are four barons Of the Cinque-ports. [near her. Sec. Gent. Those men are happy ; and so are all are I take it, she that carries up the train Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk. First Gent. It is; and all the rest are countesses. Sec. Gent. Their coronets sayso. These are stars And sometimes falling ones. [indeed ; First Gent. No more of that. | Hxit procession, and then a great flourish éeUs. Enter a third Gentleman. ph cerunapets First Gent. God save you, sir! where have you been broiling ? Third Gent. Among the crowd i’ the Abbey; where a finger . Could not be wedged in more: I am stifled With the mere rankness of their joy. Sec. Gent. You saw The ceremony ? Third Gent. That I did. First Gent. How was it ? Third Gent. Well worth the seeing. | Sec. Gent. Good sir. speak it to us. Third Gent. As wellasITamable. Therich stream Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen To a prepared place in the choir, fell off A distance from her; while her grace sat down To rest a while, some half an hour or so, in a rich chair of state, opposing freely The beauty of her person to the people. _ Willing to leave their burthen. SCENE II. Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman That ever lay by man: which when the people Had the full view of, such a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, As loud, and to as many tunes: hats, cloaks,— Doublets, I think,— flew up; and had their faces Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy I never saw before. Great-bellied women, That had not half a week to go, like rams In the old time of war, would shake the press, And make ’em reel before ’em. No man living Could say ‘ This is my wife’ there; all were woven So strangely in one piece. Sec. Gent. But, what follow’d ? Third Gent. At length her grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the altar; where she kneel’d, and saint-like Cast her fair eyes to heaven and pray’d devoutly. Then rose again and bow’d her to the people: When by the Archbishop of Canterbury She had all the royal makings of a queen; As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown, The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems Laid nobly on her: which perform’d, the choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung ‘Te Deum.’ So she parted, And with the same full state paced back again To York-place, where the feast is held. First Gent. Sir, You must no more ¢all it York-place, that ’s past; For, since the cardinal fell, that title ’s lost: *T is now the king’s, and call’d Whitehall. Third Gent. I know it; But ’tis so lately alter’d, that the old name Is fresh about me. Sec. Gent. What two reverend bishops Were those that went on each side of the queen ? Third Gent. Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of Winchester, Newly preferr’d from the king’s secretary, The other, London. Sec. Gent. He of Winchester Is held no great good lover of the archbishop’s, The virtuous Cranmer. Third Gent. All the land knows that : However, yet there is no great breach; when it comes, Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him. Sec. Gent. Who may that be, I pray you ? Third Gent. Thomas Cromwell; A man in much esteem with the king, and truly A worthy friend. The king has made him master O”’ the jewel house, And one, already, of the privy council. Sec. Gent. He will deserve more. Third Gent. Yes, without all doubt. Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which Is to the court, and there ye shall be my guests: Something I can command. As I walk thither, I ’ll tell ye more. Both. You may command us, sir. SCENE II.— Kimbolton. Enter Katharine, Dowager, sick; led between Grif- [ Haueunt. | fith, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman. Grif. How does your grace ? Kath. O Griffith, sick to death! My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth, Reach a chair: So; now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led’st me, That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, | Was dead ? Grif. Yes, madam; but I think your grace, Out of the pain you suffer’d, gave no ear to ’t. _ Kath. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died: If well, he stepp’d before me, happily For my example. 503 ACT IV. Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam: For after the stout Earl Northumberland Arrested him at York, and brought him forward, As aman sorely tainted, to his answer, He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill He could not sit his mule. Kath. Alas, poor man! Grif. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot, With all his covent, honourably received him; To whom he gave these words, ‘ O, father abbot, An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye; Give him a little earth for charity!’ So went to bed; where eagerly his: ess Pursued him still: and, three nights after this, About the hour of eight, which he himself Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. Kath. So may he rest ; his faults lie gently on him! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, And yet with charity. He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion, Tied all the kingdom: simony was fair-play ; His own opinion was his law: i’ the presence He would say untruths; and be ever double Both in his words and meaning: he was never, But where he meant to ruin, pitiful: His promises were, as he then was, mighty; But his performance, as he is now, nothing: Of his own body he was ill, and gave The clergy ill example. Grif. Noble madam, Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. May it please your highness To hear me speak his good now ? Ce 01) Pere Yes, good Griffith ; I were malicious else. rif This cardinal, HU bj. Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was tashion’d to much honour from his cradle. He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading: Lofty and sour to them that loved him not; But to those men that sought him sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting, Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely: ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; The other, though unfinish’d, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heap’d happiness upon him; For then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little : And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God. Kath. After my death I wish no other herald, No other speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption, But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, With thy religious truth and modesty, Now in his ashes honour: peace be with him! Patience, be near me still; and set me lower: I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, Cause the musicians play me that sad note I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating On that celestial harmony I go to. Sad and solemn music. Grif. She isasleep: good wench, let’s sit down quiet, For fear we wake her: softly, gentle Patience. 504 KING HENRY VILL SCENE II, The vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, siz personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads arlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; Dieiiches of bays or palm in their hands. They first con- gee unto her, then dance ; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head 3 at which the other four make reverent curtsies; then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes, and holding the garland over her head: which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order: at which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven: and so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues. | Kath. Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all gone | And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye? | Grif. Madam, we are here. } Kath. It is not you I call for: Saw ye none enter since I slept ? Grif. None, madam. Kath. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces [troop | Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun ? | They promised me eternal happiness; | And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel | I am not worthy yet to wear: I shall, assuredly. Grif. 1am most joyful, madam, such good dreams Possess your fancy. Kath. Bid the music leave, | They are harsh and heavy to me. | Music ceases. | Pat. Do you note How much her grace is alter’d on the sudden ? How long her face is drawn ? how pale she looks, And of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes! Grif. She is going, wench: pray, pray. Pat. Heaven comfort her! Enter a Messenger. Mess. An’t like your grace,— cath. You are a saucy fellow: Deserve we no more reverence ? Grif. You are to blame, Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, To use so rude behaviour; go to, kneel. Mess. I humbly do entreat your highness’ pardon ; My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you. Kath. Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this Let me ne’er see again. [fellow [Exeunt Griffith and Messenger. Re-enter Griffith, with Capucius. If my sight fail not, You should be lord ambassador from the emperor, My royal nephew, and your name Capucius. Cap. Madam, the same; your servant. Kath. O, my lord, The times and titles now are alter’d strangely With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you, What is your pleasure with me ? Cap. Noble lady, First, mine own service to your grace; the next, The king’s request that I would visit you; Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me Sends you his princely commendations, And heartily entreats you take good comfort. [late; Kath. O my good lord, that comfort comes too ’T is like a pardon after execution: That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me; But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers. How does his highness ? ap. Madam, in good health. Kath. So may he ever do! and ever flourish, When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name Banish’d the kingdom! Patience, is that letter, I caused you write, yet sent away ? ACT V. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE I, Pat. No, madam. [Giving it to Katharine. Kath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver This to my lord the king. Cap. Most willing, madam. Kath. In which I have commended to his good- ness The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter: The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her! Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding, — She is young, and of a noble modest nature, I hope she will deserve well, —and a little To love her for her mother’s sake, that loved him, Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition Is, that his noble grace would have some pity Upon my wretched women, that so long Have follow’d both my fortunes faithfully : Of which there is not one, I dare avow, And now I should not lie, but will deserve, For virtue and true beauty of the soul, For honesty and decent carriage, A right good husband, let him be a noble: nd, sure, those men are happy that shall have ’em. The last is, for my men; they are the poorest, But poverty could never draw ’em from me; That they may have their wages duly paid ’em, And something over to remember me by: If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life And able means, we had not parted thus. These are the whole contents: and, good my lord, By that you love the dearest in this world, As you wish Christian peace to souls departed Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the king To do me this last right. Cap. By heaven, I will, Or let me lose the fashion of a man! kath. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me In all humility unto his highness: Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world; tell him, in death I bless’d him, For so Iwill. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, You must not leave me yet: I must to bed; Callin more women. When I am dead, good wench, Let me be used with honour: strew me over With maiden flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me, Then lay me forth: although unqueen’d, yet like A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. I can no more, [Hxeunt, leading Katharine. Joe DOE ae SCENE I.— London. inter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell. Gar. It’s one o’clock, boy, is ’t not ? Boy. It hath struck. Gar. These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not f rus [Thomas! To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Whither so late ? Low. Came you from the king, my lord ? Gar. I did, Sir Thomas; and left him at primero ie the Duke of Suffolk. A gallery in the palace. Ov. I must to him too, Before he go to bed. Ill take my leave. Gar. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What’s the matter ? It seems you are in haste: an if there be No great offence belongs to ’t, give your friend Some touch of your late business: affairs, that walk, As they say spirits do, at m.dnight, have In them a wilder nature than the business That seeks dispatch by day. Lov. My lord, I love you; And durst commend a secret to your ear [labour, Much weightier than this work. The queen’s in They say, in great extremity; and fear’d She 711 with the labour end. Gar. The fruit she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may find Good time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas, I wish it grubb’d up now. Lov. Methinks I could Cry the amen; and yet my conscience says She ’s a good creature, and, sweet lady, does Deserve our better wishes. Gar. But, sir, sir, Hear me, Sir Thomas: you’re a gentleman Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious; And, let me tell you, it will ne’er be well, *T will not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take ’t of me, Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she, Sleep in their graves. Lov. Now, sir, you speak of two The most remark’di’ the kingdom. As for Cromwell, Beside that of the jewel house, is made master O’ the rolls, and the king’s secretary; further, sir, Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments, With which the time will load him. The archbishop Is the king’s hand and tongue; and who dare speak One syllable against him ? rar. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that dare; and I myself have ventured To speak my mind of him: and indeed this day, Sir, I may tell it you, I think I have Incensed the lords 0’ the council, that he is, For so I know he is, they know he is, A most arch heretic, a pestilence That does infect the land: with which they moved Have broken with the king; who hath so far Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded To-morrow morning to the council-board He be convented. He’s arank weed, Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your affairs I hinder you too long: good-night, Sir Thomas. Lov. Many good-nights, my lord: I rest your ser- vant. [| Hxeunt Gardiner and Page. Enter the King and Suffolk. King. Charles, I will play no more to-night ; My mind’s not on ’t; you are too hard for me. Suf. Sir, I did never win of you before. King. But little, Charles; Nor shall not, when my fancy ’s on my play. Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news ? Lov. I could not personally deliver to her What you commanded me, but by her woman I sent your message; who return’d her thanks | In the great’st humbleness, and desired your high- Most heartily to pray for her. [ness King. What say’st thou, ha? To pray for her? what, is she crying out ? Lov. So said her woman; and that her sufferance Almost each pang a death. [made King. Alas, good lady ! Suf. God safely quit her of her burthen, and With gentle travail, to the gladding of Your highness with an heir ! Avy ' (ing. 'T is midnight, Charles ; Prithee, to bed; and in thy prayers remember The estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone; 505 ACT V. For I must think of that which company Would not be friendly to. Suf. I wish your highness A quiet night; and my good mistress will Remember in my prayers. King. Charles, good-night. [Hit Suffolk. Enter Sir Anthony Denny. Well, sir, what follows ? Den. Sir, 1 have brought my lord the archbishop, As you commanded me. King. Ha! Den. Ay, my good lord. King. ’T is true: where is he, Denny ? Den. He attends your highness’ pleasure. King. Bring him to us. [Haxit Denny. Low. [Aside] This is about that which the bishop I am happily come hither. [spake : Canterbury ? - Re-enter Denny, with Cranmer. King. Avoid the gallery. [Lovell seems to stay.] Ha! Ihave said. Be gone. . What! [Hxeunt Lovell and Denny. Cran. [Aside] I am fearful: wherefore frowns he °T is his aspect of terror. All’s not well. [thus? King. How now, my lord! you do desire to know Wherefore I sent for you. Cran. [Kneeling] It is my duty To attend your highness’ pleasure. King. Pray you, arise, My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. Come, you and I must walk a turn together; [hand. I have news to tell you: come, come, give me your Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, And am right sorry to repeat what follows: I have, and most unwillingly, of late Heard many grievous, I do say, my lord, Grievous complaints of you; which, being consider’d, Have moved us and our council, that you shall This morning come before us: where, I know, You cannot with such freedom purge yourself, But that, till further trial in those charges Which will require your answer, you must take Your patience to you, and be well contented _— [us, To make your house our Tower: you a brother of It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness Would come against you. Cran. [Kneeling] I humbly thank your highness; And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winnow’d, where my chaff And corn shall fly asunder: for, I know, There ’s none stands under more calumnious tongues Than I myself, poor man. King. Stand up, good Canterbury: Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted In us, thy friend: give me thy hand, stand up: Prithee, let’s walk. Now, by my holidame, What manner of man are you? My lord, I look’d You would have given me your petition, that I should have ta’en some pains to bring together Yourself and your accusers; and to have heard you, Without indurance, further. Oran. Most dread liege, The good I stand on is my truth and honesty: If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies, Will triumph o’er my person; which I weigh not, Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing What can be said against me. King. Know you not How your state stands i’ the world, with the whole world ? [tices Your enemies are many, and not small; their prac- Must bear the same proportion; and not ever The justice and the truth o’ the question carries The due o’ the verdict with it: at what ease Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt To swear against you ? such things have been done. 506 KING CHIENIAY VOGEE SCENE II. You are potently opposed; and with a malice Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, I mean, in perjured witness, than your master, Whose minister you are, whiles here he lived Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to; You take a precipice for no leap of danger, And woo your own destruction. Cran. God and your majesty Protect mine innocence, or I fall into The trap is laid for me! King. Be of good cheer; They shall no more prevail than we give way to. Keep comfort to you; and this morning see You do appear before them: if they shall chance, In charging you with matters, to commit you, The best persuasions to the contrary Fail not to use, and with what vehemency The occasion shall instruct you: if entreaties Will render you no remedy, this ring Deliver them, and your appeal to us [weeps! There make before them. Look, the good man He’s honest, on mine honour. God’s blest mother! I swear he is true-hearted; and a soul None better in my kingdom. Get you gone, And do as I have bid you. [Exit Cranmer.] He His language in his tears. [has strangled Enter Old Lady, Lovell following. Gent. [Within] Come back: what mean you ? Old LZ. I’ not come back; the tidings that I bring (gels Will make my boldness manners. Now, good an- Fly o’er thy royal head, and shade thy person Under their blessed wings! King. IT guess thy message. Say, ay; and of a boy. Old L. Now, by thy looks Is the queen deliver’d ? _ Ay, ay, my liege; And of a lovely boy: the God of heaven Both now and ever bless her! ’tis a girl, Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen Desires your visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger: ’tis as like you As cherry is to cherry. King Lovell! Low. Sir? King. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the queen. jacit { Heit. Old £. An hundred marks! By this light, 170 An ordinary groom is for such payment. [ha’ more. I will have more, or scold it out of him. Said I for this, the girl was like to him? I will have more, or else unsay ’t; and now, While it is hot, 111 put it to the issue. [ Exeunt. SCENE II.— Before the council-chamber. Pursuiwants, Pages, &c., attending. Enter Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. Cran. I hope I am not too late; and yet the gen- tleman, That was sent to me from the council, pray’d me To make great haste. All fast ? what means this? Who waits there? Sure, you know me? fHo! Enter Keeper. Keep. But yet I cannot help you. Cran. Why ? Enter Doctor Butts. Keep. Your grace must wait till you be call’d for. Cran. So. Butts. [Aside] This is a piece of malice. Iam glad I came this way so happily: the king f Shall understand it presently. [ Hxit. Cran. [ Aside] ’T is Butts,* Yes, my lord; | The king’s physician: as he pass’d along, —— ACY V. How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me! [tain, Pray heaven, he sound not my disgrace! For cer- This is of purpose laid by some that hate me — God turn their hearts! I never sought their mal- ice — [make me To quench mine honour: they would shame to Wait else at door, a fellow-counsellor, jures *Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleas- Must be fulfill’d, and I attend with patience. Enter the King and Butts at a window above. Butts. Ill show your grace the strangest sight — King. What’s that, Butts ? Butts. I think your highness aes this many a day. King. Body 0’ me, where is it ? Butts. There, my lord: The high promotion of his grace of Canterbury ; Who holds his state at door, ’mongst pursuivants, Pages, and footboys. King. Ha! ’tis he, indeed: Is this the honour they do one another ? *T is well there ’s one above ’em yet. I had thought They had parted so much honesty among ’em, At least, good manners, as not thus to suffer A man of his place, and so near our favour, To dance attendance on their lordships’ pleasures, And at the door too, like a post with packets. By holy Mary, Butts, there ’s knavery: Let ’em alone, and draw the curtain close : We shall hear more anon. [ Hixceunt. SCENE III.— The Council-Chamber. Enter Lord Chancellor; places himself at the wpper end of the table on the left hand; a seat being left void above him, as for Canterbury’s seat. Duke of Suffolk, Duke of Norfolk, Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, Gar- diner, seat themselves in order on each side. Cromwell at lower end, as secretary. Keeper at the door. Chan. Speak to the business, master secretary : Why are we met in council ? Crom. Please your honours, The chief cause concerns his grace of Canterbury. Gar. Has he had knowledge of it ? Crom. Yes Nor Who mate there ? Keep. Without, my noble lords ? Gar. Yes. Keep. My lord archbishop ; And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures. Chan. Let him come in. Keep. Your grace may enter now. Orage enters and approaches the council-table. Chan. My good lord archbishop, I’m very sorry To sit here at this present, and behold That chair stand empty : but we all are men, In our own natures frail, and capable Of our flesh; few are angels: out of which frailty And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us, Have misdemean’d yourself, and not a little, Toward the king first, then his laws, in filling The whole realm, by your teaching and your chap- For so we are inform’d, with new opinions, [lains, Divers and dangerous ; which are heresies, And, not reform’d, may prove pernicious. Gar. Which reformation must be sudden too, My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses Pace ’em not in their hands to make ’em gentle, But stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur Till they obey the manage. If we suffer, em, Out of our easiness and childish pity To one man’s honour, this contagious sickness, Farewell all physic: and what follows then ? Commotions, uproars, with a general taint Of the whole state: as, of late days, our neighbours, ‘The upper Germany, can dearly witness, Yet freshly pitied in our memories. Oran. My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress Both of my life and office, I have labour d, ING TE TEIN EOYs VBEL. SCENE III. And with no little study, that my teaching And the strong course of my authority Might go one way, and safely; and the end Was ever, to do well: nor is there living, I speak it with a single heart, my lords, A man that more detests, more stirs against, Both in his private conscience and his place, Defacers of a public peace, than I do. Pray heaven, the king may never find a heart With less allegiance in it! Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships, That, in this case of justice, my accusers, Be what they will, may stand forth face to face, And freely urge ag ainst me. Su Nay, my lord, That cannot be: you are a counsellor, And, by that virtue, no man dare accuse you. Gar. My lord, because we have business of more moment, [ure, We will be short with you. ’T is his highness’ pleas- And our consent, for better trial of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower; Where, being but a private man again, You shali know many dare accuse you boldly, More than, I fear, you are provided for. [you; Cran. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank You are always my good friend; if your will pass, I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, You are so merciful: I see your end *T is my undoing: love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, I make as little doubt, as you do conscience In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, But reverence to your calling makes me modest. Gar. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary, That ’s the plain ‘truth: your painted gloss discovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness. Crom. My Lord of Winchester, you are a little, By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been: ’t.is a cruelty To load a falling man. Gar. Good master secretary, I ery your honour mercy; you may, worst Of all this table, say so. Crom. Why, my lord? Gar. Do not I know you for a favourer Of this new sect ? ye are not sound. Crom. Not sound ? Gar. Not sound, I say. Crom. "Would you were half so honest! Men’s prayers then would seek you, not their fears. Gar. I shall remember this bold language. Crom. Do. Remember your bold life too. Chan. This is too much; Forbear, for shame, my lords. Gar. I have done. Crom. _ And I. Chan. Then thus for you, my lord: it stands I take it, by all voices, that for thwith [agreed, You be convey’ *d to the Tower a prisoner ; There to remain till the king’s further pleasure Be known unto us: are you all agreed, lords ? All. We are., Oran. Is there no other way of mercy, But I must needs to the Tower, my lords? Garner What other Would you expect ? you are strangely troublesome. Let some o’ the guard be ready there. Enter Guard. ‘ Oran. For me? Must I go like a traitor thither : ? DOT ACT V. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE IV. Gar. Receive hin, | In such an honour: how may I deserve it, And see him safe i’ the Tower. That ama poor and humble subject to you ? Cran. Stay, good my lords, King. Come, come, my lord, you’ld spare your I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords; By virtue of that ring, I take my cause Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it To a most noble judge, the king my master. Cham. This is the king’s ring. Sur. *T is no counterfeit. Suf. ’T is the right ring, by heaven: I told ye all, | When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling, *T would fall upon ourselves. or. Do you think, my lords, The king will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex’d ? Chan. °T is now too certain: How much more is his life in value with him ? Would I were fairly out on’t! Crom. My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against this man, whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at, Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye! Enter King, frowning on them; takes his seat. Gar. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to In daily thanks, that gave ussuchaprince; [heaven Not only good and wise, but most religious: One that, in all obedience, makes the church The chief aim of his honour; and, to strengthen That holy duty, out of dear respect, His royal self in judgment comes to hear The cause betwixt her and this great offender. King. You were ever good at sudden commenda- Bishop of Winchester. But know,I come not [tions, To hear such flattery now, and in my presence; They are too thin and bare to hide offences. To me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel, | The common voice, I see, is verified And think with wagging of your tongue to win me; But, whatsoe’er thou takest me for, I’m sure Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody. [proudest | To Cranmer |Good man,sit down. Now let mesee the He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee: By all that’s holy, he had better starve Than but once think this place becomes thee not. Sur. May it please your grace, — King. No, sir, it does not please me. I had thought [had had men of some understanding And wisdom of my council; but I find none. Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, This good man, —few of you deserve that title, — This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy At chamber-door ? and one as great as you are ? Why, what ashame was this! Did my commission Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye | Power as he was a counsellor to try him, Not as a groom: there’s some of ye, I see, More out of malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean; Which ye shall never have while I live. Chan. Thus far, My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed Concerning his imprisonment, was rather, If there be faith in men, meant for his trial, And fair purgation to the world, than malice, I’m sure, in me. King. Well, well, my lords, respect him; | Take him, and use him well, he’s worthy of it. I will say thus much for him, if a prince May be beholding to a subject, I Am, for his love and service, so to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace him: [bury, Be friends, for shame,my lords! My Lord of Canter- I have a suit which you must not deny me; That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism, You must be godfather, and answer for her. Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory | 508 spoons: you shall have two noble partners with you; the old Duchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dor- set: will these please you 3 Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace and love this man. Gar. And brother-love I do it. Cran. And let heaven Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation. [heart: King. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true ury Of thee, which says thus, ‘Do my Lord of Canter- A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.’ Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long To have this young one made a Christian. As I have made ye one, lords, one remain; So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. [Exewnt. SCENE IV. — The palace yard. Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man. Port. Youll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping. [larder. | Within] Good master porter, I belong to the Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! is this a place to roar in? Fetch mea dozen With a true heart | crab-tree staves, and strong ones: these are but | switches to ’em. Ill seratch your heads: you must be seeing christenings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals ? Man. Pray, sir, be patient: ’tis as much impos- Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons — To scatter ’em, as ’t is to make ’em sleep On May-day morning; which will never be: We may as well push against Powle’s, as stir ’em. Port. How got they in, and be hang’d ? Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in ? As much as one sound cudgel of four foot — You see the poor remainder — could distribute, I made no spare, sir. Port. You did nothing, sir. Man. Lam not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, To mow ’em down before me: but if I spared any That had a head to hit, either young or old, He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again; | And that I would not for a cow, God save her! [ Within] Do you hear, master porter ? Port. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah. Man. What would you have me do ? Port. What should you do, but knock ’em down by the dozens ? Is this Moorfields to muster in ? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian con- science, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together. Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, 0’ my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in’s nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a com- bustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, and hit that woman; who cried out ‘Clubs!’ when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o’ the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made .\ [sible— - ee > fer ACT Z U q S 8 r a | > e ay Q oO 2) 0) s ADOT ©. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE VY. Unplagued with corns will have a bout with you. Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, She, I ’llswear, hath corns; am I come near ye now ? Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day That I have worn a visor and could tell A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear, Such as would please: ’t is gone, ’t is gone, ’t is gone: You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls. Music plays, and they dance. More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up, And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah, sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well. Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet ; For you and I are past our dancing days: How long is ’t now since last yourself and I Were in a mask ? Sec. Cap. By ’r lady, thirty years. Cap. What, man! ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much: *T is since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come pentecost as quickly as it will, Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d. Sec. Cap. ”I'is more, ’t is more: his son is elder, sir; His son is thirty. Cap. Will you tell me that ? His son was but a ward two years ago. Rom. [To a Servingman] What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight ? Serv. I know not, sir. Rom. O,she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s éar; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear ! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I ’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now ? forswear it, sight ! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night. Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave Come hither, cover’d with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity ? Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. Cap. Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so? Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, A villain that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night. Cap. Young Romeo is it ? Tyb. *T is he, that villain Romeo. - Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone; He bears him like a portly gentleman ; And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well govern’d youth: I would not for the wealth of all the town Here in my house do him disparagement : Therefore be patient, take no note of him: It is my will, the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. Tyb. It fits, when such a villain is a guest: J? not endure him. Cap. He shall be endured: What, goodman boy! I say, he shall: go to; Am I the master here, or you? go to. You ’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul! You ’ll make a mutiny among my guests! You will set cock-a-hoop! you’ll be the man! Tyb. Why, uncle, ’t is a shame. Oap. Go to, go to; You are a saucy boy: is’t so, indeed ? This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what: You must contrary me! marry, ’tis time. Well said, my hearts! You are a princox; go: Be quiet, or— More light, more light! Forshame! I?ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts! Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting, I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall. [Hvit. Lom. (To Juliet] If I profane with my unwor- thiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. Rom. Have noi saints lips, and holy palmers too ? Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Rom. O,then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Jul. Berne do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake. Rom. ee move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged. Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. ftom. Sinfrom my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again. Jul. You kiss by the book. Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with Rom. What is her mother ? [you. Nurse. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house, And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous: I nursed her daughter, that you talk’d withal; I tell you, he that can lay hold of her Shall have the chinks. Rom. Is she a Capulet ? O dear account! my life is my foe’s debt. Ben. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. Rom. Ay,soI fear; the more is my unrest. Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone; We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. Is it e’en so? why, then, I thank you all; I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night. More torches here! Come on then, let ’s to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late: I'll to my rest. [Hxeunt all but Juliet and Nurse. Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentle- man ? Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio. Jul. What’s he that now is going out of door ? Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petrucio. Jul. What’s he that follows there, that would not dance ? Nurse. I know not. Jul. Go, ask his name: if he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding bed. Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague; The only son of your great enemy. Jul. My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy. Nurse. What’s this ? what’s this ? Jul. A rhyme I learn’d even now Of one I danced withal. [One calls within ‘ Juliet.’ Nurse. Anon, anon! Come, let ’s away; the strangers all are gone. [ Hxeunt. 589 ACT II. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE ff, py ONS Re Rad Be PROLOGUE. Enter Chorus. Chor. Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir; That fair for which love groan’d for and would die, With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair. ‘Now Romeo is beloved and loves again, Alike bewitched by the charm of looks, But to his foe supposed he must complain, And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks: Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear ; And she as much in love, her means much less To meet her new-beloved any where: But passion lends them power, time means, to meet, Tempering extremities with extreme sweet. [Hvit. SCENE I.—A lane by the wall of Capulet’s orchard. Enter Romeo. Rom. Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. | He climbs the wall, and leaps down within tt. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo! Mer. He is wise; And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed. Ben. We ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall: Call, good Mercutio. Mer. Nay, I ’ll conjure too. Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh: Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied ; Cry but ‘Ay me!’ pronounce but ‘ love’ and ‘ dove;’ Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, One nick-name for her purblind son and heir, Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid! He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, By her high forehead and her scarlet lip, By her fine foot, straight leg and quivering thigh And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in thy likeness thou appear to us! Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. eas This cannot anger him: ’t would anger im. To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it and conjured it down; That were some spite: my invocation Is fair and honest, and in his mistress’ name I conjure only but to raise up him. ae Come, he hath hid himself among these rees, To be consorted with the humorous night: Blind is his love and best befits the dark. Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone. O, Romeo, that she were, O, that she were An open et cetera, thou a poperin pear! Romeo, good night: I’ll to my truckle-bed ; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep: Come, shall we go? Ben. Go, then; for ’tis in vain To seek him here that means not to be found. | Hxeunt. 590 SCENE II. —Capulet’s orchard. Enter Romeo. Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. [Juliet appears above at a window But,soft ! what light through yonder window breaks It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious ; Her vestal livery is but sick and green | And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love! O, that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that ? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold, ’t is not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! Jul. Ay me! Rom. She speaks: O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, As Is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air. [Romeo ? Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, _ And I’ll no longer be a Capulet. ; [this ? Rom. | Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at Jul. "Lis but thy name that is my enemy ; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What ’s Montague ? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging toa man. O, be some other name! What ’s ina name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo eall’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, And for that name which is no part of thee Take all myself. Rom. I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I ’ll be new baptized ; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. [night Jul. What man art thou that thus bescreen’d in So stumblest on my counsel ? Ron. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee: Had I it written, I would tear the word. Jul. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words Of that tongue’s utterance, yet 1 know the sound: Art thou not Romeo and a Montague ? [tom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. Fag camest thou hither, tell me, and where- ore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. ACT II. Rom. With love’s light wings did I 0’erperch these For stony limits cannot hold love out, [walls ; And what love can do that dares love ‘attempt ; Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sw eet, And I am proof against their enmity. Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. fiom. ahi night’s cloak to hide me from their Sight , And but thou love me, let them find me. here: My life were better ended by their hate, Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. Jul. By whose direction found’st thou out this place ? Rom. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire ; He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes. Iam no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. [face, Jul. Thou know’st the mask of night is on my Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke: but farewell ‘compliment ! Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ‘ AY, ; And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear’st, Thou mayst prove false; at lovers’ perjuries, They say, Jove laughs. "Oo gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, saree it faithfully : Or if thou think’st I am too quickly won, I?ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And therefore thou mayst think my "haviour light: But trust me, gentlemen, I ’ll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ware, My true love’s passion: therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops— Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant That monthly changes in her circled orb, [moon, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Rom. What shall I swear by ? Jul. Do not swear at all; Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And [’ll believe thee. Rom. If my heart’s dear love— Jul. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night : It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden ; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say ‘It lightens.’ Sweet, good night ! This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast! Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? ftom. The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow an mine. Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst Peitest And yet I would it were to give again. Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what pur- pose, love ? Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have: My bounty is as boundless as the sea, ' My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. [Nurse calls within. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE III. —_» I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu! Anon, good nurse ! Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [| Hatt, above. Ftom. O blessed, blessed night ! Tam afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. Re-enter Juliet, above. Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night in- If that thy bent of love be honourable, [deed, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that Ill procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I ll lay And follow thee iny lord throughout the world. Nurse. [Within] Madam! Jul. I come, anon.— But if thou mean’st not well, I do beseech thee — Nurse. [Within] Madam! Jul. By and by, I come :— To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: To-morrow will I send. Rom So thrive my soul — Tull! ‘A thousand times good night! [Hxit, above. Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. [books, Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. ‘ | Retiring. Re-enter Juliet, above. Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer’s To lure this tassel-gentle back again! [voice, Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, With repetition of my Romeo’s name. Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name: How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears! Jul. Romeo! Rom My dear? Jul. At what o’ clock to-morrow Bae : send to thee ? At the hour of nine. Tuk ‘T will not fail: ’*tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company. Rom. And Ill still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. Jul. "Tis almost morning; I would have thee And yet no further than a wanton’s bird; [gone: Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. Rom. I would I were thy bird. Jul Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sor- That I shall say good night till it be morrow. [row, [ Hxit, above. Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell, His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. [Hwit. SCENE III.—Friar Laurence’s cell. Enter Friar Laurence, with a basket. Fri. L. The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frown- ing night, Chequering the ‘eastern clouds with streaks of light. And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels: 591 ACT TES Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry, I must up-fill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. The earth that ’s nature’s mother is her tomb; What is her burying grave that is her womb, And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find, Many for many virtues excellent, None but for some and yet all different. QO, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities : For nought so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give, Nor ought so good but strain’d from that fair use Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ; And vice sometimes by action dignified. Within the infant rind of this small flower Poison hath residence and medicine power: [part ; For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; And where the worser is predominant, Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. Enter Romeo. Rom. Good morrow, father. Fyt. I. _ Benedicite! What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper’d head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign : Therefore thy earliness doth me assure Thou art up-roused by some distemperature ; Or if not so, then here [ hit it right, Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night. Rom. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine. [line ? Fri. L. God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosa- Tiom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father ? no; I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe. Fri. L. That’s my good son: but where hast thou been, then ? Tom. I’) tell thee, ere thou ask it me again. I have been feasting with mine enemy, Where on a sudden one hath wounded me, That ’s by me wounded: both our remedies Within thy help and holy physic lies: I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, My intercession likewise steads my foe. Fyi. L. Be plain, good son,and homely in thy drift; Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. Rom. Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is On the fair daughter of rich Capulet: [set AS mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; And all combined, save what thou must combine By holy marriage: when and where and how We met, we woo’d and made exchange of vow, I ’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, That thou consent to marry us to-day. Fri. L. Holy Saint Francis, what a change is Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear, [here! So soon forsaken ? young men’s love then lies Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! How much salt water thrown away in waste, To season love, that of it doth not taste! The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears; Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet: 592 ROMHO AND JULIET. SCENE [V. If e’er thou wast thyself and these woes thine, Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline: [then, And art thou changed? pronounce this sentence Women may fall, when there ’s no strength in men. Rom. Thou chid’st me oft for loving Rosaline. Fri. L. For doting, not for loving, ‘pupil mine. age And bad’st me bury love. ee To lay one in, another out to have. Rom. I pray thee, chide not: she whom I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow; The other did not so. bag Fu O, she knew well. Thy love did read by rote and could not spell. But come, young waverer, come, go with me, In one respect I ’ll thy assistant be; For this alliance may so happy prove, To turn your households’ rancour to pure love. Rom. O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. wd ne. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run ast. [ Hveunt. SCENE IV.—A street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be ? Came he not home to-night ? Ben. Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man. Mer. Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so, that he will sure run mad. Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father’s house. Mer. A challenge, on my life. Ben. Romeo will answer it. Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter. Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared. Mer. Alas, poor Romeo! he is already dead ; stab- bed with a white wench’s black eye; shot through the ear with a love-song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft: and is he a man to encounter Tybalt ? Ben. Why, what is Tybalt ? Mer. More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is the courageous captain of complements. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause: ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the Ben. The what ? [hai! Mer. The poxof such antic, lisping, affecting fan- tasticoes; these new tuners of accents! ‘ By Jesu, avery good blade! a very tall man! a very good whore!’ Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these perdona-mi’s, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bones, their bones! Not in a grave, Enter Romeo. Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo. Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring: O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleo- patra a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings and har- lots; Thisbe a gray eye or so, but not to the pur- pose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. Rom. Good morrow to you both. feit did I give you? sat Mer. The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive ? What counter- ACT if. Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. ’ Mer. That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. liom. Meaning, to court’sy. Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it. ftom. A most courteous exposition. Mer. Nay, Iam the very pink of courtesy. Rom. Pink for flower. Mer. Right. Rom. Why, then is my pump well flowered. Mer. Well said: follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain aiter the wearing sole singular. Rom. O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness! [faint. Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits Rom. Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or I7U cry a match. Mer. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five: was I with you there for the goose ? Rom. Thou wast never with me for any thing when thou was not there for the goose. Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. Lom. Nay, good goose, bite not. Mer. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. Rom. And is it not well served in to a sweet goose ? Mer. O, here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad! Rom. I stretch it out for that word ‘broad; ’ which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now art thou Ro- meo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. Ben. Stop there, stop there. [the hair. Mer. Thou desirest ine to stop in my tale against Ben. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. Mer. O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short: for Iwas come to the whole depth of my tale; and meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no Rom. Here’s goodly gear. [longer. _ Enter Nurse and Peter. Mer. A sail, a sail! Ben. Two, two; a shirt and a smock. Nurse. Peter! Peter. Anon! Nurse. My fan, Peter. Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face. Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. Mer. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. Nurse. Is it good-den ? Mer. ’T is no less, I tell you, for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. Nurse. Out upon you! what a man are you! . Rom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. Nurse. By my troth, it is well said; ‘for himself to mar,’ quoth a’? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo ? fiom. I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him: I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. Nurse. You say well. Mer. Yea, is the worst well? very well took, i’ faith; wisely, wisely. 38 ROMHKO AND JULIET. SCENE IV. Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. Ben. She will indite him to some supper. Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho! Rom. What hast thou found ? Mer. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent. [ Sings. An old hare hoar, And an old hare hoar,. Is very good meat in lent: But a hare that is hoar Is too much for a score, When it hoars ere it be spent Romeo, will you come to dinner, thither. Rom. I will follow you. Mer. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, [singing] ‘lady, lady, lady.” [Hxeunt Mercutio and Benvolio. Nurse. Marry, farewell! I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery ? Rom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear him- self talk, and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month. Nurse. Ana’ speak any thing against me, I ‘ll take him down, an a’ were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks; and if I cannot, I ll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! Iam none of his flirt-gills; Iam none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure ? Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you: I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law ou my side. Nurse. Now, afore God, Iam so vexed, that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bade me inquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say: for the gentlewoman is young; and, therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. Rom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mis- tress. I protest unto thee — Nurse. Good heart, and, i’ faith, I will tell her as much: Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman. Rom. What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me. Nurse. I will tell her, sir, that you do protest: which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. Rom. Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon ; And there she shall at Friar Laurence’ cell Be shrived and married. Here is for thy pains. Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny. Rom. Go to; I say you shall. [there. Nurse. This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall: Within this hour my man shall be with thee, And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair ; Which to the high top-gallant of my joy Must be my convoy in the secret night. Farewell; be trusty, and [ ’ll quit thy pains: Farewell; commend me to thy mistress. Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee! you, sir. Rom. What say’st thou, my dear nurse ? Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear Two may keep counsel, putting one away? __[Say, Rom. I warrant thee, my man’s as true as steel. Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady — Lord, Lord! when ’t was a little prating thing : — O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, 593 your father’s? we/’ll to Hark ACT II. that would fain lay knife aboard ; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes and tell her that Paris is:the properer man; but, Ill warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both witha letter ? Rom. Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R. | Nurse. Ah, mocker! that’s the dog’s name; R | is for the—No; I know it begins with some other | letter:—and she hath the prettiest sententious of | it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. Rom. Commend me to thy lady. Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [| Hait Romeo.] Peter! Pet. Anon! Nurse. Peter, take my fan, and go before, and apace. | Kxeunt. SCENE V.— Capulet’s orchard. Enter Juliet. Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the | There stays a husband to make you a wife: | Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, They 71] be in searlet straight at any news. In half an hour she promised to return. [nurse ; Perchance she cannot meet him: that’s not so. O, she is lame! love’s heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams, Driving back shadows over louring hills: Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve Is three long hours, yet she is not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me: But old folks, many feign as they were dead ; Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. O God, she comes! Enter Nurse and Peter. __ O honey nurse, what news? Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [ Hait Peter. Jul. Now, good sweet nurse,—O Lord, why | look’st thou sad ? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily ; If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face. Nurse. | am a-weary, give me leave awhile: Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I had! Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. Nay, a I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, speak. Nurse. Jesu,what haste ? can you not stay awhile ? Do you not see that I am out of breath ? Jul. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast To say to me that thou art out of breath? [breath The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that: Say either, and I ’ll stay the circumstance: Let me be satisfied, is ’t good or bad ? Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; though his face be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s; and for a hand, and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they art past compare: he is not the flower of cour- tesy, but, I’ll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. | Go thy ways, wench; serve God. dined at home ? Jul. No, no: but all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? what of that ? pipe me how my head aches! what a head lave What, have you 594 ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE Vi It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My back o’ t’ other side,—O, my back, my back ! Beshrew your heart for sending me about, To catch my death with jaunting up and down! Jul. I’ faith, 1 am sorry that thou art not well. oh oth sweet nurse, tell me, what says my ove! Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, and, i warrant, a virtuous,— Where is your mother ? Jul. Where is my mother! why, she is within; Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest ! ‘ Your love says, like an honest gentleman, Where is your mother ? ’ Nurse. O God’s lady dear! Are you so hot ? marry, come up, I trow; Is this the poultice for my aching bones ? Henceforward do your messages yourself. Jul. Here ’s such a coil! come, what says Romeo ? Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day ? Jul. I have. [ce] ; Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence’ Hie you to church; I must another way, To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark: I am the drudge and toil in your delight, But you shall bear the burden soon at night. Go; I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell. Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell. [ Hxeunt. SCENE VI.— Friar Laurence’s cell. Enter Friar Laurence and Romeo. Fri. L. So smile the heavens upen this holy act, That after hours with sorrow chide us not! Rom. Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in her sight: Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare; It is enough I may but call her mine. Fri. L. These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite: | Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. Enter Juliet. Here comes the lady: O, so light a foot Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint: A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall; so light is vanity. Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor. [both. Fri. L. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy Be heap’d like mine and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue Unfold the imagined happiness that both Receive in either by this dear encounter. Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament: They are but beggars that can count their worth ; But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth. Fri. L. Come, come with me, and we will make short work : ; For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone Till holy church incorporate two in one. [weunt. ACT III. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE I. sth O18 Daya ed OB SCENE I.— A public place. finter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page, and Servants. en. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let ’s retire: The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl; For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. Mer. Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says ‘God send me no need of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. Ben. Am I like such a fellow ? Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Ben. And what to? Mer. Nay,an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more, or a hair less, in his beard, than thou hast: thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes: what eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg if full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling: thou hast quar- relled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun: didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with an- other, for tying his new shoes with old riband ? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. y Mer. The fee-simple! O simple! Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets. Mer. By wy heel, I care not. Enter Tybalt and others. Tyo. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good den: a word with one of you. Mer. And but one word with one of us? couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir an you will give me occasion. [giving ? Mer. Could you not take some occasion without Tyb. Mercutio, thou consort’st with Romeo,— Mer. Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords: here’s my fiddlestick; here’s that shall make you dance. ’Zounds, consort! Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of men: Either withdraw unto some private place, And reason coldly of your grievances, Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us. [gaze ; Mer. Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I. Enter Romeo. Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir: here comes my man. ery: Mer. But I'll be hang’d, sir, if he wear your liv- Marry, go before to field, he ll be your follower ; Your worship in that sense may call him ‘ man.’ Tyb. Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford No better term than this,—thou art a villain. Rom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the appertaining rage To such a greeting: villain am I none; Therefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not. Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw. Rom. I do protest, I never injured thee, But love thee better than thou canst devise, Till thou shalt know the reason of my loye: And so, good Capulet,— which name I tender As dearly as my own,— be satisfied. Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission ! Alla stoccata carries it away. [ Draws. Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk ? Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me ? Mer. Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears ? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. Tyb. tam for you. | Drawing. Ttom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. Mer. Come, sir, your passado. [ They fight. ftom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath Forbidden bandying in Verona streets: Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio! [Tybalt under Fomeo’s arm stabs Mercutio, and flies with his followers. I am hurt. I am sped. Mer. A plague o’ both your houses! fs he gone, and hath nothing ? Ben. What, art thou hurt ? Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ’tis enough, Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. [ Hait Page. Rom. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. Mer. No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but ’tis enough, ’t will serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. Iam peppered, I warrant,for this world. A plague o’ both your houses! ’Zounds,a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a brag- gart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us ? I was hurt under your arm. Rom. 1 thought all for the best. Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses! They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it, And soundly too: your houses! [Hxeunt Mercutio and Benvolio. Rom. This gentleman, the prince’s near ally, My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt In my behalf; my reputation stain’d With Tybalt’s slander,— Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my kinsman! O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel ! Re-enter Benvolio. Ben. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead | That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. Rom. This day’s black fate on more days doth de- This but begins the woe, others must end. [pend; Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. Rom. Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain ! Away to heaven, respective lenity, And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now! Re-enter Tybalt. Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again, That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio’s soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. 595 . ACT III. b. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him Shalt with him hence. here, Lom. This shall determine that. [Lhey fight; Tybalt falls. Ben. Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. Stand not amazed: the prince will doom thee death, If thou art taken: hence, be gone, away! Rom. O, I am fortune’s fool! Ben. Why dost thou stay ? i [ Hxit Romeo. Enter Citizens, &c. First Cit. Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio ? Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he ? Ben. There lies that Tybalt. First Cit. Up, sir, go with me; I charge thee in the prince’s name, obey. Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives, and others. Prin. Where are the vile beginners of this fray ? Ben. O noble prince, I can discover all The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl: There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. La. Cap. Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child! O prince! O cousin! husband! O, the blood is spilt Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague. O cousin, cousin! Prin. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray ? Ben. Selim here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay: Romeo that spoke him fair, bade him bethink How nice the quarrel was, and urged withal Your high displeasure: all this uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d, Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast, Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside, and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud, [tongue, * Hold, friends! friends, part!’ and, swifter than his His agile arm beats down their fatal points, And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled ; But by and by comes back to Romeo, Who had but newly entertain’d revenge, And to ’t they go like lightning, for, ere I Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain, And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. La. Cap. He is a kinsman to the Montague; Affection makes him false; he speaks not true: Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give; Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live. Prin. Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio; Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe ? Mon. Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio’s friend ; His fault concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt. Prin. And for that offence Immediately we do exile him hence: I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding, My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding ; But Ill amerce you with so strong a fine That you shall all repent the loss of mine: I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase our abuses: Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste, 596 ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE II. Else, when he’s found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body and attend our will: Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. [| Haewnt, SCENE II.— Capulet’s orchard. Enter Juliet. Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus’ lodging: such a waggoner As Phaethon would whip you to the west, And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods: Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle; tillstrange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night ; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night ; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back. [night, Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold, Not yet enjoy’d: so tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence. Enter Nurse, with cords. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there ? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch ? Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. [Throws them down. Jul. Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands ? {dead ! Nurse. Ah, well-a-day ! he’s dead, he ’s dead, he ’s We are undone, lady, we are undone! Alack the day! he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead! Jul. Can heaven be so envious ? Nurse. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot: O Romeo, Romeo! Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! Jul. What devil art thou, that dost torment me This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell. [thus ? Hath Romeo slain himself ? say thou but ‘I,’ And that bare vowel ‘ I’ shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice ; I am not I, if there be such an I; ’ Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer * I.’ If he be slain, say ‘I’; or if not, no: Brief sounds determine of my wealor woe. [eyes,— Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine God save the mark! —here on his manly breast: A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood, All in gore-blood; I swounded at the sight. Jul. O, break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at To prison, eyes, ne’er look on liberty ! fonce! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here: And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman ! That ever I should live to see thee dead! ACT III. Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary ? Is homeo slaughter’d, and is Tybalt dead ? My dear-loved cousin, and my dearer lord ? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! For who is living, if those two are gone ? Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banish’d ; Romeo that kill’d him, he is banished. [blood ? Jul. O God! did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s Nurse. It did, it did; alas the day, it did! Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave ? Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical ! Dove-feather’d raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st, A damned saint, an honourable villain ! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell, When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh ? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace! _ Nurse.’ There ’s no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. ih, where ’s my man? give me some aqua vite: These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo! Jul. Blister’d be thy tongue For such a wish! he was not born to shame: Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit; For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a beast was I to chide at him! Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin ? Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband ? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it ? But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin ? | That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband: | Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring ; Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; And se ’s dead, that would have slain my hus- and : All this is comfort: wherefore weep I then ? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, That murder’d me: I would forget it fain ; But, O, it presses to my memory, Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds: ‘Tybalt is dead, and Romeo — banished ; ’ That ‘ banished,’ that one word ‘ banished,’ Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death Was woe enough, if it had ended there: Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be rank’d with other griefs, Why follow’d not, when she said ‘ Tybalt ’s dead,’ Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have moved ? But with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death, ‘Romeo is banished,’ to speak that word, Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. ‘ Romeo is banished! ’ There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word’s death; no words can that woe sound. Where is my father, and my mother, nurse ? Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse: Will you go tothem? I will bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears : mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment. Take up those cords: poor ropes, you are beguiled, Both you and I; for Romeo is exiled: He made you for a highway to my bed; ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE III. But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords, come, nurse; Ill to my wedding-bed; And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead! Nurse. Hie to your chamber: Ill find Romeo To comfort you: I wot well where he 1s. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night: I?ll to him; he is hid at Laurence’ cell. ’ Jul. O, find him! give thisring to my true knight, And bid him come to take his last farewell. [ Hxeunt. SCENE III.—Friar Laurence’s cell. Enter Friar Laurence. Tri. L. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man : Affliction is enamour’d of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. Rom. Father, what news? what is the prince’s doom ? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, That I yet know not ? Fri, L Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company: I bring thee tidings of the prince’s doom. Rom. What less than dooms-day is the prince’s doom ? ips Fri. L. A gentler judgment vanish’d from Not body’s death, but body’s banishment. Rom. Ha, banishment! be merciful, say ‘ death ;’ For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death: do not say ‘ banishment.’ Fri, L. Hence from Verona art thou banished : Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. Rom. There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence-banished is banish’d from the world, And world’s exile is death: then banished, Is death mis-term’d: calling death banishment, Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. Fri. L. O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince, | Taking thy part, hath rush’d aside the law, And turn’d that black word death to banishment: This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Rom. ’T is torture, and not mercy: heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, | Live here in heaven and may look on her; But Romeo may not: more validity More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion-flies than Romeo: they may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, _ Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; But Romeo may not; he is banished: Flies may do this, but I from this must fly: They are free men, but I am banished. And say’st thou yet that exile is not death ? in Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean, But ‘ banished’ to kill me? —‘ banished’ ? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d, To mangle me with that word ‘ banished ’ ? Fri. L. Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word. ; Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Fri. L. Ill give thee armour to keep off that 1ps, his Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, | [word ; To comfort thee, though thou art banished. 597 ACT ITIl. Rom. Yet ‘banished’? Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom, It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more. Fri. L. O, then I see that madmen have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Fri. L. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou eanst not speak of that thou dost not Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, [feel : An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me and like me banished, [thy hair, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. [Anocking within. Fri. L. Arise; one knocks; good Romeo, hide thyself. Rom. NotI; unless the breath of heart-sick groans, Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes. | Knocking. Fri. L. Hark, how they knock! Who’s there? Romeo, arise; Thou wilt be taken. Stand up; | Knocking. Run to my study. By and by! God’s will, What simpleness is this! I come, I come! [ Knocking. Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what ’s your will? Nurse. [Within] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand; I come from Lady Juliet. Fri. L. Stay awhile! Welcome, then. Enter Nurse. Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar, Where is my lady’s lord, where ’s Romeo ? Fri. L. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress’ case, Just in her case! O woful sympathy! Piteous predicament! Even so lies she, Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man: For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand; Why should you fall into so deep an O? Rom. Nurse! {of ail. Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death’s the end Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet ? how is it with her ? Doth she not think me an old murderer, Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy With blood removed but little from her own ? Where is she? and how doth she ? and what says My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love? [weeps; Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and And now falls on her bed; and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murder her; as that name’s cursed hand Murder’d her kinsman. OQ, tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. [Drawing his sword. Byte D. Hold thy desperate hand: Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art: Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast: Unseemly woman in a seeming man! Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amazed me: by my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper’d. Hast thou slain Tybalt ? wilt thou slay thyself ? And slay thy lady too that lives in thee, By doing damned hate upon thyself ? 098 ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE IV. Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit: Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit: Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish: Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask, Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismember’d with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead ; There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy too: The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend And turns it to exile; there art thou happy: A pack of blessings lights upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array ; But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench, Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love: Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her: But look thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua; Where thou shalt live, till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went’st forth in lamentation. Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady; And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto: Romeo is coming. {night Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay’d here all the To hear good counsel: O, what learning is! My lord, I ’ll tell my lady you will come. Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir: Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. [Hzait. Rom. How well my comfort is revived by this! Fri. L. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguised from hence: Sojourn in Mantua; 171] find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here: Give me thy hand; ’tis late: farewell; good night. Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief, so brief to part with thee: Farewell. SCENE IV.—A room in Capulet’s house, Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris. Cap. Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily, That we have had no time to move our daughter: Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I: — Well, we were born to die. ’T is very late, she ’11 not come down to-night: I promise you, but for your company, I would have been a-bed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no time to woo. Madam, good night: commend me to your daughi- ter. [morrow ; La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early to- To-night she is mew’d up to her heaviness. Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child’s love: I think she will be ruled In all respects by me; nay, more, I doubt it not. [ Hxewnt. ASSES EL. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE V. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed; Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love; And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next — But, soft! what day is this? : Feds Monday, my lord. _ Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too O’ Thursday let it be: 0’ Thursday, tell her, [soon, She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready ? do you like this haste ? We'll keep no great ado,— a friend or two; For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much: Therefore we ’ll have some half a dozen friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to- morrow. Cap. Well, get you gone: o’ Thursday be it, then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed, Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day. Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho! Afore me! it is so very very late, That we may call it early by and by. Good night. SCENE V.—Capulet’s orchard. Enter Romeo and Juliet above, at the window. Jul. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree : Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east :' Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I: It is some meteor that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua: Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone. Rom. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I ‘ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye, *T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow ; Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads: I have more care to stay than will to go: Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so. How is’t, my soul? let’s talk; it is not day. Jul. It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away ! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division ; This doth not so, for she divideth us: Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes; O, now I would they had changed voices too! Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. O, now be gone; more light and light it grows. ftom. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes! [ Hxeunt. Enter Nurse, to the chamber. Nurse. Madam! Jul. Nurse ? . [ber : Nurse. Y our lady mother is coming to your cham- The day is broke; be wary, look about. [ Heit. Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. Rom. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I’ll de- scend. [He goeth down. Jul. Art thou gone so? love, lord, ay, husband, friend! I must hear from thee every day in the hour, | For sweet discourses in our time to come. For in a minute there are many days: O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo! Rom. Farewell! | I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Jul. O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again ? ftom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shail [serve Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining soul! | Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb: | Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale. ftom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you: Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! [Evzit. Jul. O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle: If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, fortune; For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long, _ But send him back. La. Cap. | Within] Ho, daughter! are you up? Jul. Who is’t that calls? is it my lady mother ? Is she not down so late, or up so early ? What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither ? Enter Lady Capulet. La. Cap. Why, how now, Juliet! Jul. Madam, I am not well. La. Cap. Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death ? What,wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live; Therefore, have done: some grief shows much o love; : But much of grief shows still some want of wit. Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. La. Cap. So shall you feel the loss, but not the Which you weep for. [friend ul. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. La. Cap. Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death, As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him. Jul. What villain, madam ? La. Cap. That same villain, Romeo. Jul. [Aside] Villain and he be many miles asun- God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; [der.— And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. La. Cap. That is, because the traitor murderer lives. {hands: Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death ! La. Cap. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not: Then weep no more. Ill send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish’d runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram, That he shall soon keep Tybalt company: And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied. Jul. Indeed, I never shall be satisfied With Romeo, till I behold him —dead — Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d: Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it; That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him named, and cannot come to him, To wreak the love I bore my cousin Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him! [aman La. Cap. Find thou the means, and I ’ll find such But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time: What are they, I beseech your ladyship ? La. Cap. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, [child; Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, That thou expect’st not nor I look’d not for. 599 ACT: IfTi. Jul. Madam, in happy time, what day is that ? La. Cap. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn, The gallant, young and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride: Jul. Now, by Saint Peter’s Church and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this haste; that I must wed Ere he, that should be husband, comes to woo. I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and, when I do, I swear, It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed! La. Cap. Here comes your father; tell him so yourself, And see how he will take it at your hands. Enter Capulet and Nurse. Cap. When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew; But for the sunset of my brother’s son It rains downright. How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears? Evermore showering? In one little body Thou counterfeit’st a bark, a sea, a wind; For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is, Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs; Who, raging with thy tears, and they with them, Without a sudden calm, will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife! Have you deliver’d to her our decree ? La. Cap. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave! Cap. cone take me with you, take me with you, wife. How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks ? Is she not proud? doth she not count her blest, Unwortby as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom ? Jul. Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have: Proud can I never be of what I hate; But thankful even for hate, that is meant love. i ae aM now, how now, chop-logic! What is this ? ‘Proud,’ and ‘I thank you,’ and ‘I thank you not;’ And yet ‘not proud,’ mistress minion, you, Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next, To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage! You tallow-face! La. Cap. Fie, fie! what, are you mad ? Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch ! J tell thee what: get thee to church o’ Thursday, Or never after look me in the face: Speak not, reply not, do not answer me; My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her: Out on her, hilding! Nurse. God in heaven bless her! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. Cap. And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue, Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go. Nurse. I speak no treason. O, God ye god-den. Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool! 600 ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE V., Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl; For here we need it not. La. Cap. You are too hot. Cap. Coa’s bread! it makes me mad: Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play, Alone, in company, still my care hath been To have her match’d: and having now provided A gentleman of noble parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train’d, Stuff’d,as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man; And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender, To answer ‘I7ll not wed; I cannot love, Iam too young; I pray you, pardon me.’ But, an you will not wed, I ’ll pardon you: Graze where you will, you shall not house with me: Look to ’t, think on ’t, I do not use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: An you be mine, Ill give you to my friend; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For, by my soul, I ’Il ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good: Trust to ’t, bethink you: Ill not be forsworn. Exit. Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, | That sees into the bottom of my grief? O, sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week ; Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument were Tybalt lies. La.Cap. Talk not to me, for I 711 not speak a word: Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. [Hzii. Jul. O God —O nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven ; How shall that faith return again to earth, Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth? comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise strata gems Upon so soft a subject as myself! What say’st thou? hast thou not a word of joy ? Some comfort, nurse. Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banish’d ; and all the world to nothing, That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you ; Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the county. O, he’s a lovely gentleman ! Romeo ’s a dishclout to him: an eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, I think you are happy in this second match, For it excels your first: or if it did not, Your first is dead; or ’t were as good he were, As living here and you no use of him. Jul. Speakest thou from thy heart ? Nurse. And from my soul too; Or else beshrew them both. Jul. Amen ! Nurse. at ? Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in; and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeased my father, to Laurence’ cell, To make confession and to be absolved. Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. [ Exit. Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath praised him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counsellor; Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I’ll to the friar, to know his remedy: If all else fail, myself have power to die. [ Exit. oe ACT IV. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE I}. AOL LV: SCENE I.— Friar Laurence’s cell. Enter Friar Laurence and Paris. Fri. L. On Thursday, sir? the time is very short. Par. My father Capulet will have it so; And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Fri. L. You say you do not know the lady’s Uneven is the course, I like it not. mind: Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death, And therefore have I little talk’d of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she doth give her sorrow so much sway, And in his wisdom hastes our marriage, To stop the inundation of her tears; Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society : Now do you know the reason of this haste. Fri. L. [Aside] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d. Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell. Enter Juliet. Par, Happily met, my lady and my wife! Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. Jul. What must be shall be. Fri. L. That ’s a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father ? Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. Jul. I will confess to you that I love him. Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that ; For it was bad enough before their spite. Par. Thou wrong’st it, more than tears, with that Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth ; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. fit. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now; Or shall I come to you at evening mass ? [now. Fri. L. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, My lord, we must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield I should disturb devotion ! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye: Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss. | Hatt. Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so, [report. | Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help! | Fri. L. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits: I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to this county. Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it: Tf, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise, And with this knife I ’1l help it presently. God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal’d, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both: Therefore, out of thy long-experienced time, Give me some present counsel, or, behold, °T wixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak; I long to die, If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy. | Inthis resolve: I lisend a friar with speed Fri. L. Hold, daughter: I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris, Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, Then is it likely thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide away this shame, That copest with death himself to scape from it; And, if thou darest, I ll give thee remedy.. _ dul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower; Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears ; Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house, O’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave And hide me with a dead man in his shroud; Things that, to hear them told, have made me trem- And I will do it without fear or doubt, [ble ; To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love. Fri. L. Hold, then; go home, be merry, give con- To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow: [sent To-morrow night look that thou lie alone ; Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber: Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off ; When presently through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease : No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest ; The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes, thy eyes’ windows fall, | Like death, when he shuts up the day of life; Each part, deprived of supple government, Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death: And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two and forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead: Then, as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes uncover’d on the bier Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift, | And hither shall he come: and he and I | Will watch thy waking, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame ; If no inconstant toy, nor womanish fear, Abate thy valour in the acting it. Jul. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear! Fri. L. Hold; get you gone, be strong and pros- [perous To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father ! [ Hxewnt. SCENE II.— Hall in Capulet’s house. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse, and two Servingmen. Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ. [Hxit First Servant. Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. Sec. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I’ ll try if they can lick their fingers. Cap. How canst thou try them so ? Sec. Serv. Marry, sir, ’t is an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers: therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. 601 ACT IV. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE IV. Cap. Go, be gone. [Exit Sec. Servant. We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence ? Nurse. Ay, forsooth. Cap. Well, he may chance to dosome good on her: A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is. Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with look. merry look Enter Juliet. Cap. How now, my headstrong! where have you been gadding ? Jul. Where I have learn’d me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests, and am enjoin’d By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here, And beg your pardon: pardon, I beseech you! Henceforward I am ever ruled by you. Cap. Send for the county; go tell him of this: Tl have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence’ cell; And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty. Cap. Why, lam glad on ’t; this is well: stand up: This is as ’t should be. Let me see the county; Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now, afore God! this reverend holy friar, All our whole city is much bound to him. Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet, To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow ? La. Cap. No, not till Thursday; there is time enough. [to-morrow. Cap. Go, nurse, go with her: we’ll to church [Hxeunt Juliet and Nurse. La. Cap. We shall be short in our provision: "T is now near night. ap. Tush, I will stir about, And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife: Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her; Ill not to bed to-night; let me alone; Ill play the housewife for this once. What, ho! They are all forth. Well, 1 will walk myself To County Paris, to prepare him up Against to-morrow: my heart is wondrous light, Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d. [ Hxeunt. SCENE III. — Juliet’s chamber. Enter Juliet and Nurse. Jul. Ay, those attires are best: but, gentle nurse, I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night ; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin. Enter Lady Capulet. La. ae hat, are you busy, ho? need you my elp : Jul. No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries As are behoveful for our state to-morrow: So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you: For, I am sure, you have your hands full all, In this so sudden business. La. Cap. Good night: Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need. [Hxeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse. Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, That almost freezes up the heat of life: I’) callthem back again to comfort me: Nurse! What should she do here ? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all ? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning ? 602 No, no: this shall forbid it: lie thou there. [Laying down her dagger. What if it be a poison, which the friar Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d, Because he married me before to Romeo ? I fear it is: and yet, methinks, it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? there’s a fearful point! Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes ? Or, if I live, is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place,— As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where, for these many hundred years, the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d: Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, _ Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort ; — Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking, what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes’ torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad :— O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears ? And madly play with my forefathers’ joints? And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud ? And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone, As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ? O, look! methinks I see my cousin’s ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier’s point: stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. [She falls upon her bed, within the curtains. SCENE IV. — Hall in Capulet’s house. Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. La. Cap. Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, nurse. Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Capulet. Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock hath crow’d, The curfew-bell hath rung, *t is three o’clock: Look to the baked meats, good Angelica: Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go, Get you to bed; faith, you ’ll be sick to-morrow For this night’s watching. Cap. No, not a whit: what! I have watch’d ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick. La. Cap. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch you from such watching now. [Hxeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse. Cap. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood! Enter three or four Servingmen, with spits, logs, and baskets, Now, fellow, What ’s there ? First Serv. Things for the cook, sir; but 1 know not what. Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit First Serv.} Sirrah, fetch drier logs: Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. Sec. Serv. I haveahead, sir, that will find out logs, And never trouble Peter for the matter. | Exit. Cap. Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha! Thou shalt be logger-head. Good faith, ’t is day: The county will be here with music straight, ACT IV. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE V. For so he said he would: I hear him near. [ Music within. Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say! Re-enter Nurse. Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up; Ill go and chat with Paris: hie, make haste, Make haste; the bridegroom he is come already: Make haste, I say. [ Hxeunt. SCENE V.— Juliet’s chamber. Enter Nurse. Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she: Why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed! Why, love, [say! madam! sweetheart! why, bride! What, not a word ? you take your pennyworths now ; Sleep for a week; for the next night, [ warrant, The County Paris hath set up his rest, That you shall rest but little. God forgive me, Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep! I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Ay, let the county take you in your bed; He’ll fright you up, i’ faith. Will it not be? [ Undraws the curtains. What, dress’d! and in yourclothes! and down again! I must needs wake you: Lady! lady! lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! my lady ’s dead! O, well-a-day, that ever I was born! some aqua vite, ho! My lord! my lady! Enter Lady Capulet. La. Cap. What noise is here ? Nurse. O lamentable day! La. Cap. What is the matter ? Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day! La. Cap. Ome,O me! My child, my only life, Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! Help, help! Call help. Enter Capulet. Cap. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. - the day! Nurse. She’s dead, deceased, she’s dead; alack La. Cap. Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she ’s dead! Cap. Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she’s cold; Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff ; Life and these lips have long been separated : Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Nurse. O lamentable day! La. Cap. O woful time! Cap. Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak. Enter Friar Laurence and Paris, with Musi- cians. Fri. L. Come, is the bride ready to go to church ? Cap. Ready to go, but never to return. O son! the night before thy wedding-day Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded: I will die, And leave him all; life, living, all is Death’s. Par. Have I thought long to see this morning’s And doth it give me such a sight as this ? [face, La. Cap. Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful Most miserable hour that e’er time saw [day ! In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight! Nurse. O woe! O woful, woful, woful day! Most lamentable day, most woful day, That ever, ever, I did yet behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a day as this: O woful day, O woful day! Par. Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d, By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! O love! O life! not life, but love in death! Cap. Despised, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d' Uncomfortable time, why camest thou now To murder, murder our solemnity ? O child! O child! my soul, and not my child! Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead ; And with my child my joys are buried. Fri. L. Peace, ho,forshame! confusion’s cure lives In these confusions. Heaven and yourself [not Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the maid: Your part in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion: For ’t was your heaven she should be advanced: And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself ? O, in this love, you love your child so ill, That you run mad, seeing that she is well: She ’s not well married that lives married long; But she’s best married that dies married young. Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary On this fair corse; and, as the custom is, In all her best array bear her to church: For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment. Cap. All things that we ordained festival, Turn from their office to black funeral ; Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast, Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change, Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, And all things change them to the contrary. Fri. L. Sir, go youin; and,madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave: The heavens do lour upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will. [Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar. first Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up; For, well you know, this is a pitiful case. | Hxat. First Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. Enter Peter. Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, *‘ Heart’s ease, Heart’s ease:’ O, an you will have me live, play ‘ Heart’s ease.’ First Mus. Why ‘ Heart’s ease’ ? Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full of woe: ’ O, play me some merry dump, to comfort me. First Mus. Not a dump we; ’t is no time to play Pet. You will not, then? [now. First Mus. No. Pet. I will then give it you soundly. First Mus. What will you give us ? Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek; I will give you the minstrel. ; First Mus. Then will I give you the serving- creature. Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I’ll re you, Ill fa you; do you note me? First Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us. * Sec. Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit! 603 I will dry- ACT V. beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dag- ger. Answer me like men: ‘When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound ’— why ‘silver sound’? why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you, Simon Catling ? First Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck ? Sec. Mus. I say ‘ silver sound,’ because musicians sound for silver. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE II. aA Pretty too! What say you, James Sound. pos Third Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I ery you mercy; you are the singer: I will say for you. It is ‘music with her silver sound,’ because musicians have no gold for sound- ing: a Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress.’ [Hwit. First Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same! Sec. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we’ll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Hvewnt. UAICGSELTOOIV, SCENE I. — Mantua. Enter Romeo. Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne; And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt my lady came and found me dead — Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think !— And breathed such life with kisses in my lips, That I revived, and was an emperor. Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess’d, When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy! Enter Balthasar, booted. News from Verona !— How now, Balthasar! Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar ? How doth my lady ? Is my father well ? How fares my Juliet ? that I ask again; For nothing can be ill, if she be well. Bal. 'Then she is well, and nothing can be ill: Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault, And presently took post to tell it you: O, pardon me for bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it for my office, sir. Rom. Is it evenso? then I defy you, stars! Thou know’st my lodging: get me ink and paper, And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night. Bal. I do beseech you, sir, have patience: Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure. Rom. Tush, thou art deceived : Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar ? Bal. No, my good lord. fiom. No matter: get thee gone, And hire those horses; Ill be with thee straight. [Hxit Balthasar. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. Let’s see for means: O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men ! 1 do remember an apothecary — And hereabouts he dwells,— which late I noted in tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples; meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones: And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff’d, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread and old cakes of roses, Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a show. : Noting this penury, to myself I said ‘An if a man did need a poison now, 604 A street. Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.’ O, this same thought did but forerun my need ; And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary ! Enter Apothecary. Ap. Who calls so loud ? Rom. Comehither,man. Isee that thou art poor: Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the life-weary taker may fall dead And that the trunk may be discharged of breath As violently as hasty powder fired Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb. Ay. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua’s law Is death to any he that utters them. Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, And fear’st to die? famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back; The world is not thy friend nor the world’s law; The world affords no law to make thee rich ; Then be not poor, but break it, and take this. Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents. Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will, And drink it off; and, if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold,worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me ~ To Juliet’s grave; for there must I use thee. [ Hxeunt. SCENE II.— Friar Laurence’s cell. Enter Friar John, Fri. J. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho! Enter Friar Laurence. Fri. L. This same should be the voice of Friar Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo? [John. Or, if his mind be writ, give me his lettter. fri. J. Going to find a bare-foot brother out, One of our order, to associate me, Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, ; Seal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth ; So that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d. Fri. L. Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo? Fri. J. E could not send it,—here it is again,— ACT V. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE III. Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. Fri. L. Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood, The letter was not nice but full of charge Of dear import, and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence; Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight Unto my cell. Fri. J. Brother, Ill go and bring it thee. [Euit. Fri. L. Now must I to the monument alone; Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake: She will beshrew me much that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents ; But I will write again to Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Romeo come; Poor living corse, closed in a dead man’s tom eit. SCENE III.—A churchyard; in it a tomb belonging | to the Capulets. Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch. Par. Give me thy torch, boy; hence, and stand Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. [aloof : Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along, Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground ; So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves, But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me, As signal that thou hear’st something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. Page. | Aside] I am almost afraid to stand alone Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. [ Retires. Par. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew,— O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones ;— Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, Or, wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans: The obsequies that I for thee will keep Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep. [The Page whistles. The boy gives warning something doth approach. What cursed foot wanders this way to-night, To cross my obsequies and true love’s rite ? What, with a torch! muffle me, night, awhile. [ Retires. Enter Romeo and Balthasar, with a torch, mat- tock, &c. Fom. Give me that mattock and the wrenching Hold, take this letter; early in the morning f[iron. See thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light: upon thy life, I charge thee, Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof, And do not interrupt me in my course. Why I descend into this bed of death, Is partly to behold my lady’s face ; But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger . A precious ring, a ring that I must use In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone: But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry In what I further shall intend to do, By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs: The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. . Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that: Live, and be prosperous: and farewell, good fellow. 3al. [Aside] For all this same, Ill hide me here- His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [about: [ Retires. Rom. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth, Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, And, in despite, Il] cram thee with more food! 7 [Opens the tomb. Par. This is that banish’d haughty Montague, That murder’d my love’s cousin, with which grief, It is supposed, the fair creature died ; And here is come to do some villanous shame To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him. [Comes forward. Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague! Can vengeance be pursued further than death ? Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee: Obey, and go with me; for thou must die. Rom. I must indeed; and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man; Fly hence, and leave me: think upon these gone; Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, Put not another sin upon my head, _ By urging me to fury: O, be gone! | By heaven, I love thee better than myself; For I come hither arm’d against myself: Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say, A madman’s mercy bade thee run away. Par. I do defy thy conjurations, And apprehend thee for a felon here. Rom. Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy! [ They fight. Page. O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch. [ Exit. Par. O, 1am slain! [Falls.] If thou be merciful, Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [ Dies. Rom. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face. Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my man, when my betossed soul Did not attend him as we rode? I think He told me Paris should have married Juliet : Said he not so? or did I dream it so ? Or am I[ mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, To think it was so? O, give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book! Ill bury thee in a triumphant grave; A grave ? O, no! a lantern, slaughter’d youth, For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This: vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d. [Laying Paris in the tomb. How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death: O, how may I Call this a lightning ? O my love! my wife! Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death’s pale flag is not advanced there. Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet ? O, what more favour can I do to thee, Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was thine enemy ? Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe That unsubstantial death is amorous, And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour ? For fear of that, I still will stay with thee: And never from this palace of dim night Depart again: here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chamber-maids; O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars [last ! From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide! Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on 605 ACT V. ROMEO AND JULIET SCENE II}. The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark! | Here ’s to my love! [Drinks.] O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. [Dies. inter, at the other end of the churchyard, Friar _ Laurence, with a lantern, crow, and spade. Fri. L, Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to- | night Have cea old feet stumbled at graves! Who’sthere? | Bal. Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows | you well. [friend, | Fri, L. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern, It burneth in the Capels’ monument. [ter, Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there’s my mas- One that you love. Who is it? Romeo. Fri. L. Fri. L. How long hath he been there ? Bal. Bal. Full half an hour. | Fri. L. Go with me to the vault. Bal. I dare not, sir: My master knows not but I am gone hence; And fearfully did menace me with death, If I did stay to look on his intents. [upon me: fri. L. Stay, then; I’ll go alone. Fear comes O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing. bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here, I dreamt my master and another fought, Ree vay my master slew him. a ae Bp Romeo! [ Advances. Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre ? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie discolour’d by this place of peace ? | Enters the tomb. Romeo! O, pale! Who else? what, Paris too ? And steep’d in blood ? Ah, what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance! The lady stirs. [Juliet wakes. Jul. O comfortable friar! where is my lord ? I do remember well where I should be, And there lam. Where is my Romeo? [ Noise within. dvi.L. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep: [nest A greater power than we can contradict Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead ; And Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of holy nuns: Stay not to question, for the watch is coming ; Come, go, good, Juliet [Noise again], I dare no longer stay. Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. [Hvit Fri. DL. What ’s here? a cup, closed in my true love’s hand ? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end: O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop To help me after ? I will kiss thy lips; Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, To make me die with a restorative. | Kisses him. Thy lips are warm. tirst Watch. | Within] Lead, boy: which way ? Jul. Yea, noise? then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger! [Snatching Romeo’s dagger. This is thy sheath [Stabs herself]; there rust, and let me die. [alls on Romeo’s body, and dies. Enter Watch, with the Page of Paris. Page. This is the place; there, where the torch doth burn. First Watch. The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard: Go, some of you, whoe’er you find attach. 606 Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain; And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, Who here hath lain these two days buried. Go, tell the prince: run to the Capulets: Raise up the Montagues: some others search: We see the ground whereon these woes do lie; But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry. fte-enter some of the Watch, with Balthasar. Sec. Watch. Here’s Romeo’s man; we found him in the churchyard. First Watch. Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither. fte-enter others of the Watch, with Friar Laurence. Third Watch. Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, and weeps ; We took this mattock and this spade from him, As he was coming from this churchyard side. First Watch. A great suspicion : stay the friar too. Enter the Prince and Attendants. Prince. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning’s rest ? Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and others. Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad ? La. Cap. The people in the street cry Romeo, Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run, With open outcry, toward our monument. [ears ? Prince. What fear is this which startles in our First Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain; And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before, Warm and new kill’d. Prince. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. First Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man; With instruments upon them, fit to open These dead men’s tombs. {bleeds ! Cap. O heaven! O wife, look how our daughter This dagger hath mista’en,—for, lo, his house Is empty on the back of Montague,— And is mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom ! La. Cap. O me! this sight of death is as a bell, That warns my old age to a sepulchre. Enter Montague and others. Prince. Come, Montague; for thou art early up, To see thy son and heir more early down. Mon. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night ; Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath: What further woe conspires against my age ? Prince. Look, and thou shalt see. Mon. O thou untaught! what manners is in this, To press before thy father to a grave ? Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, Till we can clear these ambiguities, And know their spring ,their head, their true descent; And then will I be general of your woes, And lead you even to death: meantime forbear, And let mischance be slave to patience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion. fri. L. Tam the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murder; And here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself excused. Prince. Then say at once what thou dost know in this. [breath Fri. L. I will be brief, for my short date of Is not so long as is a tedious tale. Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet; And she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife: oe ACT V. I married them; and their stol’n marriage-day Was Tybalt’s dooms-day, whose untimely death Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city, For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined. You, to remove that siege of erief from her, Betroth’d and would have married her perforce To County Paris: then comes she to me, And, with wild looks, bid me devise some means To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my cell there would she kill herself. Then gave I her, so tutor’d by my art, A sleeping potion; which so took effect As I intended, for it wrought on her The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo, That he should hither come as this dire night, Yo help to take her from her borrow’d grave, Being the time the potion’s force should cease. But he which bore my letter, Friar John, Was stay’d by accident, and yesternight Return’d my letter back. Then all alone At the prefixed hour of her waking, Came I to take her from her kindred’s vault ; Meaning to keep her closely at my cell, Till I conveniently could send to Romeo: But when I came, some minute ere the time Of her awaking, here untimely lay The noble Paris and true Romeo dead. She wakes; and I entreated her come forth, And bear this work of heaven with patience: But then a noise did scare me from the tomb; And she, too desperate, would not go with me, But, as it seems, did violence on herself. All this I know; and to the marriage Her nurse is privy: and, if aught in this Miscarried by my fault, let my old life Be sacrificed, some hour before his time, Unto the rigour of severest law. Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man. Where’s Romeo’s man? what can he say in this? Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet’s death ; i La ii a a ti) ia ay) | las * HW ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE III. And then in post he came from Mantua To this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give his father, And threaten’d me with death, going in the vault, If I departed not and left him there. Prince. Give me the letter; I will look on is. Where is the county’s page, that raised the watch ? Sirrah, what made your tnaster in this place ? Page. He came with flowers to strew his lady’s And bid me stand aloof, and so I did: [grave ; Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb; And by and by my master drew on him; And then I ran away to call the watch. [words, Prince. This letter doth make good the friars Their course of love, the tidings of her death: And here he writes that he did buy a poison Of a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague! See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate. That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love. And I for winking at your discords too Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish’d. Cap. O brother Montague, give me thy hand: This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more Can I demand. Mon. But I can give thee more: For I will raise her statue in pure gold; That while Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure at such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet. Cap. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie; Poor sacrifices of our enmity ! Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head : Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things ; Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished : For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. [ Haeeunt. Benvolio.—Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. Romeo.—Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain ! Away to heaven, respective lenity, And fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now! — Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again, That late thou gav’st me; for Mercutio’s soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. Tybalt.—Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt with him hence. Romeo. This shall determine that.—Acrt III., Scere i. 60T , (4 {> x —— TIMON OF ATHENS. DRAMATIS PERSON. Timon, of Athens. Lucius, Lucullus, Sempronius, Ventidius, one of Timon’s false friends. Alcibiades, an Athenian captain. Apemantus, a churlish philosopher. Flavius, steward to Timon. Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant. An old Athenian. Flaminius, Lucilius, Servilius, {nasi lords. brea to Timon. Caphis, Philotus, Titus, Lucius, Hortensius, And others, A Page. SU es OAS SENS SE i % arya a ei rats q ot Cee Fe a ee ee 7 * Oak Street UNCLASSIFIED SITY OF ILLINOIS- URBANA A 3 0112 1065 it j j + ! , it ' nit § ; , ! ' | i | rij ‘e oh i it et bi H } i i si j | f +. ih oe | ' " ti i | ay | t | 4 | | ; k wv" ™ | | | \ j ‘ , 4" i | { f | | ! i H “ape tt t { 7 i: { ! | { if { yi q ! ie | ae aes ec i ; | i ! tt H SS Fr , {i Lt t \ H | / } me } r, if, Z | |